The Plantagenet Vendetta (16 page)

21

Richmond Park, London

The journalist paused on reaching the Isabella Plantation and looked to his left and right.

The scenery was picturesque, but distracting. Everywhere he looked he saw exotic flowers: purple, pink and violet lighting the way like a rainbow.

He started again and stopped, now seriously confused. Richmond Park is officially the largest of London’s royal parks, but it was also the one he knew least well. The instructions he had received earlier that day had been unspecific, but even if he had been given precise directions, following them to the letter would have been almost impossible.

Navigating the 2,300-acre park without a map was like being lost in a maze.

He made it over one of the many footbridges that crossed one of the streams and continued through the woodland.

At that moment his mobile phone began to ring. Momentarily stunned, he looked around in every direction before accepting the call.

“Yes?”

“Keep heading to your left.”

The call terminated immediately, increasing his sense of unease. The feeling of being watched was growing on him, intensified by the unfamiliar surroundings. The sounds on this side of the water were different. The voices of nature had become progressively louder, particularly the echo of hooves.

He figured he was getting close to the deer park.

Apprehensively he followed the caller’s instructions, taking him off the path. Fifty metres on, he saw a bench, one of many.

But the first he’d seen occupied.

The man was old. His skin sagged slightly around his clean-shaven mouth, whereas the rest of his face was hidden behind large sunglasses. He wore a yellow raincoat, despite the fine weather, hiding a smart suit.

The journalist sat down beside him, waiting for some form of acknowledgement. On closer inspection he saw something beneath the man’s right eye.

A scar of some description.

“You understand the penalty should you have been followed?”

The journalist felt his breathing sharpen. “What the bloody hell is this all about?”

The old man folded his arms. “You’ve been writing about the murder of the politicians.”

His articles were common knowledge. “What of it?”

Again the man didn’t reply straight away. He merely looked directly forward.

“You’ve also been speculating about the death of His Majesty the King.”

Again the man was speechless. “And?”

“What would you say if I were to tell you that your suspicions are not far wrong?”

The journalist’s unease was becoming ever greater. “Look, why did you bring me here?”

The old man looked at him for the first time. “Because there are some people among the royals who fail to look beyond the end of their bloody noses.”

Thomas was speechless. As expected, the house concealed its fair share of nooks and crannies, but what they hid was something else.

He removed his iPhone from his pocket and called both Bridges and his father.

22

The sun was still out at 5:30, despite the gathering dark clouds in the distance. The weather was warm, the faintest touch of wind providing relief from the humidity.

For the last two hours Jen had been alone. After passing the castle and saying goodbye to Anthea, she revisited the church and after that the churchyard.

She sat quietly on a wooden bench situated in the highest part of the graveyard. Until now she hadn’t realised just how many graves there were – several hundred at least. Most dated from the 1800s, the writing on most now illegible. A large statue of the Angel Gabriel had been erected close to where she sat, dedicated to the memory of those lost in the two great wars.

Most of the graves close by belonged to war veterans.

Further to her right, the ruins of the old priory stood prevalently behind the wall that surrounded the presbytery. This was the first time she had seen the ruins properly. Strangely they were not open to the public, unlike most. A large archway, probably once a doorway, was laden in ivy and surrounded by three walls, all containing the shapes of smaller archways where windows would once have been.

She guessed she was looking at the old dormitories.

A small animal, probably a fox, was sniffing around the ruins, climbing on one of the walls and staying perfectly still for several seconds. For what seemed like an age, Jen merely sat and watched, simply taking it all in. As a young girl, her parents always took her to visit old ruins. Her grandmother, bless her, was just as passionate. For the first time in a long time, her mind recalled that ancient time: the sights, the smells, the touch, the feelings…life really was simpler back then.

Somehow, it seemed like a different lifetime.

Her second visit to the church had been pleasant, but so far not particularly useful. On exploring the interior, she noticed things she hadn’t taken in the first time, but nothing of any connection to Debra Harrison or the families of prominence.

The biggest surprise was the lack of recognition for the Jeffries family – if that was indeed their real name. According to Anthea, the family had been a central fixture in Wootton’s past, but the physical evidence so far didn’t back that up. Lovells, Catesbys, and Ratcliffes were particularly prominent as she already knew – there were even more buried in the Lady chapel. On initial inspection, there wasn’t a single Jeffries buried in the cemetery.

Strange, considering Anthea had said there were lots of them buried there.

A large, thick, white cloud moved in the western sky, allowing the sun to shine through more brightly. Not for the first time that day Jen regretted not having her sunglasses. Shielding her eyes, her attention turned further to the right, to a series of tombstones beneath an old oak tree. The tree was large, easily the biggest in the churchyard, and heavily branched on either side.

Jen rose to her feet and ventured closer, using her outstretched arms to move the branches. There were six tombstones in all, five looking small and bare, and one much larger and surrounded by iron fencing. Four magpies were perched at the top of it, the largest gathering she had ever seen of that type. Almost immediately two flew off, giving rise to an angry shouting match as they rose into the yellowy sky.

She circled the tomb, looking for any form of writing. She guessed from the style that it was at least three hundred years old, perhaps older.

Finally she found an inscription – the language unmistakeably Latin. As she translated the words in her mind, she realised it was not a tomb but a memorial, shaped in the style of an urn. A large crest marked part of the upper portion, followed by a list of names.

According to the inscription, it had been put up to honour the Yorkists who fell fighting in the Wars of the Roses. Several names were present, many of the same family.

Suddenly she was confused. Although the wording dated the monument to the 1880s, unless her eyes were deceiving her, the leading name was
Plantagenis
.

She laughed to herself, almost in wild amazement.

“Found a long-lost relative?”

The voice came from the lichgate to her left. She heard the sound of the gate closing, followed by footsteps.

A man had appeared, his features veiled in the sunlight. As the figure approached, she could make out he was about six feet in height, with a strong build and good posture.

Jen emerged from behind the branches, trying hard not to embarrass herself escaping the foliage. Inevitably, she failed, catching about a dozen leaves in her new haircut as she caught her head against the branch.

The young man laughed at her. “Believe me, sweetheart, I’ve done the same thing many a time – looking for my long-lost relatives.”

Jen laughed – it was either that or cry. She brushed the leaves out of her hair, worried about the state of her appearance. “I bet not within three hours of having it cut.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Jen looked at the man, studying his appearance. He had fair hair, not quite Swedish or German, but a light shade of blond. He was clean-shaven, including the sideburns, and had bright blue eyes.

“I hope you found him, anyway. Your relative.”

Jen smirked, the sarcasm evident.

If he had been a relation, that would make me the queen.

“I’m not local,” she said. “I’m from London.”

“London. So that’s the noise what’s been coming out your mouth?”

Jen placed her hands to her hips. The man was evidently from Yorkshire, his accent slightly softer than most she had heard recently. She guessed his age was mid-to-late twenties, perhaps the same as her.

“Actually, I’m originally from Edwinstowe.”

“Edwinstowe?”

“In Nottinghamshire.”

“In Nottinghamshire?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I guess Nottinghamshire is kind of north,” the man said, grinning.

“I used to live on the boundary of Sherwood Forest.”

“The boundary of Sherwood Forest?”

“Yes.”

“You know Robin Hood?”

“Not personally.”

“He was from up this way.”

She shook her head, looking away. “I thought he was from Barnsdale.”

“Nah. That was Friar Tuck.”

Jen fought to avoid a smile, but failed. She flicked her hair behind her ears. “Well, you clearly know more than me.”

The stranger lowered his head, his grin widening. “So, I’m guessing from your slightly northern accent and the fact that I’ve never seen you in these parts before, you must be this pretty new girl I’ve been hearing so much about.”

This time she managed a stronger façade. “You’ve heard of me?”

“It’s a small village, Wootton.”

Small village or not, she doubted it. “So you think you know everyone in the village?”

The man shrugged. “Basically. I mean, I’ve lived here my entire life.”

Jen forced a smile. “I’m Jen.”

“I’m guessing that’s short for Miss Farrelly.”

Okay, so you have heard of me.

“And you are?”

“My name is Edward,” he said, offering his hand. “Edward Jeffries.”

This time she managed to avoid laughing. “You live over there, right?” She pointed in the direction of the castle.

He released his hand from hers. “I see nothing gets past you, does it, Miss Farrelly?”

“Do you live there with your family?”

“Just me granddad, really. And his carers – he’s not been well recently.”

She lowered her head. “Sorry.”

“You’re welcome to see it, if you like.”

The perfect summer’s day was interrupted by the rumble of distant thunder. The clouds had darkened, threatening a downpour.

“Perhaps some other time,” Jen said, silently approving of the offer. She knew a trip around Wootton Court might be useful.

“How about tomorrow?”

She smiled. “Yeah, maybe.”

The man smiled, not quite arrogant but not unsatisfied either. He held up his hand as he walked toward the footpath she had walked with Anthea.

“How will I know if you’re in?” Jen shouted.

“It’s quite easy. See we have this thing in Wootton called a doorbell.”

She placed her hands on her hips and blew her hair away from her face.

“Or failing that, you could check the driveway. I’m the one with the Ferrari.”

Jen smiled, walking toward the church.

And I’m the one with the Picanto.

She passed a gravestone and looked instinctively at the name.

She turned. “Hey. How come so few of you are buried here?”

The man with blond hair stopped and turned. “Most of our family live longer because of the vampire gene.”

Again she fought the urge to laugh.

“You’re looking in the wrong place; most families from Ravensfield have their own vault.”

“Ravensfield?”

“That’s technically the name for the village this side of the river.”

She might have guessed.

“Just take the stairs down from the cloisters. It’s through the door.”

“Thanks.”

She followed his advice and headed for the main entrance to the church. There was a notice on the door stating that the evening service would begin at 6:30. That gave her thirty-five minutes – perhaps less than ten before the first arrivals.

The church was deserted, as usual. She walked along the main aisle and through the door to the cloisters. For the first time she noticed a plaque on the wall, in memory of a Sir John Jefryes, apparently buried in the vaults below.

She continued along the cloisters, passing the array of stained-glass windows – the work of the priest’s ancestor, no less. Ignoring the temptation to get sidetracked, she walked down the stone steps that she had seen the priest emerge from the day before, and turned the handle on the door.

It was locked. Or was it? For some reason the door opened toward her, when it looked as if the opposite would be true. Successfully inside, she entered the narrow passage lined on both sides by yellow stone, and lit only by the flickering of dim wall lights. After about ten metres, she came across the first vault, enterable through an open doorway. The name in question was Stanley, a name she had heard on more than one occasion.

Thanks to Anthea, she knew the gist.

After a brief search, she saw that there were a few prominent graves, while most of the others had been buried behind the walls.

Leaving the Stanley vault, she continued in the same direction, passing the vaults of four other families.

The fifth name stood out a mile. Rankin.

Unlike the previous vaults, this door was locked.

She assumed from the modern spelling it was the same family.

She removed her iPhone from her handbag and navigated the options. Incredibly she had a signal, albeit a faint one. She went through her list of contacts, stopping on the newest entry.

She dialled Anthea’s mobile number and immediately received an answer.

“Hey, Jen, what’s up?”

“Hi, Anthea. Nothing really, just at the church. Hey, can I ask you something? Where was Luke Rankin buried?”

“I think he’s buried there.”

Still she struggled to process the find. “I’m just down in the vaults; there’s one down here with the name Rankin.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right, his mum wanted him to be buried in the vault – she thought being buried outside might attract vandals.”

At least that explained why it was locked. “Did he have a funeral?”

“Yeah, but there weren’t that many people there.”

Jen nodded to herself. “Okay, thanks.”

She ended the call and for several seconds just stared at the closed door. Its very existence made no sense to her. Officially, Luke Rankin’s death had been classed as suicide – she had seen the press reports and spoken to the police. He was also an alleged murderer.

Yet he had received a Catholic funeral and burial.

Next was the Catesby vault, followed by those of Ratcliffe and Lovell. All were open, elaborate and ornate, and each threw up surprises.

As expected, there were a number of elaborate graves with effigies – mostly from the 17th and 18th centuries – depicting men dressed in clothing from that time. In the Catesby vault, one name stood out from the rest.

Robert Catesby, died 8th November 1605. Famed leader of the Gunpowder Plot. Originally buried in the church at Holbeach, disinterred on the orders of the Earl of Northampton, buried in this vault 25 January 1892 by bequest of Sir William Catesby, died 1901.

She knew for a fact that the leader of the Gunpowder Plot had met his end in grisly circumstances and had been disinterred as a mark of treachery.

The reinterment amazed her. If nothing else, it seemed incredible that someone kept hold of the body.

Equally astounding, it proved that the current Catesbys were of the same lineage. She wondered how far back they went. As far as she could tell, Robert Catesby was the oldest in the vault – the majority dating back to the 18th
century.

Similar dates were true of Ratcliffe and Lovell.

The Jeffries’ vault was easily found – the next one on from Lovell. Most of the early tombs were more modern, 19th century the most common. Most of the graves were lengthways, with large bronze effigies above the slabs. The inscriptions indicated that the majority had been clergymen or politicians – one rising to a Cabinet minister.

The family motto was displayed prominently, accompanied by an elaborate crest. Like many from the Middle Ages, it was a flower, probably a broom based on what Anthea had told her. Thinking it over, she remembered something about the real thing being yellow. She had seen something similar scattered throughout the graveyard. An ironic thought occurred to her. Anthea wasn’t kidding after all.

The graveyard was full of broomshoots.

She examined the rest of the vault. As expected, there were older tombs: at least one per generation dating back to the mid 1600s.

She read the plaques for each, finding herself fascinated by the stories. Many of them had been knights, and evidently significant landowners. One of the most prominent was a Sir John Jefryes – the same name she had seen mentioned on the plaque in the church and, judging by his effigy, an old man of substantial build. According to the plaque, the man had been notorious in the English Civil War. There were similar reports of two other members of the family: this time for the Glorious and Monmouth risings during the reign of James II. A strange pattern was emerging.

The family had a habit of opposing the monarch.

She headed left, making her way past the other graves. There was a lot of debris and floodwater in this part. The smell was off-putting, as was the appearance. She made her way through the puddles, her attention on the far wall. There was a door in it, surrounded by an exquisite archway.

She had nearly missed it, thanks to the debris.

Moving closer, she felt the door with her hand. It was sturdy – typical of an entrance to a cellar. She turned the handle, but the door didn’t move. She tried again before accepting it was locked. Moving on, she felt the surrounding archway. The stone was smooth, unexpectedly so, the cold sending a chill down her spine.

She concentrated on the area above the door. It was covered in cobwebs and dust that was falling onto her pretty new hairstyle. The Jeffries’ logo had been placed above the door; its appearance suggested it was perhaps 17th century. She guessed that behind the door was another section of the vault.

She looked down at the floor, the area around the rubble, and saw something sparkle, almost like a diamond.

She bent down for a closer look. It was a necklace with a cross, modern but probably inexpensive. On moving the rubble, she saw there was also a camera, a small digital 12-megapixel model, probably worth about £100.

She looked at it, lost for words.

Judging by its condition, it had been there for some time.

Nearby footsteps alarmed her. Seconds later, a figure appeared by the entrance to the vault.

“Everything all right?”

She recognised the voice before recognising the face. “Father Martin.”

“What on earth are you doing down here?”

The question was accompanied by a laugh, yet his tone suggested the area was off-limits.

“I met Edward Jeffries in the graveyard,” she said. “He said that his family vault wasn’t one to be missed.”

The priest relaxed slightly. “He certainly isn’t wrong.”

Jen forced another smile. She placed a hand to her hair, removing cobwebs.

“I was wondering about this door,” she said, gesturing toward it. “Is there something behind it?”

“Apparently it was built for victims of the great plague,” the priest replied.

That was the last thing she had expected. “Can I see it?”

“Unfortunately no. It would be against regulations. Sanitation – you understand.”

She nodded, studying the priest’s expression.

Something had changed.

“Sorry, Father, I hope I’m not keeping you.”

The kind smile returned. “I really must prepare for Mass. It’s twenty-two minutes past.”

Jen looked at the clock on her phone. She had been down in the vaults for nearly thirty minutes.

“Will you be joining us this evening?”

She felt herself on the spot. “Thank you, Father.”

“See you in a few minutes.”

The priest left the vault and continued along the corridor.
Jen, meanwhile, was deep in thought.

“Excuse me, Father,” Jen said, catching him. “I noticed that Luke Rankin was buried down here.”

“Yes.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t realise that was normal.”

The priest was confused. “Normal?”

“I thought the Catholic Church refused to bury people like him in consecrated ground.”

The priest’s expression had become sterner. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Luke Rankin,” Jen said. “He died by committing suicide, surely.”

A pause preceded the reply. “Luke Rankin’s death was a tragedy – for everyone in Wootton. Now, Miss Farrelly, I really must be getting ready.”

Jen stood in silence, literally rooted to the spot. She shook her head.

Was her view of Catholics so out of date?

“Wait,” she said, catching him again. “Are you saying he didn’t commit suicide?”

“Miss Farrelly, please, I really must prepare for Mass.”

Jen watched, almost in disbelief, as the priest made his way toward the cloisters.

Luke Rankin had committed suicide – that was the general consensus. Thanks to Anthea, she knew there were eyewitnesses – she still didn’t know exactly how many – and she had also seen the area where the boy had supposedly died. She knew from talking to Martha, and indirectly from Anthea, that Rankin’s position as murderer was by no means clear cut.

Evidently, the priest must have agreed with that.

Either that or she was missing something.