The Plantagenet Vendetta (30 page)

Caroline panicked. She attempted to follow her cousin, but that was impossible in high heels.

Across the road, the biker was revving up and preparing to make his getaway. Practically in tears, she returned to the car, throwing her heels on the front seat. The engine started immediately, and seconds later she was away.

Thomas returned to the apartment the same way he had left it. Stephen was in the kitchen, kneeling down alongside the second shooter. While the apartment itself was quiet, the high-pitched tone of the nearby sirens was becoming progressively louder. In London, it was never obvious exactly what that meant.

“Did you call 999?”

“Of course not.”

Thomas knelt down alongside him. The second shooter was now topless, his upper body covered in blood.

“He needs medical attention.”

“I don’t need a second opinion to tell me he’s dead.”

Thomas remained silent. The adrenalin was pumping so hard it was affecting his thinking. Without question the man’s blood flow had stopped, except for a slight oozing from the actual wound.

There were markings beneath the blood, somewhere around the collarbone.

It was the same thing he had seen on both the friar and the man he had shot at Middleham.

“Have you checked his b-belongings?” Thomas asked.

Stephen showed him a small white package contained within a plastic bag. “I found this in his pocket.”

It looked like pieces of meat.

Outside, the whining of a siren had become louder.

He looked at Stephen. “Come on. The King will kill us himself if we’re seen.”

The first squad of policemen made their entrance on the south side. The lobby was undamaged, despite being a mess.

They had heard reports that the explosion had come from the unfinished top floor.

They proceeded up the indoor stairway, lined up two ranks at a time. The sixth floor was an even greater mess, particularly the far end. Though the dust had settled, evidence of the reported explosion was clear. Even from a distance, it looked like a bomb had done the damage. The hole in the wall was clean, far too clean for it to have been an accident. According to the manager of the building company in charge of the construction, although most of the apartments had been sold, they were still to be lived in.

Strange, then, reports of an explosion at one of them.

The squad scattered on reaching the living room, some heading left, others right.

The body was found in the kitchen. Two gun wounds to the upper chest were evident; it was estimated he had been dead for between ten and twenty minutes.

But there was one peculiarity that no one expected. Above the higher of the two wounds, below the left shoulder, the flesh was missing. It was not part of the original wound – that would have been impossible.

No question, the skin had been cut away with a knife.

The princes had escaped down the fire escape and were now heading east along the river.

Stephen carried a bag of ice in his gloved hand, taken from the freezer.

“I suppose I should congratulate you – it’s not often you have an idea as good as this.”

Thomas answered while sprinting. “Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?”

“Remind me, what was the point in removing the man’s tattoo?”

“It was the same as on the one I shot the other night. And the friar.”

Stephen was becoming breathless. “Did you keep that as a souvenir, too?”

“If the press were to see it, it would only be a matter of t-time before someone blew this wide open.”

Stephen’s tank was now empty. “Okay, okay…that’s far enough.”

Thomas also came to a halt. They had made it well over a mile. As best they could tell, they were alone. Traffic in the distance was the only noise.

The sirens had stopped.

Stephen was standing with his hands placed just above his knees, his breathing laboured. “Would you mind telling me what the bloody hell that was all about?”

Thomas didn’t know how to explain it. “They b-both had the s-same tattoo.”

“So what? For all we know, they were both in the same gang in prison.”

Thomas shook his head. “I don’t think so. It was the symbol of the House of York. I think it might be relevant.”

Stephen remained sceptical.

“Perhaps we can get someone in the lab to have a look at it.”

Stephen sought to reply, but the ringing of his mobile phone cut him off.

“Hello?

“Caroline? Where are–

“You’re where?”

“Give me that.” Thomas snatched the phone. “Caroline, what’s happened?”

“I lost him two minutes ago. I made a note of the bike’s registration and reported it to your father. It’s currently being tracked as we speak.”

“Good girl, Caroline.”

“I might be able to catch him again when I get out of London. It looks as if he’s heading north.”

Thomas waited until she had finished. “Try to stay with him. F-far as you can.”

“Will do. I told your father as much as I knew. They’re sending a car to pick you up. Don’t worry; I didn’t drop you in it.”

Thomas laughed. “Thanks.”

“They’ll pick you up at Maryon Park.”

“Maryon Park is fine, th-thank you.”

Thomas hung up and returned the phone to Stephen.

“Why the hell do we have to go all the way to Maryon Park?”

“Trust me, the f-farther away we are from this, the better.”

42

All of the lights were off in the presbytery; at least that was how it looked from the outside. The grounds were deserted, as usual, the priory ruins barely visible beyond the far wall.

There was no danger of surveillance – of that Jen was sure. Her earlier visit, though hardly a reconnaissance mission, had been useful in that regard. The building itself was the opposite of ultramodern – the only thing that prevented it from being antique was the fact that the interior was not even interesting.

It was just plain old.

She took Anthea as far as the main gate and stopped. The air was still, the light fading, the atmosphere quiet as the grave. Speaking of which, the nearby church was forlorn and silent, even the rooks had grown tired of crowing. There was nothing to disturb the security light that had plagued them the night before. Perhaps it was too early in any case. Either way, they were alone and undisturbed.

The question was, how alone?

Jen surveyed the presbytery from the gate. The house looked dark, but she knew it was still light enough outside to prevent her from being certain.

“His car’s missing,” Jen said – a guess rather than a statement of fact.

“He’s probably visiting the orphanage; he usually does that on a Wednesday about eight.”

That was all she needed.

Jen opened the gate and walked along the pathway, heading toward the house. She rang the doorbell to ensure that there was no one in.

Anthea was nervous.

Two rings later and still no response.

That settled it.

The priory was located to the north of the church and east of the presbytery. A second wall separated it from the presbytery grounds, enterable via a locked gate. In its heyday, the red walls that surrounded the grounds had not been there; instead, moderately sized Romanesque buildings continued across the graveyard and were attached to the church via the cloisters.

Jen stopped by the gate. It was evident from its appearance that this one was older than the first.

“Do you have the key?”

Anthea passed her mother’s keys to Jen, unsure which was the one she wanted.

Jen tried them, but clearly none worked.

She walked along the wall, looking for a way in. There was a tree near the wall, easy to climb.

Jen went first, using the branches to reach the top of the wall. The drop was about four metres.

Seconds later they were over.

Jen led the way across the grounds to the ruins. What little remained was hidden among a luxuriant growth of trees, the walls littered with occasional ivy. What remained of the chapter house – a large Gothic opening, now dilapidated and itself laden with greenery – was now the greatest evidence that the priory once had a heyday. To Jen, it was almost impossible to think that this stone skeleton, now little more than a memory of life, was once a thriving, bustling hub of activity. In her mind, she attempted to imagine it as it had been: according to Lovell, the home of over thirty Dominican friars.

The remainder of the priory’s story, she did not know. As far as she was aware, no one knew – at least no one living. In the 19th century, Turner had painted it; in the early 20th century, Francis Gasquet had written about it.

But the rest belonged to time itself. Even since the era of the watercolour, much of what was once there had itself been reclaimed by the elements.

For once, Jen had a good idea where she was going. The image on the camera confirmed that the entrance to the secret vault, if that was indeed what it was, would be found in an area overgrown with greenery near the former dormitories. The building itself had practically disappeared, the outline of a large window the main exception.

As the wall ended and the next one started at a right angle to the left, she recognised the image exactly. The light was now going, whereas the photograph had been taken in broad daylight, but the similarities were evident: the height of the wall, the layout of the stone…

The only thing missing at present was the entrance.

“Jen, look.”

Jen turned. There was a small structure located between the trees, evidently what had once been a grotto.

“Look.”

The stones were grey and jagged, but on the whole well built.

“What?”

“Look.”

Jen had no idea what she was looking for. She moved closer to the grotto and continued all the way around.

Finally she caught on. There was something beneath it that was not grass – it looked like an iron grille.

Jen checked the images on the camera. One clearly showed the wall of the old chapter house, the second something similar.

There was nothing of the grotto.

She could feel the frustration boiling within her. She followed the wall all the way around and then back again.

Nothing matched what she was looking for.

She returned to the grotto and then through the trees. For the first time she noticed a circular outline in the grass.

“This had once been a well.”

Jen got down on her knees and felt the outline with her hands. The grass was longer here – at least two and a half inches in height. She could feel detail, unquestionably stone. She reasoned that it had once been part of the well, but the upper part had since been dismantled.

The centre of the well was now grass.

She rose again to her feet, heading for the wall that separated the ruins from the churchyard. The vegetation was rugged, the red brick covered with moss, ivy, and vines coming down from the other side.

“Jen.”

The call was loud and excited.

Anthea was pointing at the wall that separated the ruins from the cloisters of the church.

Jen advanced slowly, the greenery so thick she could barely make out the wall.

She felt herself stumble. Though the ground was rugged, it didn’t take long for her to realise what had caused her to fall.

The ground beneath her was descending.

The stairway had clearly been part of the former priory.

Jen grabbed the rugged vegetation in front of her and tried her best to move it. She made progress, not enough to see everything but enough to start her way down.

She progressed down twelve steps before coming up against something solid. She activated the flashlight facility on her iPhone and shone it all around.

There was a passageway heading to the right.

“Come on.”

43

The car picked the princes up at Maryon Park as prearranged, and took them south, then west along the Old Kent Road. They dropped the driver back home on the way, telling him to take the rest of the night off.

How things had changed since the days of the royal coachmen.

Thomas took over the driving and pulled up in a large car park near a department store. There was a café nearby, quiet and secluded.

The perfect place to think.

Their identities disguised with baseball caps and padded windproof jackets, they went into the café. Thomas ordered a tea and a coffee before joining Stephen at a two-seater table near a window. About a minute later, the same person who took the order brought over the tray.

“One tea and one coffee,” he said, placing the drinks in front of Thomas and Stephen.

“Thank you,” Thomas said.

Stephen watched the waiter leave, thankful he didn’t recognise them. He ripped open the sachet of sugar and poured it into his tea.

“Could do with this.” The first sip, his face displayed his disgust. “It tastes like something out of the Thames.”

“Is that really all you can think about?”

Stephen placed the cup down on the table. “What would you rather I think about? How we nearly got obliterated?” He wiped his mouth. “What the hell happened?”

Thomas shook his head. “Believe me, I’ve been asking myself the very s-same question.”

He took the first sip of his coffee. His cousin was not wrong.

The taste was horrendous.

“The explosion was activated from the inside,” Thomas affirmed, “manual detonation.”

“Really, Thomas, how can you be so certain?”

“Before the explosion I heard a f-fizzing sound. Now that could only happen when one substance is added to another. The qu-question is what.”

“I have an even better question: who did it and why?”

Thomas bit his lip.

Stephen took another sip of tea. “And here’s another one: how did they know we were coming?”

Thomas turned to his left, looking outside the window. It was getting dark, the street illuminated in the orange glow of the streetlamps. Cars passed at regular intervals, left and right.

Turning to his right, Thomas’s attention was drawn to a wall-mounted chrome rack holding a number of national and local newspapers.

The front page of the
London Chronicle
caught his eye.

He left his seat, picked it up and examined a banner headline.

“Duke of York victim of assassination attempt…”

Stephen was furious. “Give me that.”

He scanned the early lines.

“The Duke of York, 57, was declared to be in a stable condition after falling ill while dining…a spokesman for the palace claimed the duke had suffered a mild heart attack…”

There was a second article.

“Assassination attempt linked with the murder of politicians…”

Stephen threw the paper down on the table. “How the hell did they know all this?”

Thomas was equally lost for words. He picked up the paper and began reading the second article. While the one on the duke was extremely short, the breaking news on the front page, the second article was far longer and continued on pages four and five.

Thomas was horrified. “According to an insider, the R-Royal Family have long been p-plagued by the threats of a m-malicious operation. They r-refused to comment on reports that the m-murders of the politicians were themselves c-connected to the death of King James III, who p-passed away less than four weeks ago.”

Stephen snatched the paper for a second time, his face registering his fury.

“How dare they print this!”

Thomas took a deep breath, also struggling to control his anger. “Who was the journalist?”

Stephen checked. “Neil Atkins.”

“I suggest we pay him a visit.”