“But with every archaeological dig, every new scrap of paper discovered, history is muddied again and again,” retaliated Perdita.
“I know, but Dad seemed to think this was a major shift and it happened at a particular moment.”
“What do you mean?”
“It was 2012, the year of the London Olympics and Queen Elizabeth II’s Diamond Jubilee; all eyes were on us, so it was the perfect time to have a major historical discovery and to change our collective history.”
“And there was an eclipse,” murmured Perdita.
This time it was Kit who looked confused.
“Why is that relevant?”
“Five days before Richard III was interred at Leicester Cathedral, there was a solar eclipse in the UK. It tallies with the ‘sun in splendour’ legend,” explained Perdita. “There is a story that claims a celestial event occurred while the York princes: the future Edward IV and the future Richard III, along with their brother George, duke of Clarence, awaited the cry to begin the battle of Mortimer’s Cross. They saw the meteorological phenomenon of what appeared to be three suns shining in the sky, or the sun in splendour, as it’s known colloquially. Edward saw it as a good omen of victory and, after they had won the battle, he used the emblem on his personal badge to represent the three sons of York, echoing the three suns in the sky. Two meteorological occurrences at pivotal moments in the lives of the York kings? It can’t be a coincidence.”
Perdita stared into Kit’s eyes, they reflected her own reluctant realisation.
“Dad said this was the version of this period of history that had been universally accepted, even if the identity of who did kill the princes in the Tower has never been resolved,” Kit continued. “It was a major event in the timeline of our country’s zeitgeist; it had remained the same for centuries. Then, almost overnight, it changed to a new version of events, one that alters our collective past, and this is the version we are told we should now believe. Forget what went before, this is the new story: Richard was not a villain, he was merely misunderstood. Everyone change their views and raise a cheer for good King Dick because it has been decided that this is what happened.”
“Yet, the Tudor dynasty, despite being one of the most studied periods of history, has remained unchanged,” said Perdita, her uneasiness growing. “There have been minor evaluations, yes, tiny deviations from the accepted norm but no major discoveries, which, given the amount of money and interest lavished upon it, is remarkable. Surely, the question is: why have there never been any new leads?”
“Because when any new discoveries are made, they’re suppressed, unless they’ve been sanctioned by the government, of course,” said Kit. “Mary was the last person to find something so startling; she had to be stopped.”
Perdita was having difficulty taking it all in.
“As Dad pointed out, if there was a department of the Secret Service with Watchers in every university and scholarly institution entirely devoted to preserving the accepted version of history, while destroying anything and anyone who challenges this version of events, it would be possible,” Kit paused and skimmed a pebble across the darkening water of Llyn Cel. “Then he said the most mind-scrambling thing, Perds.”
“More mind-scrambling than the existence of Watchers?”
“He said, ‘George Orwell had to get his inspiration from somewhere’.”
“No,” gasped Perdita. “Are you referring to the Ministry of Truth in his novel 1984?”
Kit nodded.
“Apparently, Orwell had his suspicions and had hinted at this manipulation of the past with Winston Smith’s job in a government department responsible for propaganda and historical revisionism. Did you also know that Orwell died the year after the book’s publication?”
Perdita’s eyes were wide with surprise.
“I did, but I’d never really given it much thought before,” she stuttered. Suddenly, she understood why her father had chosen such an odd reading for his funeral service. Had it been a clue or a warning? One that Mary had repeated in her will.
“Kit, are you saying this is why my grandmother’s car was tampered with all those years ago? She had found something that could challenge the accepted version of history?”
“Yes.”
“But instead, it was my mother who was killed because she borrowed my grandmother’s car.”
“This is why Mary distanced herself from you and your father. The grief and guilt she suffered after your mother’s death was apparently awful for everyone, Mary and James particularly. Mary blamed herself and she feared immediately for your lives. Your grandmother became convinced that the only way to protect you was to distance herself, so she made it known she was estranged from you and your father. Her theory was that, if the Watchers knew she had nothing to do with you, when she eventually died and you inherited her fortune and her home, you could do so safely because neither you nor Piper would know anything about her work or any secrets she had inadvertently uncovered. She didn’t bargain on you becoming an historian and then going on to do a PhD in Archaeology. Trying to protect you both was also the reason she pulled The Catherine Howard Anomaly from publication. It was this book that was upsetting MI1 Elite.”
“But now we’ve inherited Marquess House, what’s to stop MI1 turning up here and pushing us all off a cliff?” asked Perdita, her voice unsteady.
“The Milford Haven Treaty,” replied Kit, “and this is truly crazy.”
She felt she must have gone into a state of shock. She was numb. Everything Kit had said seemed ludicrous, and yet her grandmother had been no fool. She had taken the terrible decision to distance herself from them, to sacrifice a life with them in order to ensure hers and Piper’s lives were not cut tragically short as their mother’s had been. It was this extreme action by Mary that stopped Perdita from dismissing Kit’s words as nonsense.
“Go on,” said Perdita in a strangled voice.
“Are you sure?”
Perdita nodded.
“The Milford Haven Treaty was drawn up in 1886 when The Queen’s Men approached your ancestor, Lettice Lakeby. As a girl, Lettice had been told that Marquess House had once been in her family, so when it came up for sale, shortly after she had married her wealthy businessman husband, William Lakeby, he bought it for her. While it was being renovated, using Lettice’s money as she was an heiress in her own right, she discovered a series of letters in the attic from a Penelope Fitzalan, which mentioned a ruby ring and a secret so dangerous that Penelope had been prepared to die to protect it.
“This secret was apparently hidden somewhere in the house, but it has never been found, despite Mary’s extensive searching. Lettice, though, never took it particularly seriously and thought it was all rather charming and romantic. When she was approached by a representative of Queen Victoria’s government concerning the house, she thought it was because it had once been part of Anne Boleyn’s dowry when Henry VIII created her Marquess of Pembrokeshire, so she agreed to their terms and the Treaty was ratified in October 1886.”
“And what does the Treaty say?” asked Perdita.
“It creates a sovereign state within Marquess House and its grounds, and it also states that those under the protection of the estate — that is, we who live here — cannot be arrested, approached or otherwise molested by members of MI1 Elite anywhere within a thirty-mile radius of the house. They have no jurisdiction over the house and its grounds. They are also not allowed to gather or use any intelligence that originates from the house. In other words, while you are here, you are safe from the Secret Service.”
Perdita stared at Kit, shaking her head in disbelief.
“What unnerved Dad the most,” continued Kit, “was seeing Keller and Haberfield at Mary’s funeral and the fact they felt able to breach the Treaty. This has always been a sacrosanct agreement, so it makes him wonder if the new head of MI1 Elite is trying to change the rules.”
“And who is that?”
“A man called Inigo We
stbury. He took over the top position in February this year, and since then, there have been changes which suggest they are no longer prepared to wait quietly in the wings. They seem to be becoming increasingly militant again, as they were after the Second World War. Apparently, your mother’s death shocked everyone back in the 1990s: it was known among all the agents that she was an innocent. Dad said she was also one of the kindest, gentlest women you could ever meet. The operatives at MI1 Elite were horrified by her death too, and it was the catalyst for a truce. However, Dad claims that Westbury is young, brash and wants to make his name in the Service. Until Mary’s death, you and Piper weren’t in any danger because the Watchers were still focused on Mary, but the moment she died and her will was released naming you two as her heirs, you became the new focus.”
“Surely MI1 knew we would inherit the estate, though?” said Perdita. “We may not have known anything about it, but surely they were fully aware.”
“Dad says not,” he said. “Mary and your father had played their parts well and the Watchers truly believed Mary had cut you both from her life. MI1 was working on the assumption that Mary’s nephew, Randolph Connors, as her next closest living relative, would inherit.”
“Randolph Connors, he was Cecily’s son, wasn’t he?” she said. “Mary mentioned him in the notes she wrote all over her books.”
“Yes, and he was convinced Marquess House would be his. He was furious when he was left nothing,” said Kit. “He badgered Dad for weeks after you’d accepted your inheritance. He even said he might contest the will, but Dad sorted him out.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had enough to deal with,” said Kit. “Dad didn’t think it was important. Randolph has always been a troublemaker.”
“And what about this man, Inigo Westbury?”
“He’s ex-military and saw action in Afghanistan then returned to a British posting and was approached by MI1 Elite. He’s worked for them for six years, rocketing through the ranks until he was given the top job earlier this year. He’s been divorced three times and is currently single. He has no children. There were suggestions that at least one of his wives cited mental cruelty as the reason for divorce but all access to his records is Top Secret so these are unconfirmed rumours. Whatever the reasons they had for leaving, his war record shows he’s a man with no compassion and much ambition, which is never a good combination.”
“He sounds charming,” murmured Perdita. She stared out over Llyn Cel, trying to rationalise all she had been told, then a wave of panic hit her. “Piper,” she exclaimed. “She’s more than thirty miles away from Marquess House. She isn’t protected by the Milford Haven Treaty. She has to come home. I have to talk to her.”
“Dad said that MI1 has no extradition treaty with the US for anyone protected by privately signed documents.”
“You mean there are others, we’re not the only ones?”
“I don’t know. I assume there must be.”
“Nevertheless, she would be safer here…” Perdita could have bitten her tongue. Ever since she had arrived Alistair had been saying the word ‘safe’, now she was doing it too. “Things are going badly with Jeremy, so she’s decided to go and visit her best friend Gemma in Italy, then she’s going to fly here and stay while she decides what to do about her marriage. Can we guarantee her safety?”
Kit picked up a stone and skimmed it across the water. “I’ll ask Dad to organise things.”
“Thank you,” she said. “Is there any more?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
They sat in silence, the echoes of Kit’s words floating across the obsidian water like ghosts, until Perdita spoke again in a soft, thoughtful tone, giving voice to her last desperate hope, “Do you think it’s true?”
“Yes,” sighed Kit, sadly. “It would be too much for Dad to make up. He has very little imagination and, anyway, why would he and Mary bother?”
While Kit had been speaking, the black night had risen around them. Stars twinkled in the inky sky, while the bright moon cast her eerie shadow across Llyn Cel. Perdita stiffened as Kit slipped his arm around her shoulders, then pulled her tightly into his side. After a moment, she relaxed, suddenly in need of human contact in this strange new world she had entered. Breathing in his scent, she listened to the lapping waves as she tried to make sense of his frightening revelations. Eventually, she could stand the silence no longer and pulled away from Kit’s embrace.
“I’m cold,” she said, standing up. “We should go back to the house.”
Kit scrambled to his feet and she deftly folded the picnic rug, tucking it under her arm. “Don’t suppose you brought a torch?” she asked, and he pulled one from his pocket.
“You get used to having a torch handy when you live in the countryside.”
“Come on, then,” she said and set out through the trees back to Marquess House.
Kit hurried after her, the powerful beam of yellow light guiding them. “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked as he padded along by her side.
“What do you want me to say, Kit?” she asked. “You’ve just told me there’s a government department whose sole aim is to kill me and my sister because of something my grandmother discovered. You’ve also told me this same department murdered my mother, even though they were aiming for my grandmother. It’s because of this terrible accident that not only did I lose my mother but I also lost my grandmother because, after Mum’s death, we never saw Mary again. How do I even begin to respond?”
Pushing her hair from her face, Perdita strode away from Kit, drawn now by the glimmers of the decorative lighting that brought the Marquess House gardens alive at night. In the distance, she could hear the fountains and a clanging from an artisan blacksmith working late in the artist’s studios. An owl hooted in the distance and, as Perdita rounded the corner, she saw light spilling from the open kitchen door. Breaking into a run, she was inside within moments. Sarah looked up, startled, “What’s the matter?” she asked, leaving the hob and its bubbling pots to gather Perdita into her arms in a maternal hug.
“Kit’s told me what really happened to Mum,” she said, gulping back a sob. “He said she was murdered…” her voice faltered and faded to nothing. She looked around, her eyes full of the distress and confusion that was now hitting her after Kit’s startling revelations.
“Oh, sweetheart, come and sit down.”
They were alone in the kitchen and Sarah pushed Perdita onto a chair at the long table that would soon be groaning with food.
“Your mother was my best friend,” said Sarah, squeezing Perdita’s hand before sliding a box of tissues along the scrubbed wooden surface and sitting beside her. “You may not know this, but I’m your and Piper’s godmother.”
“Are you?” gulped Perdita through her tears, surprise in her voice. “Dad said we’d never been christened.”
“You were, here, in the chapel,” sighed Sarah. “The reception was in the grounds, it was a lovely day.”
Perdita hunched her shoulders, as though trying to shrug off everyone and everything she had seen or heard that day. When she did not speak, Sarah continued, “Even now, I find it difficult to speak about Lou’s death. It was a shocking and tragic day. Louisa was one of the most caring, beautiful women in the world.” Perdita had dropped her head into her hands, so Sarah kept speaking, “Everything Mary and James did was to protect you and Piper. Don’t be angry with them. Giving you up was the darkest and most desperate moment of your grandmother’s life. Remember, Perdita, those bastards are still sitting in their snug Whitehall office, thinking they’ve got you where they want you. Direct your anger and your rage at them, not at your grandmother and your father. Finish what Mary started, find the truth and tell as many people as possible what you’ve discovered in as many ways as you can.”
Perdita looked up startled, this was the last thing she had imagined Sarah would say.
“Oh, don’t worry, Sarah,” she said, her voice suddenly steely
. “I have no intention of hiding here. They stole our lives and, whatever Granny discovered, Piper and I will do our utmost to prove it’s the truth. If we can’t publish through traditional means, we have the internet, which wasn’t available to my grandmother at the time she wrote the manuscript. I think it’s time MI1 Elite realised they’ve got a fight on their hands and, no matter how dirty they play, we’ll play dirtier and we will win.”
Chapter Three
“So, what do we know?” asked Perdita, standing in front of the whiteboard in her office in The Dairy. Her hand was poised holding a purple marker pen, waiting to begin what she viewed as her ‘war’ with MI1 Elite.
It was four days since Alistair had revealed the existence of this frightening organisation and since then, Perdita had made many decisions. On the evening of Alistair’s revelation, she and Piper had discussed it at length and agreed they needed to be together.
“But go to Gemma’s first,” Perdita had insisted. “Alistair said it would be safe, then you can come home.”
Despite the fact that Alistair had insisted he arrange a discreet bodyguard to tail her during her time in Florence, and this was making Piper vacillate between hysterical laughter and silent fury, she had agreed.
“But you need to speak to Alistair,” Piper had insisted before she vanished from the screen.
“Kit has told you then?” Alistair had said when Perdita had arrived unannounced in his office the following morning.
“Yes, Piper and I talked about it last night,” she had said. “If we put Mary’s manuscript back in the box and walked away, do you think it would stop MI1 targeting us? Dad and Granny Mary made huge sacrifices to keep us safe and, while I’d love to take on MI1 in a face-to-face battle, I don’t want to let them down. By restarting the investigation into Mary’s manuscript, I feel as though I am.”
The Catherine Howard Conspiracy Page 31