The King's Deception (30 page)

“It’s all imaginary,” Malone said. “Jane Seymour died at childbirth. She never lived to see Edward that old. He looks around seven or eight.”

“Quite right. On both counts. This was painted, we think, around 1545. Maybe two years before Henry died. It’s a perfect example, though, of how the Tudors thought. This is a dynastic statement about Henry’s legacy. His son, standing next to him, embraced by one arm, is his legitimate heir. His third wife, long dead, still a part of his memory. His other two heirs far off to the side. Present, part of the legacy, but distant. Notice the clothing on Elizabeth and Mary. The jewelry they wear. Their hair, even their faces. Nearly identical. As if it were unimportant to distinguish them. What was important was his son, who takes center stage with the king.”

“This is the Haunted Gallery,” Malone said, looking around.

“You know this place?”

“The chapel entrance is there, into the royal pew. Supposedly, when Katherine Howard was arrested for adultery she fled the guards and ran through here, into the chapel, where Henry was praying. She pleaded for mercy, but he ignored her and she was taken away and beheaded. Her ghost, dressed in white, is said to walk this hall.”

Tanya smiled. “In far more practical terms, this was the place where courtiers would lie in wait to be seen by the king on his way to the chapel. But the tour guides love the ghost tale. I especially like
the addition of the white gown. Of course, Queen Katherine was anything but pure.”

“We need to know about what Miss Mary discussed with you,” Malone said.

“I must say, I was fascinated by what she told me. Elizabeth was so different from Henry’s other children. None of them lived long, you know. His first wife, Katherine of Aragon, miscarried several times before giving birth to Mary. Anne Boleyn the same, before producing Elizabeth. Edward, the son by Jane Seymour, died at fifteen. Henry also birthed several illegitimate children, none of whom ever reached age twenty.”

“Mary, his firstborn, lived to be what—forty?” Malone asked.

“Forty-two. But sickly all of her life. Elizabeth, though, died at seventy. Strong until the end. She even contracted smallpox here, at Hampton Court, nine months into her reign and recovered.”

More people entered the Haunted Gallery. Tanya motioned for them to hug the windows and allow the visitors to pass.

“It’s exciting to have people so interested in these matters. They are not often discussed.”

“I can see why,” Malone said. “The subject matter is … bizarre.”

“Blooming nuts,” Kathleen said. “That describes it better.”

Tanya smiled.

“Tell us what you know,” Malone said. “Please.”

“Mary said you might be an impatient one. I can see that now.”

“You spoke to your sister again last night?” Malone asked.

“Oh, yes. She called to tell me what happened and that you had seen to her safety. That I appreciate, by the way.”

More people passed them by.

“Mary is the timid one. She runs her bookshop and keeps to herself. Neither one of us has ever been married, though mind you, there were opportunities for us both.”

“Are books your passion, too?” Malone asked.

She smiled. “I am half owner of Mary’s store.”

“And Elizabeth I is a subject you’ve studied?”

Tanya nodded. “In minute detail. I feel as if she is a close friend. It’s a shame that every written account that has survived describes
her as not a womanly queen, but masculine in many ways. Did you know that she often spoke of herself as a man, dressing more in the style of her father or the lords of the time than the women? Once, at the baptism of a French princess, she chose a man as her proxy, which would have been unheard of then. When she died, no autopsy was allowed on her body. In fact, no one but a select few were permitted to touch her. During her life she refused to allow doctors to physically examine her. She was a thin, unbeautiful, lonely person with a nearly constant energy. Totally opposite of her siblings.”

Kathleen pointed back to the painting on the wall. “She looks like a lovely young woman there.”

“A fiction,” Tanya said. “No one sat for that painting. Henry’s likeness comes from a famous Holbein portrait that, at the time, hung in Whitehall Palace. As Mr. Malone correctly noted, Jane Seymour was long dead. The three children were almost never in the same locale. The painter drew from memory, or from sketches, or from other portraits. Elizabeth was rarely painted prior to assuming the throne. We have little to no idea what she looked like before age twenty-five.”

She recalled what Eva Pazan had told her yesterday about the Mask of Youth. “And what she looked like later in life is in question, too.”

“Goodness, yes. In 1590 she decreed that she would be forever young. All other images of her were destroyed. Only a few have survived.”

“So it’s possible that she may have died early in life,” Malone asked, “as Bram Stoker wrote?”

“It would make sense. All of her siblings, save one, did. Elizabeth dying at age twelve or thirteen would be entirely consistent.”

Kathleen wanted to ask about what it was that Bram Stoker wrote—Malone had failed to mention that nugget before—but knew better. The name was familiar. The author of
Dracula
. So she made a mental note to pass that information on to Mathews.

Tanya motioned for them to leave the Haunted Gallery, which they did through a doorway that led into the baroque sections of the palace—commissioned, she noted, by William and Mary. The tenor
and feel of everything changed. Tudor richness was replaced with 17th-century Georgian plainness. They entered a room identified as the Cumberland Suite, decorated with chairs of richly patterned velvet, gilt-wood mirrors, candlesticks, and ornate tables.

“With George II, this was where his second son, William, the Duke of Cumberland, stayed. I’ve always loved these rooms. Colorful, with a playful feel.”

Two windows opened from the outer wall and a pedimented alcove held a small bed covered in red silk. Baroque paintings in heavy frames hung from the walls.

“Mary said that you read Bram Stoker’s chapter on the Bisley Boy,” Tanya said. “Stoker was the first, you know, to actually write about the legend. Interestingly, his observations were largely ignored.”

Kathleen made a further note. That book was obviously important, too.

“I brought something for you to see,” Tanya said. “From my own library.”

The older woman produced a smartphone and handed it to Malone.

“That’s an image from a page I made this morning. It’s an account from the day Elizabeth I died.”

“I see you’ve gone high-tech,” Malone said, adding a slight smile.

“Oh, these devices are marvelous. Mary and I both use them.”

Malone increased the image size and they were able to read.

She and Malone glanced up from the screen, both amazed.

“Quite right,” Tanya said. “That last sentence is meaningless, except if you know, or suspect.”

“When was this written?” Malone asked.

“1929. In a biography of Elizabeth that I have always admired.”

What had the writer meant?

Her secret inviolate
.

“Mary asked me specifically to show you that. She and I have spoken on this subject before. She always told me I was foolish to consider such a thing. But now I hear that the two of you may have new information on this great mystery.”

Malone found the sheets he’d printed out at the Churchill, from the flash drive, and handed them to Tanya.

“Take a look at these.”

Malone faced Kathleen. “Keep an eye out here. I have to make a quick call to Antrim.”

She nodded her assent and Malone left the Cumberland Suite, heading back out to the busy gallery beyond. When he was gone Kathleen asked Tanya, “Are you saying that there is a real possibility that Elizabeth I was an imposter?”

“I have no idea. But I do know that the Bisley Boy legend is one of long standing. I think others, like the author of the passage you just read, suspected and wondered, but were too timid to say it. Bram Stoker, to his credit, did say it. Of course, he was ridiculed for his assertion. The press was not kind.
Tommyrot
, I believe, is how
The New York Times
described the theory in its review of his book.”

“But is this real?”

“From these notes Mr. Malone has just given me it seems others now believe it to be.”

She’d learned all she could.

Time to act.

She relieved Tanya of the pages. “I need these. I want you to wait here until Malone comes back.”

“And where are you going?”

She’d already noticed that there was but one way in and out of these rooms—the same way Malone had gone. But there were fair numbers of people milling about. Enough for cover.

“This is official SOCA business.”

“Mary said you were the impetuous type, as well.”

“I can also be the arresting type. So stay here and be quiet.”

A
NTRIM MADE THE CALL FROM THE BOOTH IN THE PUB
. H
E’D
eaten his burger and chips and decided on the direct approach. His watch read 10:40
AM
, which made it 5:40
AM
in Virginia. Of course the CIA operations center never slept and his call was routed to the director of counter-operations, his immediate supervisor and the only person besides the director of Central Intelligence who could give him an order.

“It’s done, Blake,” his boss said. “We tried to stop the Scots from going public, but they were hell-bent. The deal is made. They’re just fine-tuning details while they warm up public opinion.”

“That killer should die in jail.”

“We all agree. Unfortunately, he’s not our prisoner.”

“I’ll shut down things here.”

“Do that. And fast.”

“What about our fatality?”

“I don’t see any way to investigate that without alerting the wrong people. It could have been the Brits. Probably was. But it could have been somebody else. Doesn’t matter anymore. The death will have to stand as unaccountable.”

That meant the family would be told only that the agent died in the line of duty, serving his country—not where, or when, or how,
just that it happened—and a star would be added to the wall at Langley. Last he could recall there were over a hundred stars. Doubtful any name would be noted in the Book of Honor that sat just beneath. Only those agents who’d been compromised in death were recorded there. Not that he really cared. In fact, letting all of this fade away suited his needs perfectly.

“I’ll have it ended by tonight,” he said.

“This was crazy from the start,” his boss said. “But hey, sometimes long shots play out.”

“I did my best.”

“No one is blaming you. Though I’m sure there will be some here who’ll try. It was imaginative and, if it’d worked, a stroke of genius.”

“It may be time for me to go,” he said, laying the groundwork for what he had in mind.

“Don’t be so hasty. Think about that. Don’t beat yourself up so bad.”

Not the reaction he’d expected.

“I hated losing this one,” he said.

“We all do. We’re going to look like idiots when that transfer happens. But it’s one we’re going to have to live with.”

He ended the call.

Operation King’s Deception was over. He’d first dismiss the two other agents, then shut down the warehouse himself, handing over everything to Daedalus. Then he’d receive the remainder of his money. By then, with any luck, Cotton Malone would have tragically died. Not a thing would point his way, so Gary would naturally gravitate to him.

They’d bond.

Become close.

Father and son.

Finally.

He thought of Pam Malone.

Screw you
.

M
ALONE WAITED FOR HIS PHONE TO BOOT UP
. H
E’D INTENTIONALLY
left it off to avoid being tracked and realized that for the next few minutes he’d be vulnerable. But he had to talk to Stephanie Nelle. When he’d left the breakfast table earlier at the Churchill he’d not only visited the hotel’s business center but also called Atlanta, waking her from sleep. Though he was no longer one of her twelve Magellan Billet agents he was doing the U.S. government a favor, and she’d told him last night, during their call about Antrim, that she was there if needed.