The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

  “Do not move,” one of the voices said from above.

  Thomas and Patterson both came to an immediate standstill, the prince returning his hands to behind his head. With circumspect eyes, he searched the chamber for exits. Should the tables turn, he knew he would have to move fast.

  All the while the light was fading.

  “Why is he here?” The question came from the man at the top of the staircase; to Thomas, the most dominant of the three.

  “For the good of the society, sir,” Patterson replied.

  Thomas could sense the man’s frustration. Whatever the reason for Talbot’s appointment, he silently wondered whether it was nothing too threatening.

  Despite the seclusion, it was a bad place to perform a murder.

  The leader of the three moved a few steps down the staircase. “What was your business with Sir Jack?”

  Thomas contemplated a response but decided against it.

  “Speak.”

  The words stuck in his throat.

  “You’re wasting your time with this one,” Patterson said, laughing. “We’ll be here till doomsday just waiting for the first word.”

  “Silence!” the leader barked.

  Suddenly there was movement, seemingly from everywhere. Small silhouettes moved, accompanied by the sound of flapping wings. Several rooks, perhaps half a dozen, were moving through the twilight.

  A split second was enough. The prince’s actions were instinctive. He moved his left foot around the other side of the butler and grabbed the man’s arms, twisting to the right. The butler fired as he lost control. The bullet crashed into the upper wall, the sound echoing.

  Several gunshots followed. Debris flew up from the wall behind, agonizingly near. Thomas backtracked, struggling to keep his balance. Using the butler as a shield, he placed himself directly out of the line of fire.

  “Hold your fire!” the leader of the three demanded.

  Thomas, meanwhile, had regained control. With his left hand secure on Patterson, he removed his Glock from the inside of his right thigh.

  “Stay p-perfectly still,” he said relatively loudly. He looked in every direction, taking in more of the surroundings.

  The tables had turned, but the exits were still limited.

  He pointed the gun, first at the staircase, then at the butler’s neck. “No funny business.”

  The leader of the three was furious. Standing two steps from the top of the staircase, he gripped the wooden railing with both hands. For the first time the prince noticed that this man was not armed – unlike the other two.

  Though the light had faded significantly, Thomas could make out facial features better than before. All three wore woolly hats, black in colour, but not balaclavas. Each man was clean-shaven, white, either late twenties or early thirties. He couldn’t place the accents – they were definitely English, but the region difficult to determine.

  If they were local, it wasn’t obvious.

  “Who are you?” Thomas asked.

  “You’re wasting your time,” the butler said, his face turned toward the prince. For the first time, Thomas noticed the man’s scent – evidently some kind of cologne, and not a nice one.

  He thrashed the gun into the man’s back, causing the butler’s spine to arch. Several metres in front of him, the butler’s revolver was lying on the ground.

  There was no question of it going anywhere yet.

  “Who are you working for?”

  “You’re wasting your time,” the butler repeated sarcastically.

  Thomas’s patience was waning. “I shan’t t-tell you again.”

  “Whoever you are,” this time the words came from one of the others, “let the man go; we can talk about this – be civilised.”

  The prince didn’t buy it. He started edging backwards, toward the nearest archway.

  “Who are you working for?” he barked.

  Who was His Highness?

  The silence was disturbed by the sound of a siren, evidently close by. Up above, the three men were starting to panic. An argument had broken out between them in low voices.

  Thomas was confused; he recognised the whine as belonging to a police car, but there was no logical reason for them to have been called. He was quite certain no one had seen him and the butler enter – even if they had, it could easily have been mistaken as a legitimate entry by an employee.

  Had the other three been seen? No, surely that was impossible. The location had clearly been used before and probably recently. Despite the lack of communication, the three were definitely not amateurs.

  Had the gunfire attracted attention?

  He had to move fast – or if not fast, effectively. He considered firing a shot into the air; at least that would attract attention. Then he dismissed the idea.

  The last thing he needed was for a gunfight to break out.

  Unfortunately that was what happened. Shots came from everywhere. Almost immediately he lost his footing, not helped by the weight of the butler in front of him. He decided to let him go, concentrating instead on his own escape.

  The bullets were now flying, the sounds echoing off the high walls. Debris moved around him, some near, some further away. The lack of light was now a significant problem.

  Everything was a matter of chance.

  Thomas sprinted in the opposite direction from the staircase and dived. He was now in the first chamber of the keep, separated from the other by the internal wall.

  He rolled to one side and slowly regained his feet, standing with his back to the wall. Recovering his breath, he turned to his right, chancing exposure. A shot came; the bullet smashed into the nearby wall.

  The shot had come from nearer than the staircase.

  Thomas looked again, shielding everything but his left eye with the wall. The man firing was Patterson, standing some ten metres away, the revolver in his outstretched hand.

  Another shot followed, then another – both from Patterson. Glock at the ready, Thomas fired back, the shot narrowly missing the butler. Several more came from the stairs, obviously from one of the three.

  Once the mayhem died down, Thomas opened fire. Almost immediately he heard a groan from Patterson. Quiet followed, lasting several seconds. The noise of gunfire echoed again in his ear, accompanied by the familiar ringing noise. For now the siren had disappeared – strange, all things considered.

  Was the whole thing a coincidence?

  Was the emergency somewhere else?

  Two shots in quick succession ended the silence, followed by the sound of bullets against brick. Judging by the noises, the shots were being fired from further away – almost certainly the staircase. Thomas looked out from behind the wall; a silhouette was hunched over, no more than twenty metres away.

  He didn’t need perfect vision to know that was Patterson.

  The prince fired toward the stairway. He saw the figure drop a firearm before lunging for shelter.

  The lack of light was now an advantage. He moved to the other side of the gap and was rewarded with a better view of the staircase. He saw two silhouettes on the stairs, but the third had disappeared. He fired at the nearest and immediately saw movement. The man keeled over, his momentum taking him down the steps. Amidst the sound of the man’s body hitting the wooden stairs, Thomas could hear cries of anguish.

  The gunfire resumed, this time from the area where the staircase met the second storey. Thomas fired another shot before ducking for cover. The gunfire was consistent and extremely powerful. The bullets came in quick succession, too quickly for a shotgun, but too slowly for a machine gun. The sound puzzled him: the weapon was certainly automatic, but unlike anything he had come across.

  Whatever it was, it was in capable hands.

  Far too capable.

  Once the gunfire ceased, Thomas returned fire. As far as he could tell the figure had disappeared – almost certainly somewhere on the upper storey.

  Chancing exposure, he sprinted to where the butler had last been see
n and found the pistol on the floor, a few feet from the man himself. The butler was lying completely still, hunched up slightly, his legs at an angle.

  The prince knelt down beside him, checking for signs of life. The man’s eyes were open, but without movement.

  No question, he was dead.

  A quick rummage of his pockets proved fruitless – apart from the car keys. The old adage of name, rank and serial number was clearly at play. Should the man be discovered, there was no way of identifying him without resorting to further checks.

  His other secrets, he had taken to the grave.

  Leaving the butler where he was, Thomas sprinted toward the stairs. The wounded man was still on the staircase, lying on his back about a third of the way up. The man’s weapon had fallen ten steps below him. It was a mid-sized object, about half the size of an AK-47, capable of firing a hundred rounds. The weapon was elegant, but baffling. He had seen it only once before, earlier that day behind a wall at Riverton.

  To the prince, it was unrecognisable.

  Monitoring the top of the stairway, he approached him slowly. The victim was lying practically still, wheezing, his eyes open and his expression locked in a grimace. He was holding the stomach area, possibly the gallbladder. There was a look of desperation in his eyes…

  And perhaps of resignation.

  Thomas advanced to the top of the staircase and followed the wall around to the left.

  The other two men were nowhere to be seen.

  From the prince’s vantage point, the view, in daylight, would extend as far as the surrounding countryside, but at this time of night, it was a lot more restricted. Darkness prevailed, the outlines of the thick walls the only things he was able to distinguish clearly. The reflection of a blue light was visible from somewhere nearby.

  He guessed it almost certainly belonged to the same vehicle responsible for the siren he had heard minutes earlier.

  The question was why had it taken so long to get here?

  Thomas retreated down the stairway. The injured man clearly needed treatment, but public exposure was a significant consideration. Should the press manage to get hold of the story, it was potentially a PR nightmare for the royals.

  He had to think quickly.

  He crouched down beside the injured man and tried to help him to his feet. Despite his attempt at cooperation, the man’s injury was severe. Placing the firearms inside his jacket, the prince helped the man to his feet and eventually made it to the bottom of the steps. With no more railing to support him, the man fell once again to the ground.

  Thomas realised there was only one option. Placing his right hand below the man’s neck and his left beneath his legs, he carried him through the inner chamber.

  The castle was now silent and evidently deserted. Up above, the sky was almost pitch black. It seemed like a long time had passed since his arrival, though he guessed it was actually less than twenty minutes. The stunning rays of the large moon, surrounded by a ghostly haze, were his only aid.

  Thankfully the walk from the limousine had been largely straightforward.

  As he neared the exit, he heard voices. Accompanying them was the sound of footsteps, multiple pairs, some running, some walking. Walkie-talkies crackled violently.

  Approaching the final wall, Thomas ducked for cover, silently praying his actions wouldn’t injure the man further.

  In silence, they waited. Unmistakeably he heard noises close by. He felt the presence of several people pass, perhaps half a dozen in total. He waited until they had gone before raising his head above the wall. As expected, he saw police uniforms accompanied by torches, batons and stun guns.

  Lowering his head, he held his breath. Cradled within his arms, he could feel, but not see, the wounded man breathing against his chest. He made no attempt to attract observation, nor hinder the prince’s progress.

  Capture was not an option.

  Thomas waited until the lights disappeared and the voices quietened. Finally he moved away, placing the wounded man on the backseat of the limousine. The engine started quietly, as they always did.

  No one saw him leave, nor did anyone pay extra attention to the luxurious motor that was quietly making its way through the Wensleydale countryside.

  In the London headquarters of a famous English newspaper, the London Chronicle, the journalist tapped lightly on the door of the editor’s office and entered without breaking stride.

  Had the editor not been on the phone at the time, his passing of the three-page document might have received more recognition than the cursory thumbs up.

  Instead, that was his last action of the day.

  Alone in his office, the head of personal relations for the Royal Family was genuinely perplexed.

  That was the third call today the department had received on the subject.

  Biting his lip, he picked up the receiver.

  He would have to inform his employer personally.

  26

  No one spoke for several seconds. Across the table from Jen, Anthea sat with her hands around her face. Although she was not crying, it was obvious to Jen the suggestion about Debra Harrison had taken the wind out of her sails. The idea that her friend had been murdered and her corpse hidden away behind a locked door…

  The reality seemed unthinkable.

  At the head of the table, Martha had barely moved. Her expression suggested she was disturbed, but more by Jen’s suggestion than the possible reality.

  Jen had no idea what to say next. One way or another, she knew she was about to outstay her welcome.

  “Who would have the key?” Jen asked after a while. “How many people have keys to the vault?”

  Jen waited, but for now received no response. Realistically, she knew there were only two likely options. Firstly, the priest, who had already illustrated his lack of enthusiasm toward opening the door – even if he said yes, unexpectedly, she risked exposing her true purpose. If the priest had some knowledge of the events of a year ago, she risked compromising the entire investigation.

  Not to mention the documentary.

  The second possibility was the Jeffries family themselves.

  After all, the door was connected to their family vault.

  Jen looked at both Martha and Anthea intently. “There might be another way, another door.” She turned to Martha. “Please, Martha, you’ve been cleaning that church for years. Please tell me everything you know.”

  The woman’s patience was thinning. “Jen, can’t you see you’re upsetting my daughter.”

  Jen looked back hopelessly. “Martha, I’m sorry, but I have a really bad feeling about this. For all we know, poor Debra Harrison has been locked in that vault for the last year and no one has even thought about it,” she said, brushing her hair back over her head. On this occasion, the thought that these two women had been responsible for the cut didn’t register.

  “Have you ever seen it yourself?”

  Martha delayed her response. “No. Not from the inside.”

  She looked at Anthea. “You’ve only seen it the once?”

  Anthea nodded, incapable of saying anything. Jen was pleased to see that her eyes were still dry.

  “Who would have the key?” Jen asked a second time.

  This time it was Anthea who answered. “Mum has a set of keys – Father Martin gave her a set for cleaning.”

  Jen felt her heart momentarily stop. “Keys to what?”

  Martha was angry – this time with her daughter. “I was not given those keys so that I could be party to their misuse.”

  “Why does it matter?” Anthea asked. “The church is usually unlocked anyway.”

  To Jen, getting into the church was not the problem. “Do you have a key to the vault?”

  Martha’s expression was stern. “I have keys to the church and to the cloisters – not for any individual vault.”

  “How do you know?” her daughter asked. “There’s like a thousand keys on that key ring.”

  Anthea left h
er seat and entered the hallway. There was a basket near the door, full of various keys and change.

  “Here,” Anthea said, picking out the relevant key ring. “How will we know if we don’t try?”

  Martha was livid. “Give me that.”

  Before she could react, Anthea threw the keys to Jen. She caught them instinctively and incurred a penetrating stare from Martha.

  “Martha, please, wait,” Jen said, sticking out an arm. “Please, I just want to have a look. You need play no part in this.”

  Martha huffed. “Give me my keys.”

  Jen held up the keys and extended her arm. She prepared to give them back to Martha, but changed her mind.

  “You needn’t have any involvement in this,” Jen said. “If anyone asks, you can just say I took them.”

  The woman placed her hands to her face and shook her head simultaneously.

  For the first time Jen felt guilty. She was so wrapped up in finding a way into the vault, she failed to realise that she was pressuring the woman.

  “Martha, I promise I will give you them straight back. All I want to see is what’s behind the door,” she said, turning her gaze to Anthea. “Is that the only way in?”

  Anthea tucked her hair behind her ears. “If I come with you, I can show you.”

  “Anthea Brown!” Martha shouted.

  “Your mother’s right,” Jen said. “Besides, I really have no idea what I expect to find down there.”

  The idea made Jen feel nervous.

  Anthea was adamant. “If you do get into trouble, you’re going to need the help of someone who knows the vaults.

  “And I’m probably the only person who’s ever seen it.”

  Thomas drove south on leaving Middleham. Ten minutes had passed, but his heart was still thumping. A ring of sweat had formed at the top of his brow, continuing across his forehead and dripping down the side of his face. He wiped it with his sleeve, doing his best to concentrate on the road in front of him.

  For now there was no traffic in either direction.

  He looked in the rear-view mirror. The injured man was still alive on the backseat; even without the mirror, he could tell by the heaviness of the man’s breathing. His own clothes were stained from carrying the man, while the smell was also becoming more noticeable. He tried opening the window, allowing the blustery air to reinvigorate his stressed body.