The girl brushed her hair back behind her ear. “Some of the distant family claim ancestry from him, but other branches have a stronger claim. If you’ve seen the vault of kings, as they call it, then you must already know what it means.”
Jen didn’t linger on the point. “How do you know all this?”
“My uncle.”
“Stanley? He’s a Jeffries?”
“No. But my family have always been members.”
“What is it they want?”
Again the girl hesitated.
“Stephanie, please, I need to know.”
“The Sons of York were founded when the House of York was defeated in the Wars of the Roses. In the early years, the aim was to retake the throne.”
“They still covet the throne of England?”
“Maybe. But not since the 1600s has an actual attempt been made to usurp the throne. But despite their fall, the influence of the families has been great. Many of its members are prominent people: politicians, businessmen, lawyers…”
“You mean like Lord Ratcliffe?”
She nodded.
“What’s so special? What’s so important?”
The girl took a deep breath and composed herself. “It all goes back to the Second World War, and even more directly to the formation of the European Union.”
Thirty minutes later Jen was back in Wootton. She parked in a lay-by in a quiet lane just outside the village and continued on foot along the high street.
She followed the same alleyway she had walked a few days earlier and stopped before a quiet cottage.
She rang the bell, and a woman answered.
“I know what happened to your son,” Jen said. “Stephanie told me everything.”
Standing by the doorway, Susan Rankin seemed initially unmoved.
“Come in.”
61
Thomas thought he was hearing things. “You can’t possibly be serious.”
Caroline thought it was funny.
“What?”
She tucked her hair behind her ear. “Nothing.”
Thomas watched his cousin for several seconds, trying to digest what she had just told him.
What he had just heard beggared belief.
“She told you all this?”
“Yes.”
He failed to accept the answer.
“What?”
“She saw a vault?”
“Saw it and described it in detail.”
Thomas left his seat and wandered toward the window. He looked at the landscape, his mind in a daze.
It didn’t seem real.
“You knew. Didn’t you?” said Caroline.
Thomas turned around. Caroline was sitting with her arms folded, her expression suddenly cold.
“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have trusted me.”
He exhaled deeply. “I didn’t know myself until last night. I assume you saw the article in the Chronicle.”
She nodded and touched her nose. Thomas had noticed that she often touched the area where the surgery had been even though evidence of where the stitches had been was now practically non-existent.
“It was our great-uncle, the Earl of Somerset.”
“The historian?”
“Yes.”
She was gobsmacked. “He wrote the article?”
“No – he was the source.”
That made more sense, at least. “Why? Why would he do that?”
“He said it was to get our attention,” Thomas replied, laughing to himself. “Apparently s-some of the older members of our f-family have not been particularly willing to listen to his advice.”
“He always was a bit of a coot. What did he say?”
Thomas filled her in, but she didn’t fully understand.
“But why?”
“I don’t have all the answers. Clearly it stems back centuries.”
“You think they killed Granddad?” Caroline’s eyes watered.
He placed his hand on top of hers and rubbed them. “Stephen is carrying out tests on the tombs. Apparently they can test for DNA.”
“What if they come back positive?”
He delayed his response. “Let’s hope they don’t.”
For several seconds neither of them spoke. Thomas focused on his cousin, then the situation.
“You said there was another? With the girl.”
“There was. A researcher or something, researching a documentary on the girl who disappeared.”
“Name?”
“Jennifer Farrelly.”
“Where is she now?”
“In Wootton. She’s staying at an inn called the White Boar.”
“I think I best be paying Miss Farrelly a little visit.”
Standing alone in his office, Dr Maurice Grant was practically speechless. The results were now in, and right there before him.
He looked at his watch, then the clock on the wall to confirm.
The King would have been waiting for over twenty minutes.
62
Jen simply stared at the woman sitting opposite, stunned by what she was hearing.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
The woman laughed, but without humour. “You think I didn’t want to?” she asked, her tone becoming ever louder. “You think I didn’t want to expose the evil that has plagued this village for over five hundred years. You think…”
Her voice trailed off as she failed to prevent herself from crying.
From across the living room, Jen watched awkwardly. There was a sudden distance to the woman, even though, so far, she had been warm.
At least warmer than a few days ago.
Rankin wiped her eyes. “Perhaps it’s unfair of me to expect you to understand. You’re from London; you didn’t grow up in a small close-knit community.”
Jen was sick of people saying that. “I grew up in Nottinghamshire. It was a village, but larger than here.”
The woman didn’t respond. She sipped her tea and replaced the cup on a saucer.
“What happened to my son was unfair and unnecessary. Even for the Sons of York, it was an act of unique violence. Historically they have been at war with the royals throughout the ages. I had never come across anything so bad in my lifetime.”
“What happened?”
“I guess Luke was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was known that he had taken something of a shine to Debra.”
Jen decided not to push the issue. “How was he doing at school?”
“Good. He was going to university in the autumn.”
“Had he decided where?”
“Keele.”
Jen nodded, impressed.
“He was bright enough for Oxford – at least that’s what the predicted grades were. But he decided he liked the area. He wasn’t cut out for the stress of the top two.”
Jen took that with a liberal pinch of salt. It certainly didn’t tie in with the earlier reports she had been given about Luke’s academic abilities.
She also decided to avoid questions of his mental state.
“I spoke to Miss Cartwright.”
Rankin’s eyes lit up. “The one person at that awful school who saw Luke for what he really was: a victim.”
“She suggested he would go far. Particularly science.”
The woman smiled faintly.
“Mrs Rankin, please forgive me for asking, but why would the Sons of York do what they did? If it was simply to frame him, why wasn’t Debra Harrison also found?”
The woman paused for several seconds. “I guess you’ll have to wait until the body is found.”
The answer was clinical.
Even without seeing the photograph, it was clear that the woman assumed Debra Harrison was dead.
Jen got to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mrs Rankin.”
“Be careful.”
63
Thomas drove slowly along the high street of Wootton-on-the-Moor, following the directions of the SatNav.
The setting was
enough to make his skin itch. Visually the village was a fine example of Middle England: grade II listed houses, rolling hills in the distance, and practically no cars on the road. It was the kind of place where his relatives were found – particularly on their holidays.
Or even when not on holiday.
He left the high street about midway down and continued over the bridge. There was a church directly in front of him and a few other buildings, one of which was an inn. According to the GPS, he had reached his destination.
The first thing he noticed was the sign.
The White Boar. Accompanied by the character of a white pig.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He knew for a fact most inns named the White Boar had changed to the Blue Boar since Bosworth.
The symbol of the House of York was running strong.
He pulled up in the car park and entered the inn through the main door. Fearing being recognised, he wore a black baseball cap, dark jacket, and decided to leave the shave till later. The bar area was surprisingly deserted – it was Thursday and surely the height of the tourist season.
There was a man behind the bar, thickset and evidently a northerner.
Mitchell looked at the prince and smiled. “How do?”
Thomas smiled back. “Morning. I’m looking for one of your guests. Miss Farrelly.”
Mitchell didn’t bat an eyelid. Yet another of Jen’s admirers.
“Who’s asking?”
“I’m a f-friend.” He cursed the stutter.
Harvey looked at the young man, for now deciding against replying. “Well, friend, I’m afraid you’re a little late. She checked out this morning.”
Now he was cursing his luck. “Did she say where she was going?”
“I thought you were her friend.”
He bit his lip. “Thank you for your time.”
Thomas left the Hog, and not a moment too soon. Just being there made him nervous.
He returned to the car and reversed out onto the road. He started back toward the high street, but something was on his mind.
He didn’t have a clue where he was going.
In a small laboratory in Belgium, the two prominent scientists studied the results in front of them.
The results were startling, but not for the reasons they had expected.
The King would want to know about this.
64
Jen left the house and walked quickly down the hill toward the high street.
To say she was unnerved was an understatement. The words ‘be careful’, completely harmless, perhaps even warm and caring depending on the person who said it or the circumstances, seemed distinctly cold and serious.
The reason needed no clarification.
It was approaching 11am. The high street was deserted, but today she noticed a far more sombre presence in the air. There was a noticeable silence about the place, not only that but an unnatural stillness. There were clouds in the sky, perhaps a precursor to rain, and a steady breeze that caused a rustling noise through the trees. Jen could hear every individual sound, be it leaves caught in an updraft, a window rattling or the echo of distant machinery. Even the wildlife was silent.
She shook her head, doing her best to dismiss the feeling.
She rationalised the situation was getting to her.
For the first time that day her stomach was acting normally. The sickly feeling that had engulfed her from the larynx down had faded in recent hours.
Now she was ravenous.
She bought a ham and cheese baguette from the Co-op and ate it as she walked. She saw no one in the shop bar the shop assistant, and more importantly detected nothing amiss. She tried phoning Anthea again as she walked and once more got no response.
She figured she was probably working.
She passed the road to the Hog, doing her best to ignore the buildings on the other side of the bridge. Keeping her head down, she walked on, continuing to the hairdresser’s.
The door opened, accompanied by the usual ringing of the bell. Martha was inside, clearly beside herself.
She looked at Jen. “Where is she?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where is she?”
“Where’s who?”
The woman was livid. “What do you mean, ‘where’s who?’ Where’s my daughter?”
Although she retained a calm exterior, silently Jen was feeling panicked. “I…I was just about to ask you. I was going to meet her.”
The woman was practically in tears.
“Martha…”
“What happened last night?”
Jen decided not to be truthful. “Nothing…we just went for a walk…Martha, what is it?”
“Anthea didn’t come home last night.” She was struggling to control herself.
Inside Jen felt cold. Though the tiled walls gave off a cool feeling, she knew they were not the cause of the goose bumps that she could now feel across her arms, back and neck.
She tried desperately to remain calm. “Martha, I don’t understand.”
The woman’s eyes had turned violent. “She never stays out without calling…if anything has happened to her.”
Jen was dumbstruck. Had she not seen it herself, she’d never have believed the woman was capable of such hostility.
Suddenly she remembered the light in the vault, the one she assumed belonged to a torch carried by the priest.
Had someone discovered it was her?
“Where did you go last night?”
This time Jen didn’t answer. Afraid of saying anything, she left the shop and headed back up the high street.
“Jen!”
Jen quickened her pace. Seconds later Martha called again, this time more desperately, surely loud enough for others to hear. Jen looked at her iPhone, hoping, praying, that Anthea had got back to her.
Nothing.
Martha had left the shop and was following her, her cries now even louder. Among the cries were tears.
Jen did her best to ignore her. Increasing her pace further still, she thought about what Susan Rankin had said.
How many people knew the real truth about the village?
Did Martha know what she now knew?
“Jen!”
Jen burst into a jog. She passed the road that led to the church, now two-thirds of the way along the high street. The shouts of the woman had aroused no attention whatsoever.
Was everyone deaf, or did they choose to ignore her?
There was movement up ahead. A man had appeared, seemingly from nowhere. He was about six feet tall, if not a few inches more, and had a visibly strong physique.
She stopped, rooted to the spot.
The man was dressed in the robes of a monk or friar, black and white, clearly a Dominican.
Seconds later the man removed a firearm from inside his habit.
Thomas followed the road away from the church, heading back to the high street. As he drove, he looked into the rear-view mirror. Ignoring the unshaven shabby appearance that he barely recognised, he focused on the road behind him.
There was a building beside the church, perhaps several, though most were further away. The buildings were grand: like manor houses or something of equal prestige.
He guessed Jeffries lived in one of them.
He continued to the T-junction, his mind still on the area behind him.
Then something startled him.
Out of the silence, he heard a gunshot.
Jen screamed, a high-pitched whine. Two shots had been fired, the bullets missing her by a matter of inches.
She ducked to one side and stumbled, barely making it to the pavement. She felt the impact on her knees, but also her left shoulder.
She rolled, trying to get to her feet. As she did, she felt the asphalt graze her cheek. She feared to look, or even open her eyes. She could hear the man’s footsteps accompanied by the sound of the weapon being reloaded.
She scampered to her feet and screamed as loudly as her lungs would allow.
She moved toward the T-junction, looking for any sign of life. Incredibly she was still alone, the hooded gunman the only person close to her. Even the recently furious Martha Brown had disappeared from sight.
Please God to call the police.
She continued forward, but her progress was interrupted by another fall. She rolled instinctively, her nerves going into overdrive as she heard the sound of the gun going off. As before, she heard two shots in close succession, the latest uncomfortably close. Her left ear felt hot, particularly at the top.
She knew the bullet had grazed her.
Sure enough, it had drawn blood.
Thomas eased forward, unsure what had happened. He heard another shot, perhaps two. Instinct told him it had come from somewhere in front of him, but buildings on the left and right blocked the view to the high street.
He drove forward, stopping on reaching the junction. To his left, a man dressed in the habit and cloak of a Dominican friar was reloading what looked like a double-barrelled shotgun, his target a blonde woman aged somewhere in the mid-twenties. He saw him fire twice in quick succession.
The woman was on the ground, evidently still alive.
Thomas reacted instantly, ramming through the gears and flooring the accelerator. He braked as late as possible, the screeching tyres smoking as he took the corner and emerged onto the high street.
The girl was on the road, trying to get to her feet. She saw the car as Thomas took the turn, her expression one of bewilderment.
He slammed on the brakes and leaned across to open the door.
“Get in.”
65
For what seemed like a lifetime, the blonde girl did nothing.
All the while, the friar was reloading.
Thomas shouted, “Come on.”
This time Jen obeyed. Keeping her head low, she sprinted toward the door and dived across the front passenger seat.
Thomas wasted no time. He floored the accelerator, and the tyres spun furiously, causing smoke to rise from the front two. The smell of burning rubber momentarily overwhelmed that of disused shotgun cartridges as the smoke permeated through the open window.
The Plantagenet Vendetta Page 35