The Plantagenet Vendetta

by John Paul Davis

“All right, Jen?”

  She froze, shocked.

  Edward had appeared from nowhere.

  She looked at him, her skin crawling. “Hi.”

  What the hell was he doing there?

  More importantly, where was Lovell?

  He grinned at her, his expression typically adoring. Even though she’d only met him twice, she already viewed it as his usual expression. Other things didn’t change either. His hair was nicely gelled and clean cut, while a tight T-shirt and jeans flattered his firm physique.

  A bit different from the photo taken earlier that day.

  “I hope you’ve not been making a mess in there.”

  Charming. “It’s quite some place you have here.”

  “I’m really glad you like it. I hope Dr Lovell has been true to his word.”

  The smile was now permanent. It was no different to usual, cocky but harmless.

  Or so she thought.

  One floor below, Thomas listened to Jen’s side of the conversation.

  She had been silent for some time. The resumption of speaking had almost escaped his notice, how taken he was with the footage.

  He heard a second voice. Although the sound was weak, he recognised it immediately.

  He feared things had taken a nasty twist.

  Jen smiled awkwardly as Edward began leaning against the door, partially blocking her path.

  “I’d better find Dr Lovell; he’s probably wondering where I am.”

  “Let him wonder,” Edward said, moving closer. He placed his finger and thumb to her chin. Even though he did it gently, the sensation was repulsive.

  “You’ve got gorgeous eyes.”

  She looked at him, not quite terrified but close enough. Was this planned? Had Lovell left her deliberately?

  “I really must be finding Dr Lovell.”

  “What’s your hurry? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to avoid me.”

  She was doing the best she could. She moved to one side, heading toward the nearest door. Lovell had left the last room. There was no sign of him in the next either. Nor the next.

  Silently she was starting to panic.

  Thomas was alarmed.

  “Caroline,” he whispered, his hand covering his face. “Where is she?”

  “Fourth-floor corridor.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait.”

  He stopped before leaving the room.

  “She’s moving toward the stairs.”

  “Would you like me to give you a tour of my room, Jen? It’s where I keep all my guitars. It’s kind of my hobby. I always wanted to be a rock star.”

  She sought to reply, but the words refused to come. She remained on the other side of the corridor, trying to avoid him.

  Suddenly he blocked her off, again keeping his distance.

  “I hear you nearly paid us a visit last night,” he said. “You should’ve asked me when we crossed paths; I’d have given you the whole tour.”

  “Let me go.”

  She spoke with emphasis that Edward found amusing. He looked her in the eye, his grin ever wider. In all honesty she didn’t think he was going to hurt her.

  The question was, who was?

  “I thought you were only here to film a documentary?”

  She looked at him but said nothing.

  “Do all your documentaries involve running around in dirty great vaults?”

  Again no response.

  “Did you like what you saw? Were you impressed?”

  Nauseated more like. She tried to speak but couldn’t.

  “I’ve never really been down there myself. But I’ve heard it’s worth a visit.”

  Again she refrained from speaking. In her mind she continued to see the photograph Stephanie had shown her.

  It still refused to sink in.

  “You have to be careful down there, though. According to some, there’s a monster living there.”

  “That and plague rats,” she retorted.

  He smiled. “I have also heard that there’s a few other things buried down there as well.”

  The words shocked her to the core. Taking the words literally, she elbowed him in the stomach and sprinted for the stairs.

  In a large office in Westminster, the Home Secretary was hard at work when the visitor entered.

  “Are you busy, Minister?”

  It was West.

  Heston threw his pen down on the desk. “I might have known…do you have any idea how angry the PM is?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve had rather a startling development. I’m glad you’re sitting down. You might want to brace yourself.”

  Ten thousand feet above the ground, Stephen watched the scenery from the window. The mountains and lakes beneath were instantly recognisable.

  Picturesque Cumbria, spoilt only by the rain.

  “How much longer?”

  The pilot considered the question. “Probably fifty minutes.”

  Stephen nodded, satisfied but concerned. The development was so big, every second counted. He tried Thomas again, but once more got only voicemail.

  Failing that, he tried Caroline.

  Caroline was speechless.

  Her body shaking, she passed on the information to Thomas.

  At the other end of the line, Thomas was confused. If his cousin was correct, someone who lived in the house he was currently intruding had been directly responsible for the King’s death.

  He asked again, convinced he had misheard.

  “Stephen saw the footage. The whole thing was caught on film.”

  Thomas refused to accept it. “H-how,” he stuttered. “Edward Jeffries can hardly walk.”

  Over four miles away, Caroline shook her head.

  “Granddad wasn’t killed by Edward Jeffries Senior.

  “It was Edward Junior.”

  74

  Instinct told Jen to go for the stairs. She changed direction on reaching the third floor, and immediately started checking rooms.

  Still no sign of Lovell.

  Edward had appeared, though clearly not running.

  “Why are you running, Jen?”

  She ignored him.

  “Whatever it is, we can talk about it.”

  She entered the next room, then the next.

  It was useless.

  Lovell was gone.

  She returned to the corridor and stopped. The lad with blond hair was still standing there.

  She took a deep breath and ran past him.

  Thomas listened intently to the sound in his earpiece. Without doubt Jen was near, possibly on the same floor.

  He sought to leave the hidden study when something made him stop. In between the wealth of photographs and newspaper clippings, the wall concealed something else.

  Something older.

  In the corner of the room was a small staircase leading to the floor below. He descended quickly, giving little concern for the dilapidated state of the metallic stairwell. Seconds later he entered an even darker room, packed to the rafters with manuscripts.

  Without question he had found the family archives.

  He moved toward the nearest selection and began sorting through them. There were countless manuscripts and records, mostly paper but also parchment. He looked at the content: most of it was handwritten. The nature of the material, the brownish colour, the rough texture, the smell…

  It all cried out authenticity.

  He turned to the other side of the room, his attention on the most dominant item. Incredibly, he had seen an identical copy before.

  It was the same thing Wilson had shown him at the Bodleian.

  Jen reached the second floor. As far as she could tell, she was alone, but she couldn’t be certain. Urgency had given way to panic, made worse by her lack of knowledge of the house.

  Despite Lovell’s tour, she was still unfamiliar with the layout.

  She searched every room, all of which were empty. Though she remained alone, the sound of footfalls on t
he stairs confirmed company was imminent.

  Then she heard a gunshot.

  She turned, terrified.

  The same hooded figure who had attempted to kill her earlier that day was standing at the end of the corridor.

  Thomas was startled. Even through the earpiece he could hear the gunfire.

  Instinct guided his actions. He dropped the manuscripts and sprinted back up the stairs, through the study and down the main stairwell. Care had given way to haste.

  He no longer cared if he was being observed.

  The second bullet missed by inches. She dived with her arms at length, cushioning the impact and preventing herself from going over completely. Logically she had only one destination.

  The end of the corridor.

  There was a door at the far left; the only one Lovell had not shown her. The door led to a corridor, this one more ecclesiastical in nature. There were windows on the left side, stained glass, ornately decorated and placed in between arches that looked like they belonged in a monastery.

  If she didn’t know any better, she would have guessed that they were cloisters.

  She upped her pace, her feet pounding against the wooden floorboards. She found a door on the right, locked, and another just ahead.

  Also locked.

  She heard the door behind her open, but on this occasion there was no gunfire.

  Clearly the man had orders not to shoot in that part of the building.

  She turned to her right where the corridor ended and followed it, her only option. Ten metres on she came to double doors on the right: brown, antique and also religious in nature.

  She opened the right door using the large handle and slammed it shut. For the first time she took in her surroundings.

  She had entered the family chapel.

  Thomas stopped on reaching the end of the corridor before retracing his steps. He could hear breathing in his earpiece, but visually there was no sign of Jen. The info from Caroline was ambiguous, and clearly Jen was in no state to say where she was.

  At least he knew from the breathing in his earpiece she was alive.

  The rooms were empty. The corridor was equally deserted, strange considering what Caroline had just told him.

  Clearly Jen had moved on.

  He heard sound coming from the far end, a man singing. Though he was still to see who was responsible, he recognised the song immediately. It was his old school song, Winchester College’s famous Dulce Domum, being sung in Latin.

  “Who’s there?”

  A figure emerged close to the far window. Though Thomas could tell the figure was moving toward him, his features remained veiled by the bright sunlight in that part of the corridor.

  Thomas removed his Glock from his belt and pointed it. “Show yourself.”

  The figure emerged, blond and smiling.

  Finally he recognised him.

  “How do, cuz?”

  75

  Jen felt as if she had no control of her movements. Her eyes were fixed on her surroundings, guiding her as if locked in a trance.

  Even compared to the vaults, she had never seen anything so bizarre.

  A large stained-glass window was located behind the altar, accompanied by at least twelve others on either side of the main aisle. Off the altar was a large choir area containing several wooden pews, portraits from the Middle Ages and a large Victorian baptismal font. There were eighteen pews on either side of the main aisle, allowing a capacity of she guessed five hundred people.

  A chapel, Lovell had said of it.

  She walked toward the altar, taking in as much as her vision would allow. The iconology was immense – ranging from paintings of the Apostles or the saints to scenes from the Old Testament.

  Whoever created it clearly knew the subject well.

  She passed the altar and stopped. There were stone slabs beneath her feet, all of which included names, each ending in Jeffries.

  All were women, the dates anywhere between the 1700s and twenty years ago.

  Lining the walls were several effigies, clearly more modern than those in the vaults. Most of the men had a knighthood or a peerage before their names, which made sense considering what she knew of the family history.

  She had a feeling it also answered her question about why the hidden vault only went up to 1688.

  Behind the altar was another door, wooden and slightly ajar. She walked toward it, nudging it open all the way.

  From the doorway, she saw several other tombs, male and female, many of which included effigies on top of their slabs, the figures either clutching a sword or lying with their hands joined.

  She investigated the nearest one, instantly recognising the names. Richard and Anne. Rather than seeing the name of a pretender king or queen, she saw only name and title. Each man was a lord, but nothing more.

  Nor was there any hint of a crown covering their heads.

  She took a deep breath and looked all around. The colours were bright: red, green, white, gold and perhaps several others. Priceless artwork hung from the walls, mostly oil based. She recognised one immediately, a family painting of the More family, signature Hans Holbein. There were others from the Middle Ages, including various representations of the Plantagenet kings from Henry II onwards.

  The last was Richard III, looking far less sinister than normally depicted in portraits.

  Without question the room had a feel to it. The light was transfixing, caused by a unique yellow glow as sunlight entered through glass panels in the ceiling. It was like being in the centre of a temple, a place where she could feel the presence of God. For the first time she noticed that the room was circular, a bit like an ambulatory – enclosed on every side. The ceiling was vaulted and extended upwards like a dome.

  To Jen, it was like a miniature version of St Peter’s Basilica.

  While the architecture might have explained the room’s bizarre acoustics, she sensed there was another presence.

  Something was in there.

  With her.

  Then she heard a voice coming from her right.

  “Good afternoon.”

  76

  The King returned to the palace. He ignored a request from his personal secretary and headed straight for his office.

  Clarence and York were already there when he arrived, both standing.

  The King closed the door behind him. “I swear I will never know why my father ever hired that berk.”

  Clarence and York exchanged glances. Neither of them knew who he was referring to or what they had done to arouse his displeasure.

  It was probably nothing.

  The King turned to face his brothers. “Well now, chaps,” he said, his tone much calmer, “what now?”

  York was the first to speak. “The question is, do we really need to do anything at all? As far as I can see, the situation hasn’t really changed.”

  The King walked over to his desk and placed his finger against the intercom. “Get me the Earl of Somerset, will you? Tell him to arrive here within the hour.”

  The person at the other end acknowledged his request.

  “Perhaps this time he can finally do something right,” the King said before returning his attention to his brothers, emphasis on York.

  “William, you were with me this afternoon?”

  “The Princes in the Tower, if indeed that is what we are dealing with, died over four hundred years ago whether at the hands of their uncle or otherwise. Their remains lie somewhere, be it Westminster Abbey or not.”

  “But their descendents still wander.”

  “Whose don’t?”

  The King was starting to get angry.

  York continued. “If the Sons of York really exist and have carried out what they claim to have done, then our knowledge of the truth will for now make no difference.”

  “Except to ourselves,” Clarence agreed.

  The King looked at him but said nothing. He returned to his desk and opened a small cigar box, antique with the roy
al crest marked across the lid. He removed one of the cigars, placed it to his lips, and lit it.

  “I find it absolutely extraordinary,” he began, as he removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled, “that something so big can remain hidden for so long.”

  “I’ve often found the dead to be particularly skilled at keeping secrets.”

  “I assume that’s an attempt at humour?” he asked York. “If you don’t have anything useful to say, I suggest you say nothing at all. If we don’t move now, God knows what might happen.”

  “If we do move now, we risk exposing what we already know.”

  The King looked at Clarence. “Well now, George, what would you have me do?”

  Clarence took his time. “The identity of their descendents is known – according to Thomas, Gardiner has known for some time. We know of their past and also their present. What we don’t know is exactly what present ambitions they harbour.”

  “I notice neither of you came to visit me yesterday,” York replied brusquely. “Maybe had you done so, you might have known whether we were dealing with fact or rumour.”

  Clarence beat the King to a response. “Your own experience proves only that you were targeted – not that it was the responsibility of Jeffries. The only words we have to go by are those of the friar.”

  “And if they are not responsible, then who is?”

  The King’s interest had heightened. “Come on then, George, let’s hear it?”

  Clarence sought to respond but failed.

  “Just as I thought.” The King laughed as he inhaled the smoke from his cigar. To him, the aroma had always been comforting.

  “What word of Jeffries?”

  “I have spoken to Thomas,” Clarence said of his son. “I understand that both grandfather and grandson still reside at the same place. Caroline was with him as well.”

  This was news to York. “My God, he hasn’t dragged her in on this, has he?”