‘Perhaps he thought there might be something in your research he could use to publicise Ashleigh.’
‘I suppose there would be, if we discovered something completely new about Richard III.’
That evening, halfheartedly tidying up his books and papers, Rob picked up the biography of Richard III he had bought from the secondhand shop and leafed through it. I am determined to prove a villain, Shakespeare had Richard III say. But the citizens of York recorded in 1485 King Richard, late mercifully reigning upon us, was piteously slain and murdered, to the great heaviness of this City. Controversy, unresolved for five hundred years. Would the hidden document, if it existed, and if they could find it, change Richard’s reputation, for better or worse? But they had done all they could, and reached a dead end. Without some new information, they would have to give up the quest.
He closed the book and put it on a shelf, and turned back to his own research; away from kings and usurpers, to documents recording the minutiae of daily life in centuries past. He sat down at his desk, debating what to work on. There was the Commonweal that he had photocopied but not yet got around to looking at. Not today, he decided. Instead he turned to some seventeenth century farming accounts.
Paid for a boyes keeping of birds form the Corne three pence and for one pound and a quarter of powder eighteen pence.
The image of a boy standing out in the fields, armed with a musket and eighteen pence worth of gunpowder, replaced that of the hunchbacked king in Rob’s mind.
Chapter Eleven
The job at Ashleigh was no worse than others Chris had had. It was at least undercover, not in the open on a muddy site. There was a decent enough lot of blokes, that he could share a joke with, and most important of all, a payslip at the end of the week. It was not getting them any nearer finding this document. But really, his mum had a better chance of winning the lottery than they had of finding something which the people who hid it did not want found, and which might not still be there anyway.
And it might be something that was better not found. Rob might talk about the importance of knowing the facts of history, but Chris kept seeing Wayne Simpson lying on the concrete floor of the derelict lockup with his head bashed in. That was a fact. OK there were all sorts of reasons why someone might want to do Wayne Simpson an injury, but what about the old lady? She was someone Rob knew, someone who was supposed to be his friend, but he seemed to think finding this old paper from more than four hundred years ago was more important than people getting hurt now.
They were stripping off some cheap modern panelling when the foreman came in.
‘They’re a bit shorthanded on the other side. Anyone want to go and lend a hand?’
‘I will,’ Chris said. He would not mind having another look round over there, and Rob would be interested. And he could at least say he had looked for that document, even if there was no chance of finding it.
Frank, the man in charge on the other side of the house, remembered Chris and seemed pleased to see him. He led Chris into a small room beyond the great hall. Like the hall, the floor of this room was covered with old brown linoleum.
‘You remember I told you we want to see what’s under this temporary flooring?’ Frank said. ‘We thought we’d start with this room, before we tackle the hall. Get it all up, until you come to the original floorboards, if they’re still there, or until there’s nothing more to lift. Sorry you’ll be on your own, but we’ve had to send a couple of men to another site.’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Chris. ‘There isn’t really room for anyone else in here, we’d be tripping over each other.’
‘All right. Oh, and you can take out that board that’s blocking the fireplace, too. I don’t think there’s much holding it there.’
‘OK.’
‘Right, I’ll leave you to it. You’ll find gloves and masks in the main hall. Come and find me if you have any problems.’
When Frank had gone, Chris looked around. Sir Thomas’s private parlour, Rob had said. If he was going to hide something, what better place? And what better time to look for it than now, when Chris was here alone, and the place was being stripped out? But where to start looking? Plenty of possibilities in here. Unlike in the hall, there was a ceiling; the room was not open to the rafters. There were windows on one wall, and a stone fireplace, currently boarded up, opposite. Panelling around the walls, except for the brick chimney breast.
But he had a job to do, Chris thought. He had better get on with it. He kitted himself out and set to work. The linoleum came up easily, cracking and breaking in his hands. He threw each piece into the passage outside, to be cleared away later. There was no temporary floor in here; removing the linoleum revealed a solid oak floor, clearly undisturbed for centuries. Chris could not start lifting floor boards on the chance that something might be hidden underneath. Anyway, he thought, the bloke was a bricklayer. It was more likely that the document was hidden in the brickwork somewhere.
He looked at the board blocking the fireplace, tapping it experimentally. Frank was right; it would not take much to get it out. He levered a corner until he could get his fingertips under it, then ripped the whole thing out. There was an iron grate in the fireplace. Frank would be pleased if that was the original, Chris thought. There was what looked like the ashes and cinders of the last fire to have burned there and a small heap of debris that must have fallen down the chimney at some point – soot, a bird’s nest, and some small bones that must be the remains of a bird. Chris fetched a rubbish sack and a shovel and cleared it up.
When the rubbish was removed he could appreciate the herringbone patterned brickwork in pinks and browns. Except that there, at the back, was a place where the brickwork was not so good. The bricks were not so well aligned, the mortar not so neatly done. Must have let the apprentice do this bit, where it would not show, Chris thought. When a fire was laid, this area would be invisible. He leaned forward for a closer look, brushing away soot and ash, rubbing with his thumb. There was something on one of the bricks. Chris looked at it, head tilted to try to see better. It was crudely drawn, but it looked like a flower. A rose. A white rose.
‘Sub rosa – under the rose,’ he muttered. Then, hearing someone in the passage outside, he hastily straightened up and moved away. He could do nothing now; there were too many people about. And Rob would want to be there.
Chris was outside Rob’s house, waiting, when Rob got home from his class that evening. He was practically bouncing with impatience as he waited for Rob to unlock the front door. Rob went through to the kitchen and put his fish and chips down on the worktop. Following, turning on the lights as he went, Chris said,
‘I think I’ve found it.’
Rob stopped in the act of reaching for the kettle.
‘You found it? What – where – ?’
‘I think so. You said it was under the rose, right? I found a white rose.’
‘A white rose? Shit!’
‘That means something?’
‘Yes! My God, yes! The white rose of York! So where is it? What did you find?’ Rob was so excited, words were tumbling out of his mouth.
‘I couldn't do anything then. Too many people. If you want to see what’s there, we have to go back now.’
‘Why not tomorrow, or Sunday?’
‘There’ll be people working there all weekend. So it has to be now. You up for it?’
‘Yes! But won’t that security man be there? What do we say to him?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got a story all ready for him. Come on. Bring that with you,’ he added, as Rob looked at his fish and chips. ‘You can eat it in the van.’
Rob ran upstairs to change into jeans, trainers and sweater. As he was on the way down again, the phone rang. It was Claire.
‘Auntie Emily wants some of her family history stuff sent out. She’s met someone who might be a third cousin six times removed, or something. I can’t get down this weekend, and Laura’s tied up, and we wouldn’t know what we we
re looking for anyway. Could you go round to her house and sort it out? The neighbour’s got a key, I’ll ring and tell her to expect you.’
‘Yes, all right. What does Emily want, and where do you want me to send it?’ Having helped Emily sort her papers, Rob was sure he could find what she wanted. He wrote down what Claire told him.
‘Right. I’ll let Laura know there’s no need for her to try to get over there. Any progress with the mystery?’
‘Chris thinks he’s found something. We’re heading out to Ashleigh to have a look round.’
‘If you’re going to do something illegal, I don’t want to know about it!’
They drove through the dark lanes to Ashleigh, Rob eating his fish and chips from the wrapping.
‘You’re a bad influence on me,’ he said, popping a chip into his mouth. ‘I’ve known you – how long? And in that time, I’ve taken wages cash in hand, driven without insurance, withheld information from the police, and now this is the second time I’ve set out with you with the intention of committing a crime. I used to be a law abiding citizen.’
‘We wouldn’t be going to commit this crime but for you. I don’t care about some hundreds of years old bit of paper.’
‘Parchment.’
‘Whatever. You want to turn back?’
Rob thought about it for half a second.
‘No.’
‘Ha! So much for the law-abiding citizen.’
The red haired security guard came out of his cabin as Chris pulled the van up at the front of the house. Chris leaned out of the window.
‘Evening, mate. All right if we go in the house? I think I dropped my wallet in there today.’
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow? There’ll be people here then.’
‘Nope. Got to take the old lady to my nan’s early tomorrow. My credit card’s in the wallet, I’ll need it for petrol.’
‘Oh, all right then. You won’t be long, will you?’
‘Hope not. But there was a big heap of rubbish, it’ll take us a while if we have to go through all of it.’
‘We?’ The guard peered into the van.
‘You remember my mate, don’t you?’
‘Oh, yeah. OK then, go ahead.’ With a wave of his hand, the man retreated into his cabin. Through the partly open door, Rob could see the flickering screen of a portable television. Chris looked after him, frowning slightly.
‘I know him from somewhere, but I can’t think where.’
‘I suppose security guards work in lots of different places. You could have seen him anywhere.’
‘Yeah, I s’pose.’
Chris took his tool bag from the empty seat beside him and jumped down. Rob got out on his side. Chris led the way round to the old part of the house.
‘We should be able to get in there. I made sure that door wasn’t shut properly before I left. As long as no-one checked it later – ’
Chris was able to ease the door open and they slipped inside. Chris took a powerful torch from his bag and shone it towards the door of the parlour.
‘In here.’
They knelt on the floor in front of the fireplace. Chris handed the torch to Rob.
‘Shine it there.’
Rob shone the torch where Chris indicated. The little, crudely painted white rose caught the light and reflected it back. Rob felt sick with excitement and his hand, holding the torch, shook a little at this evidence of the secret which had remained hidden for so long. He sat back, allowing Chris to look and consider the best way to tackle the job.
‘Has it been disturbed at all since it was done, do you think?’ Rob asked.
‘Doesn’t look like it.’
‘Can you get in there without disturbing the one with the rose on it?’ Rob did not know why they were speaking in such low voices, but it seemed appropriate.
‘I’ll have a go.’
Chris took a chisel from his bag and began to chip gently at the mortar around the next brick. Rob felt a momentary pang of guilt. This was vandalism, many times worse than spray painting a bus. He thought he heard a sound behind him, and turned his head quickly to look, then was annoyed with himself for his jumpiness; odd noises were normal in an old house. He tried to picture the scene as the document was hidden, more than four hundred years ago. Had they come here secretly, by night, as he and Chris had done?
‘Hey, hold it still!’ Chris said. Rob realised he had allowed the beam of torchlight to swing away from where Chris was working.
‘Sorry.’ He redirected the light and watched as Chris carefully lifted out the brick. The gap left was not big enough to shine the torch through, or for either of them to get his hand in. Chris began to work on the next brick. He had to remove three of the thin, flat bricks before there was a space big enough to see into. They bumped heads as Rob aimed the torch at the hole. Something gleamed, yellowish white. He put in his hand and drew it out, carefully, holding it with the tips of fingers and thumb. It was a folded square, about eight inches across. He could tell by the stiff, smooth texture that it was parchment. Bringing it to the light, he turned it over. There was no seal or writing on the outside.
‘Is that it?’ asked Chris.
‘I think so.’ He carefully turned back a corner of the parchment, enough to see the writing inside. ‘It looks like a sixteenth century hand.’
‘So it’s true, then? About Richard Plantagenet, and him living here in secret all that time?’
‘Some part of it’s true, anyway.’ Rob remembered what he had told his class. Family legends may have a grain of truth in them. He and Chris stayed silent for a moment, looking at the square of parchment, yellow in the torchlight, deep shadow all around it.
Then Chris became businesslike again.
‘Anything else in there?’
Rob lay flat on the floor and pushed his hand right into the space, feeling into all four corners. His fingertips encountered something small, hard and round. He drew it out and looked at it by the light of the torch. It was a ring, heavy for its size. Rob caught a gleam in the torchlight. He brushed away the accumulated dust and dirt and found he was holding a gold ring. From its size it was probably intended to be worn by a man. It was set with a pale stone.
‘Is that everything?’Chris said.
‘Yes.’ For safekeeping, Rob slipped the ring onto his own little finger. It was a tight fit, but at least it would not slip off and be lost.
‘OK.’
Chris fetched some of the lime mortar the builders were using for repairs to the old brickwork, and some water, and mixed up a small quantity. With a trowel he had picked up he knocked the old mortar off the three bricks. Then he carefully replaced them.
While Chris worked, Rob resisted the temptation to unfold the parchment to see what was inside. It would be stiff and difficult to handle after having been folded for so long, and he would never be able to read it in this light anyway. He did not have a bag or a pocket big enough to take it, so he sat with it in one hand, torch in the other, waiting for Chris to finish.
‘That’s as good as I can make it,’ Chris said at last. ‘Anyone who looked could tell it’s recent, we’ll just have to hope no-one looks.’
He picked up all the small pieces of mortar, old and new, which lay around the brickwork, evidence of their activities, and went to return the items he had borrowed. He returned with a broom and swept the whole floor. Rob stood up and moved out of the way.
‘No need to make it obvious someone’s been working in that corner,’ Chris said. He put his own tools, and the small piece of board he had mixed the mortar on, back into his bag.
‘OK then, let’s go.’
They left the house by the way they had come in. This time, Chris did make sure the door was firmly fastened behind them. Rob gave him back the torch, still holding the document tightly in his other hand. Chris hefted his toolbag and set off back towards the van, but Rob lingered a moment, looking back at the old house. In the darkness, the newer part was less visible, and the house l
ooked much as it must have done when it was newly built, the work of Richard Plantagenet, king’s son and bricklayer, and his patron, Thomas Mildmay. Rob hoped they had done the two of them no disservice here tonight; he hoped that whatever story was contained within the document he held, it was one that could be told now, in a more sympathetic age. But regardless, the house would still stand as a memorial to the two men. Rob thought that, after a life spent as a bricklayer, that might be what Richard Plantagenet would prefer. He turned away and began to follow Chris back to the van.
The blow came from behind, between his shoulders, sudden and hard enough to make him stagger. Before he could recover his balance, there was an arm around his throat and his feet were taken from under him. Rob hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him. He made an attempt to get to his knees, to scramble away, but a weight on the small of his back kept him prone. His left arm was trapped underneath him and he could get no leverage to push himself up. He raised his head and tried to shout, but he could not get enough breath, and then a hand was in his hair, pushing his face into the ground.
Then he was flipped over onto his back. His attacker was kneeling over him, trying to prise the document from his grasp. Rob tightened his grip, but his wrist was twisted viciously and he could not prevent his fingers from opening. The man must have caught the gleam of gold on Rob’s little finger. He wrenched the ring off, then with a final kick to Rob’s ribs, the man – by the size and strength it had to be a man – ran into the darkness.
Spitting out dirt, Rob rolled over and managed to get to hands and knees, cursing when he put weight on his wrist. He heard someone calling. Looking up, he saw Chris running towards him. Rob gave an incoherent shout, which was all he could manage, and gestured in the direction his attacker had taken. Chris evidently understood, for he veered off after the man. Rob, unable to do more, sat back on his heels, nursing his injured wrist.
Chris ran after the man, though he had little hope of catching him. The man reached the entrance to the drive way, and Chris heard a car engine start when he was still some distance away. He came through the entrance in time to see a vehicle, a 4x4 probably, disappearing down the lane. Leaning on the gate post, he was just able to make out the registration before the vehicle rounded the bend and was out of sight.
The Plantagenet Mystery Page 10