The Plantagenet Vendetta (3 page)

Jen walked back along the high street and returned to her Kia Picanto. According to the clock on the dashboard, it was now 10:20am.

It seemed incredible the interview had lasted only ten minutes.

She booted up the SatNav and typed in the name of the hotel. The White Boar, she thought to herself.

Sounded quaint.

The SatNav confirmed the hotel was only 0.4 of a mile away, convenient, all things considered. She guessed it would be too early to check in, but she figured it was worth a try.

Jen started the car and drove slowly along the high street, taking in the sights as she passed. A small gathering of tourists frequented the ice cream shop on the corner of one of the side streets, while others checked out the boutiques. Outside the newsagent’s, a group of young adults, perhaps hikers, sat drinking at an outside bench, clearly enjoying the sunshine.

The village had apparently been something of a minor tourist hotspot, at least prior to the last year. Tudor, Jacobean and Georgian architecture abounded, the black and white exteriors reflecting the warm sun as it blazed down. Most of the shops were small, privately owned and open – impressive considering the financial climate. She liked the way the street was devoid of household names and big chains.

Visually, she guessed not much had changed in a hundred years.

She followed the SatNav’s instructions and turned left along a side street and immediately crossed over a bridge.

The setting left her speechless. The river flowed at speed, passing rocks and pebbles as it accelerated downstream. A large medieval church was located just up the road, surrounded by a well-maintained churchyard. Further afield, mile upon mile of rolling hillside soaked up the sunlight, the grass a radiant shade of untainted green.

She smiled to herself.

The North York Moors at their finest.

The White Boar Inn was located on the left side of the road, almost immediately after the bridge. Like most buildings in the village, it was black and white, and obviously historic. The inn’s logo hung from a freestanding post: a white pig with a slightly comical expression
and dating the inn’s establishment to 1471.

Jen locked her car and entered the inn through the main doors, carrying her suitcase. She was used to staying in a campervan from her time at Discovery, so potentially this was a step up.

The inn was quiet, if not deserted. She explored the area near the entrance before heading along the nearest corridor. Somewhere nearby she heard the sound of quiet chatter and furniture being moved.

She continued along the corridor, taking in her surroundings. The interior was in keeping with the outside. The walls were white, decorated by artwork, prints and memorabilia, most of which dated from the previous two centuries. As usual in such places, the main theme was history.

Which as a history graduate, she liked.

The bar was located at the end of the corridor: a two-sectioned layout with lots of ale on tap, plenty of wooden tables and chairs, and an original fireplace. A list of specials was written on the chalkboard, including everything from scampi to pies, priced at anything between £4.25 and £13.99.

The bar gave off a relaxed, airy feel and was deserted apart from a large burly man with a strong forehead and lots of dark hair. She placed him in his late forties.

The man smiled. “Ey up.”

Jen smiled back. “Hi, are you the manager?”

“You’re not the ’ealth inspector, are you?”

She shook her head, confused.

“In that case, yes, I’m the manager.”

Jen laughed, annoyed with herself for not getting the joke.

“Harvey Mitchell. Owner and proprietor. How can I help?”

“Well, I was hoping you might have a room. I appreciate it’s early.”

“Not at all, I’ve got a nice room overlooking the river, or another overlooking the church.”

The river appealed, but her love of history swayed her. “The church sounds perfect. I just love old churches.”

“In that case I’ll see right to it. Tara.”

Almost immediately a young woman came in, aged somewhere around the mid-twenties. She was brunette and very attractive, despite wearing little make-up. She smiled warmly at Jen.

“Take Miss…” He turned. “Sorry, didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Jennifer, Jennifer Farrelly.”

“How do, Miss Farrelly.” The man offered his hand. “Tara’ll show you to the blue room.”

“Follow me, Miss Farrelly.”

Tara Simpson was as pleasant as she appeared, and naturally chatty. Unlike the Harrison mother, it was obvious to Jen that Tara and Harvey had not been traumatised by the events of a year ago. If the press were to be believed, life in Wootton would never be the same again.

In reality, Jen guessed not much had changed.

She followed the barmaid up two flights of stairs and along the corridor to the penultimate room on the right. Tara opened the door with the key, and showed Jen inside.

The room surpassed her expectations. The walls were an appealing mixture of white plaster and wood, illuminated by natural light that entered through two large windows. Most of the furniture was antique, including the bed, a four-poster but without the accompanying railing and curtains.

Jen pressed her hand down on the mattress as she passed. “It’s perfect.”

Tara smiled. “I’m glad you like it. If you need anything, just give us a bell.”

“Thank you.”

Tara closed the door behind her, leaving Jen to examine her surroundings in peace.

The room suited her mood and personality. As in the bar area, a varied selection of local and historical pictures and artwork was displayed on the walls. A 19th-century print of what appeared to be religious ruins, either an abbey or a priory, included a signature, while a similar scene depicted a castle, not quite a motte-and-bailey, but not full-scale Norman either.

The third picture of note was a large manor house, apparently named Wootton Court, evidently a house of some prestige.

She walked across the room, stopping on reaching the windows. The manager was as good as his word. The view was stunning. A large house was situated about two hundred metres away from the church, separated from the churchyard by a red wall.

She guessed it was the presbytery.

She looked across the churchyard, her attention briefly on the graves. Jen assumed the church was the same one where Debra Harrison’s memorial service had taken place. She’d heard a rumour that something had been placed there to honour her.

Even if Debra Harrison wasn’t buried there, she guessed it was the perfect place to start her investigation.

4

Royal College of Physicians, London

The results had come in earlier that morning. Though he was still to check them himself, he knew from his colleague that the outcome was not what they had hoped for.

Unexpected was the term he had used.

The experienced physician double-clicked on the mouse and read the email for the first time. The content was brief; the body of the text itself told him nothing new. Attached was a large pdf, which he scanned quickly.

His colleague was not lying.

The result was unexpected.

The Royal College of Physicians is one of the oldest societies of its type. Originally named the College of Physicians, it was granted a royal charter by Henry VIII in 1518, affirmed by an Act of Parliament five years later.

Its purpose was straightforward: it had been established to grant licences to qualified professionals.

And to punish those who practiced unqualified.

Ten minutes later the physician opened the door of a large room, airy and ornate, one of the finest at the institution. Four large windows overlooked Regent’s Park, while the other walls were decorated with original works of art, mostly concerned with the society’s past. Even those that weren’t were of the same era.

In the centre of the room, four people, all men of prestige, were seated around a large antique table.

The physician entered quickly. “Sorry to have kept you.”

The first man rose to his feet. He wore a dark suit, his expression befitting the occasion.

He was the Home Secretary.

“Time is of the essence, Dr Grant,” he said, pointing to his watch. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you.”

The man next to him was less impressed with the Home Secretary than the physician. He was in his late fifties and had brown hair with hints of grey and a handsome face.

“Come now,” he said, looking reassuringly at the physician. “We all appreciate your time, Maurice. Particularly at such short notice.”

The physician smiled, almost a frown. He knew the man well, in his position it was impossible not to.

The man he addressed was the Duke of York.

And he, the Royal Physician.

The physician carried a printout of the pdf attachment. “I have the results.”

The final two were yet to speak, but their concern was evident from their expressions. One was noticeably younger than the other three. He was thirty-one, lean, with a full head of wavy dark hair that on this occasion appeared slightly rugged.

The second man was of similar features, but thirty years older and dressed far more smartly. A clean-shaven face revealed strong cheekbones and an uncanny resemblance to the young man next to him. He wore a kind expression, but his eyes were piercing and alert. His once brown hair, slowly thinning and partially grey, was neatly combed to a side parting.

His demeanour was royal in every sense of the word.

He was the King of England, Stephen II. Alongside him was another Stephen. Prince Stephen Winchester, now Duke of Cornwall.

Eldest son of the king and future Prince of Wales.

The King leaned forward. “Well, Maurice, let’s hear the worst.”

The physician removed his glasses from his top pocket and immediately began reading the printout. “In accordance with Your Majesty’s orders, the post-mortem was carried out in two stages–”

“Get on with it, man,” the Home Secretary said.

“Don’t interrupt, Heston,” said York.

The Duke of Cornwall smiled at the physician. “What killed him, Dr Grant?”

The physician removed his glasses. “It is still too early to ascertain the exact cause of death, Your Grace,” he replied, this time more tentatively. “However, the autopsy did confirm one thing. The King’s death was not of natural causes.”

A heavy silence descended on the room, almost as if a gun had gone off, leaving all present partially numbed.

The Duke of York was the first to break the silence. “You believe it was poison?”

“At this stage, Your Grace, it would be impossible to say with any certainty–”

“You mean you don’t know?” Heston interrupted.

“Shhh.” The King raised his hand, ordering calm. He leaned forward, his eyes fixed on Grant. “Go on, Maurice.”

“The tests we have conducted so far confirm only what areas of the body were affected. The King’s death,” the physician felt breathless on saying those words, “was a direct result of failure of the heart and lungs. The initial misdiagnosis of heart failure was consistent at least with the reported symptoms.”

All four waited in anticipation.

“Well–” Heston began.

“Minister, please, I’m sick of the sound of your voice,” York shouted.

Heston breathed out deeply and frowned. He swept his grey hair to one side and shuffled for comfort in his seat.

York looked up at Grant. “Well now, old friend, what’s the official verdict?”

The physician resumed, “The results confirm beyond any reasonable doubt that His Majesty died due to failure of the heart and lungs. The damage to the lung tissues is itself confirmation of contamination.” He took a deep breath. “It is the view of all who have studied the results that the King died of an allergic reaction.”

Silence followed. Again York was the first to respond. “You are quite sure?”

“It is the professional opinion of my colleagues–”

“And what do you think?” asked the son of the king.

The physician paused before answering. “Sadly, I feel sure that their assessments and conclusions are correct.”

The three royals looked at one another.

“Who else has seen this?” the son of the king asked.

“Only us present and two of my colleagues.”

The King nodded. “Make sure it stays that way.”

The black limousine pulled up outside the rear entrance of the college. Unlike the famous Rolls, this one was more discreet and unlikely to be recognised. The glass was cleverly tinted, allowing no observation from the outside.

Seconds later the limousine set off, heading toward the palace.