The Plantagenet Mystery

by Victoria Prescott

  ‘S’pose whoever wants it finds out now that you’ve got it? D’you think the book is safe here?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’m not taking any chances. From tomorrow, it’ll be where no-one but me will be able to find it. What was the other thing you were thinking?’

  ‘That you’ve got some reading to do, mate.’

  ‘Do you think we should go to the police with this?’ Rob said, when they were on to their third beer. Chris thought about it.

  ‘We’d have to explain how we know it. We might find ourselves in trouble over what we did tonight.’

  ‘Yes. Apart from anything else, I’m not insured to drive your van.’

  ‘Strewth, I never thought of that. Tell you what, we’ll get you put on the insurance. It’ll be useful to have someone else able to drive it.’

  ‘And if we went to the police, Emily would have to know about it. I’d rather she went on thinking it was just a random break in,’ Rob said.

  ‘Yeah. We still need to have words with Homer. Find out who sent him after the book.’

  ‘Yes. Jason said he hadn’t seen him for a few days. Do you think he’s lying low?’

  ‘Maybe. His dad lives up north somewhere, I think. He might have gone up there. We’ll have to wait until he crawls out from whatever rock he’s hiding under.’

  Chris crashed in Rob’s spare room that night, saying he was too drunk and too knackered to drive back to his Mum’s. He had left by the time Rob awoke the next morning. It was one of Rob’s record office days. He set out, taking Edward Finch’s book with him.

  In late afternoon, when he had finished work for the day and everyone else had gone home, Rob took the book out of his backpack. He examined the brown leather binding. It seemed undisturbed. If anything was concealed there, it had been done when the book was made. Rob could not start taking it apart to see if it held any secrets. He began to turn the pages, looking for the point at which the marginal notes began. After the digression into the history of the Amory family, the narrative returned to Sir Thomas Mildmay.

  Sir Thomas built for himself a new house on his demesne of Ashleigh. Being much with the men as the house was building, Sir Thomas came to know one in particular, a bricklayer, an old man whom he found to be somewhat more courtly in manner and learned than the others.

  After much talk, this man confided to Sir Thomas a remarkable tale.

  Another family legend which probably had nothing to substantiate it, Rob thought, skipping ahead to the next chapter. There was nothing of note; a recital of marriages and descent of property, with the occasional Finch who achieved some minor distinction in war or politics. Rob decided Edward Finch had included the digression into the history of the Amory and Mildmay families in an attempt to add a little spice to an otherwise very ordinary story. He turned back to the annotations. Were they the reason Wayne and Jason had been sent to find the book? He had found nothing else about it that might make it worth committing a crime for. He had to turn the volume sideways to read the handwriting that ran along the margin.

  My father did not tell here all this story as it is known in our family through Catherine, who was the wife of that Sir Thomas Mildmay here described, whose name I bear.

  So at least he had a name for the writer, Rob thought; Catherine Finch. He glanced at the clock. It would take some time to transcribe the annotations; he did not want to stay that long in the office. He photocopied all the pages with handwritten notes. Then he took the book down to the basement, using the keypad to gain access to the strongrooms with their floor to ceiling racks of shelving.

  There were boxes and bundles, rolls and volumes, the accumulated history of the county stretching back over the centuries. Rob found a cardboard document box and placed the book in it, with a note saying that any queries about it should be referred to him. Then he wrote a fake accession number on the box, and put it on the top shelf of the far corner of the furthest strongroom, behind some large volumes that were rarely moved. Brushing the dust from his hands, he returned to the office, packed up and went home.

  From what Rob had learned so far, it did not seem to him that either the book or the notes within it were worth committing a burglary over. Someone, however, evidently thought differently. He did not want to take any chances. He tucked the photocopied pages into a brown envelope and, feeling rather like a character in a spy thriller, hid the envelope under a loose floorboard in the cupboard housing his hot water tank.

  Chapter Six

  Time spent on Emily's affairs meant that Rob had neglected his own work. He was due to have a meeting with his supervisor later in the week and was required to prepare a report on his research to e-mail in advance. His previous supervisor had retired at the end of the previous term. His idea of supervision had been a couple of leisurely conversations each term. Rob had not met this new man yet but he already seemed much more exacting. He had to set the mystery aside while he sorted and arranged his material.

  For Chris, it had been another long, slow week of shifting dirt and rubble, spending nights in a shitty B&B with a room mate who snored. He had not been back to Wynderbury since Monday; it took too long to drive there and back, and cost too much in petrol, to be worth it. As Friday afternoon wore on, he was watching the clock, counting the minutes to knocking off time. He had more than half an eye on the entrance to the site, on the look out for the boss with their payslips. There were rumours about the state of the business, and Chris would not be satisfied until he knew the money was in his own bank account. He wanted to know where they would be working next week, too. He did not want another week like this one.

  It was near the end of the day when the boss’s car pulled on to the site. The men gathered round as he began to hand out the envelopes.

  ‘Where’ll we be next week?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Be at the yard Monday morning and you’ll find out.’ The man made to turn away. Chris planted himself firmly in front of him.

  ‘Not here again?’ he persisted.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Crap work, crap place to stay.’

  ‘It’s a job. What more do you want?’

  ‘Something better than this. I’ve worked for you long enough, I shouldn’t have to do this.’

  ‘I don’t hear anyone else complaining. They’re glad to have a job. Think you’re better than them, do you? Well, I’ve told you before, show me proof you’ve got the skills.’

  ‘Yeah, like I’m going back to school to get a poxy bit of paper.’

  ‘Suit yourself. So do you want this job or don’t you? Don’t mess me about, I can get half a dozen Poles in here by Monday, and they’ll work twice as hard and not give me any grief.’

  ‘You saying I don’t work hard enough?’ Chris demanded. He knew he was a good worker.

  ‘I’m saying I’m tired of all your complaining.’

  ‘Oh well, stuff your job, then.’

  Chris turned his back on the man. He walked out onto the street and round the corner to his van. His bag was in the van; he had brought it from the B&B that morning. He climbed in, slammed the door and drove away.

  Chris’s sense of satisfaction lasted until he was about half way home. Then he realised he had no job, no idea when he would get another pay cheque, and this week’s pay would soon be eaten up by the mortgage and other expenses about the house, and helping out his mum with the rent and housekeeping. He wondered what she would say when he told her he’d walked out of his job. She had been against him buying the house from the start. Why wasn't the Greenway good enough for him, she wanted to know. Having a mortgage and owning a house was for rich people, snobs, not for people like them, she said. Maybe she was right after all, Chris thought.

  Emily was at class that Friday, to Rob’s surprise. The bruising was beginning to fade, and she had had her hair done.

  ‘I wasn’t going to sit at home feeling sorry for myself,’ she said. ‘Besides, I couldn’t wait to find out about the writing in the book. Did you
bring it with you? The book, I mean.’

  Rob had not thought about what he would say to Emily. Clearly he could not return the book to her as long as there was any chance of another attempt to steal it.

  ‘I – um – no. I didn’t expect to see you here this evening,’ he said at last. Emily was clearly disappointed.

  ‘Oh. And the writing? Have you had a chance to look at it?’

  Rob had not finished transcribing the notes, but he told Emily what he knew.

  ‘It’s, er, notes by the daughter of the man who wrote the book. Her name was Catherine. Comments about what her father wrote, you know.’

  Emily brightened again.

  ‘So it was a Finch who did the writing. I wonder who she was. I’m not sure which Edward it was who wrote the book. There were two at that time, you know – cousins. I really can’t wait to find out all about it.’ She looked at Rob hopefully. She was waiting for him to offer to bring the book, and his notes, round to her house, Rob realised. He ignored the hint and moved away, with the excuse of needing to speak to another member of the class. He felt guilty at having to disappoint Emily, but did not see what else he could do. Well, he would not see Emily for another week. By then perhaps he would have thought of something.

  Rob was on the lookout for Chris on Saturday morning. He went out when he saw the van pull up.

  ‘I don’t want to waste your time,’ Rob began.

  ‘Huh. Got plenty of that,’ Chris said, inviting Rob into the house with a jerk of his head. ‘It’s money I’ll be short of.’

  Rob looked at him enquiringly. Chris explained.

  ‘Chucked the job in yesterday. Had enough of the boss messing us about, and told him where to stick it. Seemed like a good idea at the time. My mum thinks it was stupid, though, she’s been giving me hell about it ever since I told her yesterday.’

  ‘But you’ll be able to spend more time here, won’t you? Get it finished sooner?’

  ‘I can’t afford to. I need to have the wages coming in to pay the mortgage, pay people to do the jobs I can’t do, buy the fittings for the bathroom and kitchen.’

  ‘You’ll get another job, though.’

  ‘I’ll get something, I s’pose. It’s not so easy getting anything decent. They all want to see certificates. My mum thought I was mad to take on this place,’ he added. ‘Said I’d never make a go of it. Looks like it might turn out she was right.’

  ‘I couldn’t get a grant to do my Ph. D.,’ said Rob. ‘Some people thought I should forget about it, and get what they called a ‘proper job’. But I wanted to do it, and so far I’ve managed to keep going, getting work when I need it.’

  He paused, wondering if he’d sounded too much like he was preaching. But Chris only nodded, and said,

  ‘Better get on with it, I s’pose.’

  ‘Anything I can help you with?’ Rob asked. ‘I don’t know how much help I’ll be, though. I haven’t done much d.i.y.’

  ‘You can help me rip out these old kitchen units, if you like. Doesn’t take any skill to do that!’

  As they worked, Rob said,

  ‘Why don’t you get the certificates, if it’d get you a better job? What certificates, anyway?’

  ‘You name it, there’s a certificate for it. Bricklaying. Scaffolding. Site safety. It’d mean gong to college for, I dunno, one day a week, or evenings, for a year.’

  ‘Well, that’s not too bad, is it? The time’d go quite quickly.’

  ‘It’s all right for you, you liked school. I couldn’t stick it the first time round, I don’t want any more of it. And it costs money.’

  ‘I didn’t like everything about school,’ Rob said, remembering games lessons when his rapid growth had made him clumsy and uncoordinated; maths homework that he had stared at blankly for an hour because he had no clue how to set about it.

  ‘Well, I didn’t like anything about school,’ Chris said. ‘Having to sit still all day while some pillock spouted a lot of stuff I didn’t understand and wouldn’t have cared about if I did.’

  At lunch time they moved next door to Rob’s house. Rob made sandwiches and coffee and they took them through to the front room.

  ‘So what did you find in the book?’ Chris asked. ‘Anything to show why someone wanted to nick it?’

  ‘No,’ said Rob. ‘This is the part with all the added notes.’ He picked up the photocopied pages and began to read.

  Being much with the men as the house was built, Sir Thomas came to know one in particular, a bricklayer, an old man whom he found to be somewhat more courtly in manner and learned than the others. After much talk, this man confided in Sir Thomas a remarkable tale. His true name was Richard Plantagenet, a dangerous name indeed in those times, but a name showing that he was truly of gentle birth, a son indeed of the late king, although as it was said a bastard. He was brought to Ashleigh when a boy –

  ‘Ashleigh? Where’s that?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Tiny place about fifteen miles south east of here.’ In the course of his own research, and his work for the record office, Rob had become familiar with the names and locations of the parishes in the county. ‘It’s quite remote, even now. It’d be a good place for someone who wanted to stay hidden.’ He continued to read.

  He was brought to Ashleigh when a boy in the time of King Richard III, known as Crouchback, who was vanquished and killed at Bosworth Field in 1485, and lived secluded there. Then on the eve of the battle he was taken to the King, who promised him that if he was victorious, henceforward everyone would know him as the King’s son. But if the battle went against the King, Richard Plantagenet was to live secretly and tell no-one of his true identity. So he had taken the trade of bricklaying and lived out his life at Ashleigh.

  ‘Plantagenet? What sort of name is that?’

  ‘The Plantagenets were the royal family before the Tudors. Came to a bad end. There was a civil war – the Wars of the Roses. One branch of the Plantagenet family against another – the Duke of York and his family against the descendants of the Duke of Lancaster. The Yorkists won, although the Duke was killed in battle. Henry VI was deposed and the Duke of York’s son became Edward IV in 1461.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t just happen to have all this stuff in your head,’ Chris said.

  ‘No. I did it for B.A. – that is, at university – but I’d forgotten a lot and had to read it up. I’ve still got some of the books, and I did some research online too.’

  ‘So where does this Richard Plantagenet fit in, and Richard III?’

  ‘The book seems to be saying that this Richard Plantagenet was an illegitimate son of Richard III. Richard III was the Duke of Gloucester, Edward IV’s brother. He reigned from 1483 to 1485.’

  The popular version of Richard of Gloucester’s life was well known, of course. Rob briefly recounted it for Chris. Called Crookback or Crouchback because of his hunched back, Richard took the throne from his young nephew, Edward V. He was widely believed to have had the deposed Edward and his younger brother, Richard, Duke of York – the Princes in the Tower – murdered. His defeat, at the battle of Bosworth in Leicestershire in 1485, left the way clear for the Tudors.

  The fifteenth century was not Rob’s period, but he knew there was more to the story than that. Richard III’s character, and his guilt or innocence in the matter of the princes, were the subject of much debate among professional historians and interested amateurs.

  ‘There's no evidence at all that there was anything physically wrong with him,’ Rob told Chris. ‘He was a successful soldier, fought in battle on horseback. He must have been fit. The Crouchback name was probably thought up later, by his enemies, to discredit him.’

  ‘Not very pc back then, were they? Politicians wouldn’t get away with that these days.’

  ‘I bet some of them would try it, if they thought it’d win them votes,’ Rob said.

  ‘And why was it dangerous for this bloke in the book to be called Plantagenet?’ Chris wanted to know.

  ‘He told hi
s story to Sir Thomas in or not long after 1545 – that’s when Sir Thomas came into possession of Ashleigh. Henry VIII was on the throne – ’

  ‘The one who had six wives, and kept chopping their heads off?’

  ‘He only chopped the heads off two of them. But he and Henry VII, his father, were pretty ruthless where the surviving Yorkists were concerned. Henry VIII executed an old lady of seventy on some trumped up charge because she had a Yorkist claim to the throne. Richard Plantagenet wouldn’t have been safe if Henry had known about him.’

  ‘Henry would’ve executed him even though he was a bastard?’ Chris asked.

  ‘Henry VII executed Richard III’s other, known, illegitimate son, John. And Sir Thomas Mildmay himself would have come under suspicion if it had got out that he’d known about Richard Plantagenet and done nothing. Misprision of treason, I think that was. The story had to be kept secret, at least as long as Henry was alive.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  Rob continued reading.

  Sir Thomas, on hearing this story, determined to make the old man’s last days as easeful as he could, while not revealing the secret of his birth. When he died, Sir Thomas determined to give him a burial as near as possible befitting his true station, and had him buried at Ashleigh as one of his own family.

  ‘Nothing there to make anyone want to go after the book, is there?’

  ‘No. Even if it was true, after all this time it really doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You don't think it’s true?’

  Rob was prevented from replying by a brisk knocking at the front door.

  Chapter Seven

  Rob opened the door to find Claire Leighton on the pavement outside, Laura just behind her. Claire did not waste time on more than the briefest of greetings.