The
Black Rose
Conspiracy
By James McKenna
BLACK ROSE CONSPIRACY
Lone Cloud Publishing
Unit 1 Betjeman Close, Cowper Road,
Harpenden, Herts AL5 4XH
2020
ISBN 978-1-8380607-0-1
[email protected]
Copyright James McKenna 2020. All rights reserved
The right of James McKenna to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages
This novel is entirely the work of fiction
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
A clip catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade, or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that is which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
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For more crime thrillers by this author, and information about his new books, visit James McKenna’s
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at http://tinyurl.com/c9ultl3 (Amazon UK) or
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or the author’s website
at www.crimefiction-jamesmckenna.co.uk
To contact the author regarding any of his books
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The Unseen
The Uncounted
The Unwanted
Global Raider
James McKenna also writes for young readers
The Mind Traveller trilogy of action/adventure stories for 9 -15 year olds
CHAPTER 1
"Why? Why do you take the ones I love? You kill them violently, you show no mercy." Sarah hung her head and shivered, her mother's favourite scarf clasped in both hands.
In her heart Sarah knew why. Death gave no mercy to the bereaved. Her mother had told her so when Sarah's stepfather died and again when Sarah's own husband, George, had been killed in Afghanistan. On both occasions pain ate into her mind and soul, destroying all faith. She cursed God then and she cursed him now. But on those two occasions at least mother and daughter had been able to comfort each other. Now Sarah's support went to Grace, her own seven-year-old daughter. Grace suffered the loss of her beloved grandmother with the desperate grief of a child who does not understand.
"Why, why did they kill Grandma?" she kept asking. "Why didn't they stop? She was so kind and I loved her."
Seven days ago, at the funeral Grace clutched her mother's hand while tears flowed in silent pain, bewildered by the cruelty of a world she had only started to discover. A week later she appeared to have accepted her loss, though underneath she had changed. Sarah recognised the child's strength and matched it with her own. Yet in her heart and mind she felt unable to fill the vacuum left by the death of one they both loved. Their family had been five, now they were only two.
Standing from the living room floor of her mother's bungalow, she surveyed the neatly folded clothes ready for the charity shop. At the same time Grace clattered into the kitchen from the garden, Scamp, the Jack Russell mongrel, following at her feet.
"Muma, you OK? I heard you shout." Grace ran and clasped Sarah around the waist.
"I'm fine, my love." She stroked her daughter's cheek. "Just sorting the last of Grandma's clothes."
"Can we go into the woods?" Grace looked up as Scamp padded in eager anticipation.
Sarah glanced from the window to the pine forest growing beyond the garden fence.
"No darling. We'll be going soon and I don't like you in there on your own."
"But I'll have Scamp with me." The dog jumped up on hearing his name, his front paws against Grace's legs.
"Just stay in the garden, please."
Grace blew breath and dropped her shoulders.
"No!" Sarah gave the smile which indicated conversation closed.
"All right then. Come on, Scamp." Grace turned and left, the little dog at her heels.
Sarah entered her mother's bedroom, the wardrobe and drawers now cleared of all clothes and personal items. This left only the dressing table and she stood before it as if a shrine. Inside lay the truths, the secrets and loves of her mother's life. Sarah brushed fingers against the polished surface. Once more the pain of loss crept over her. Grace, herself and Grandma had been the tight nucleus of a three-member family, a family ripped apart by the drunken stupidity of a hit and run driver, the culprit still not caught.
The policeman had shrugged. "Joy riders from Luton, car most likely stolen. If they've left prints inside we'll find 'em. But it was dark and no witnesses." He shrugged again. Had her husband been alive he would have tracked down the criminals and dealt with them in the manner of old, her own father, maybe the same. She did not know, she had never met him, knew nothing about him and her mother would not talk of him. She told Sarah that one day she would have access to the truth. Had that time arrived? She had talked of letters, documents and photos stored in a box kept in her dressing table.
Her hand shook as she opened the top drawer. The time had come to discover her father. She guessed he was rich, he had bought this substantial house thirty years ago, probably as compensation for leaving a loving woman with his infant child. A penalty for his guilt in deserting them both. From her own Mediterranean complexion, she guessed he maybe came from Southern Spain, Italy, France or Greece. Maybe a handsome man, for people called her beautiful, though beauty also came from her mother.
Inside the drawer lay a document case plus a number of folders. She lifted the lid to find the case crammed full of papers, the top one a letter to herself.
"Mummy." She heard Grace shout, heard her running through the kitchen and into the living room. She turned immediately to help.
"There's a man in the woods, he looked over the fence." Grace held her mother. "He frightened me."
"No need to be scared, we're not the only people who walk in the woods." Sarah cradled her as Scamp looked on with worried eyes.
"But he stared at me, his face was covered."
"He was probably cold," Sarah said, unease creeping over her. She moved to the window and looked to the tree line but saw no one. "Come on darling. It's time to go. Fetch Scamp's lead." Sarah watched Grace run into the hall before she carefully removed the document box from the dressing table and carried it to the car.
She returned to lock and check all doors and windows, best be careful. Grace and Scamp secured in the back seat, Sarah edged the car out of the drive on to the deserted village road. The other houses were prosperous, all extended to the maximum, the owners hard at work to pay their mortgages.
Sarah drove through the country lanes to Harpenden, listening to Grace sing songs and Scamp make appreciative noises. She had left married quarters in Aldershot two months after George's funeral, then rented a housing trust property in the south of Harpenden. The schools were good,
the neighbourhood safe and only ten minutes’ drive from her mother in Wheathampstead. Within commuting distance from London, Harpenden homes were occupied mainly by the young and affluent. She soon made friends and on discovering her a widow, men came calling. She shunned all except those who expressed a simple desire for friendship. These were few and John Kirkwell the best. Unlike most, not once had he tried to get inside her knickers. She appreciated that. Since her husband's death she had spurned all suggestions of sexual engagement, feeling the love of husband still burning deep within her heart and soul. Sometimes she wondered if John was gay. He had been helpful and supportive at her mother's funeral, keeping discreetly in the background but always ready to step forward. He had introduced her to the local branch of the Democratic Justice Party. She soon made even more friends amongst the mainly female members and learnt John was a banker who, through connections, raised a lot of money for the party. The primary belief of the DJP was the enhancement of women's rights, their equality and condemnation of sexual harassment and abuse. They also supported law and order, civil rights and acceptance of the transgender and gay communities, both male and female, which gave further proof John Kirkwell might himself be gay. She had no idea where he came from, his family or background. He looked and dressed like most young businessmen in Harpenden, skinny jacket and trousers, the side of his head shaven, spiky on top plus a designer stubble, a tan which might have come from a sun bed or his ancestral genetics. He treated her with friendly respect and courtesy. She appreciated that. Both he and other members of the DJP had persuaded her to come to the party's yearly jamboree, this time, on the insistence of Laura Manning, to the Greek island of Paxos. Out of season it was inexpensive, warm and not full of tourists. She had arranged for her friend Libby to come and look after Grace for five days and because Libby would bring her own dog, Grace had accepted without a fuss. For Sarah it would be the first holiday since her husband's death. She would miss Grace but looked forward to sun and beach.
Parked outside her house in Southdown she went around to the boot of the Vauxhall and retrieved the document case while Grace and Scamp ran into the back garden. When the case stood on the table of her living room, she debated whether to open it or wait. Grace would soon head for bed and her Smartphone. Best to look when she had peace and silence. She felt excited that at last she might find the truth regarding her father and her origins.
chapter 2
Fear came to Judith Holmes the instant she opened her eyes. Staring into the black void of darkness she sensed a viperous presence, unseen, unmoving, coiled.
Instinctively she reached a hand to the warmth of her sleeping husband then just as quickly she removed it. His infidelity had destroyed any reassuring comfort. She was alone. Alone she forced herself to face her fear. Logic rationalised she had suffered a shock awaking from nightmare. Distant tapping through the ancient timber of their 18th century farmhouse indicated some door or window left open.
In the night beyond, she heard trees rustling in the wind, their boughs tossed beneath a cloud shrouded moon, their shadows hiding predators waiting to feed.
Her bladder needed to be emptied. That and the tapping, she realised, were the reasons she had woken. Still she did not move, dared not move, unable to rid herself of primeval phobia. Darkness held the dread of evil which her sophisticated mind could not suppress. Predators in the night devoured more than small creatures.
"Stupid woman," she whispered the words, then proved herself by leaving the bed and walking into darkness, arms outstretched to feel for the door.
In the hall, moon shadows flickered on the parquet floor, trees swayed dark shapes beyond the windowpane and her fragile sanctuary. Her shiver was involuntary.
The glare of electric light, the flush of water in the cistern all gave assurance of the real world and helped to banish the aftermath of the nightmare. Her face in the mirror retained traces of youthful beauty, a beauty betrayed by her husband's desire for wanton lust. Her life, love, devotion, support and fortitude had all been brushed aside for the gratification of sex. Prostitutes, pole dancers, lobbyists and researchers all left their mark and one of them, a transmitted disease. It had infected her husband, John Holmes, Member of Parliament. It had infected Judith, a once devoted wife.
In the harsh light her skin looked gaunt and pale without makeup. She traced a finger on the lines of her image and felt bitter over her barren womb. She was determined to make a better world, a place safe for honest women, for the law abiding, for those who kept faith and honour, who cherished love above the bestiality of sex and commercial gain. For that reason, she had joined the DJP and risen through the ranks. Margo, their charismatic and forceful deputy leader, had promised her vengeance, and a seat in Parliament.
Her watch read 4.36 am as she made her way back along the passage, pausing by the study door as it was pushed and sucked by air pressure from an open window beyond.
The malevolent spectre returned. It stood mocking from behind the study door. Would he have her murdered to gain public sympathy and sexual freedom? She stepped inside, saw the curtains stirred by a flurry of wind which scattered papers on the floor. Judith snapped on the light. No darkness, no spectre but her fear remained. She crossed and closed the open window locking out the world beyond where trees bowed in grey shadow beneath the racing moon.
"I will take power," she said to the empty room. "I will take vengeance. You mock good women, but now you will pay the price of our retribution. All of you. The DJP have the female vote, and will take power."
Back in her bedroom she lay in the cocoon of darkness and pulled the comfort of the quilt against her isolation. The room was pungent with the stale confinement of her husband's sleeping body. A smell intermingled with the traces of her own perfume and now, the raw stench of cut flesh.
In alarm she reached a hand to his chest and felt a stickiness which spread beneath her palm with the consistency of hot oil. In an instant she had switched on the bedside light, bathing the room in a soft glow of pink. Her fingers glistened crimson. She gasped, then shrieked at the sight of her husband's blood. Pulling his shoulder towards her, the shriek was stifled by the clutch of terror as his head lolled to one side. His eyes were wide and staring, his neck gaping. The carotid and jugular were severed each side of a gushing wound, the trachea gurgling in jagged pulses until his turning momentum sent a jet of blood directly into her face.
Judith spat out the essence of her husband's life, rubbed a hand to her eyes to clear the partial blindness. His blood was dripping from her lips and chin, soaking her nightclothes, spreading bright red stains on the warm quilt she had once shared in love.
"Not this," she screamed. "My God, not like this. What have I done?"
CHAPTER 3
Sarah went about her morning routine with the anticipation of discovery. While Grace ate breakfast, Sarah stuffed washing into the machine, made the beds then placed her mother's document case on the kitchen table. Grace put on her shoes and coat, collected her satchel and Scamp, then all set out on the walk to school.
"What lessons do you have today?" Sarah asked.
"First reading, then maths, then history. After lunch it's geography, then sport." Grace lifted two fists into the air. "My favourite."
"Sure you'll be all right with Libby while I take a few days away?"
"Course Mum, I like Libby and I'll have Scamp. I’ll miss you but Libby's good at Lego and she promised to help me finish my giant castle." Grace took hold of Sarah's hand. "Love you Muma."
"Love you too, my angel."
Back home Sarah opened the document case and lifted the papers from inside. A brooch slipped from beneath the first letter landing on the table with a singular thud as if announcing its arrival. She guessed it about two and a half inches in diameter and made of silver. What captured her total gaze was the photo held under glass in the middle. In black and white, a portrait showing the beauty of her mother in youth. More intriguing for Sarah was the handsome young man beside
her. They looked a magnificent couple, warm and content in their love for one another. The brooch, she guessed, would be worn with coat or jacket, a brooch that clearly sent a message. I am spoken for.
Sara read the letter that had lain on top.
"Dear Sarah,
I am gone now, but hopefully in a place I can still watch over yourself and Grace.
You will see from the photo what your father looked like. I loved him and I believe he loved me, but he had much trouble in his life and because of that, he left me. However, he always supported us, though kept his distance. The enclosed letter from him will explain a little. He told me always to look after this brooch and you must do the same. Why he wanted this I do not know. Maybe because it showed the bond and unity of our love, a love never allowed to blossom.
Your loving mother."
Sarah replaced the letter and picked up the one beneath, the handwriting in pen and ink, neat and bold, the date thirty-two years ago.
"Dear Ruth,
Due to pressure from my family and business in Italy, I fear I must let you go. I shall always remember our love and our daughter, Sarah, but I must also keep you from the dangers that now encircle me. In remembrance of our happiness I give to you this brooch and our photo. Keep them safe, never let them go, for the brooch holds our betrothal. I will send money for as long as able but promise me with all your love, you will keep this brooch safely hidden. Some may come looking but they must never find it. What it hides I leave to you and Sarah.
Forever my beloved, forever and ever. Silviano."
Sarah felt the tears on her cheek as she placed the letter down. Her mother had never spoken of these matters, her life a secret shadowed by what had passed. She read the remaining letters and documents, one her mother's last will and testament leaving everything to Sarah. The rest were love letters from Silviano, most from before she was born.
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