The Plantagenet Vendetta (31 page)

44

The way was shut. Judging by the condition of the bars, it had been for some time.

Jen attempted to open the gate. As far as she could tell, there was no lock on it, but the evidence of rust, particularly around the hinges, made it obvious she was in for a challenge.

She tried shaking it, pushing it and pulling it. Pulling it worked, but slowly. A couple of minutes later she had opened it about eighteen inches – not a lot, but enough to get through.

The passageway wound from left to right. The walls were made of stone on either side, as was the ceiling, cold but relatively smooth. Judging by its appearance, it had been constructed in the Middle Ages, almost certainly at the same time as the priory. The ground beneath them was solid and complete rather than made up of slabs.

Whatever it was, it had been built to last.

Jen shone the light in front of her. There were cobwebs everywhere, particularly on the ceiling. She could feel them touching the side of her face as she walked.

“I hate spiders, I hate spiders, I hate them, I hate them, I hate them…”

An open doorway on the left revealed a chamber. There were objects inside, possibly tombs.

She shone the light in the middle of the chamber.

“Paupers’ graves,” Jen guessed. Whatever it was, it was in too dilapidated a state to know for sure.

Standing by the doorway, Anthea was nervous. “Don’t touch anything. You might catch something.”

Jen doubted that.

Nevertheless, she decided to move on.

The passageway contained four similar burial chambers. In each case there were only a handful of tombs, all of which were ruined. As far as she could see, there were no names on the outside.

Whoever was buried there, it was unlikely they were people of prominence.

The sixth chamber was different, the archway curiously elaborate, as was the interior. The style was Romanesque, with writing above the door, illegible after centuries of wear.

There were several graves, all of which had an effigy atop the slab. Jen wandered around the left side of the room while Anthea took the right. There were puddles and debris on the floor.

It was unclear where the water had come from.

Anthea walked alongside the grave with the largest effigy. “There’s writing here.”

“What’s it say?”

“I don’t know; I can’t read Latin.”

Jen decided to look for herself. She shone the torch on the verge.

“There but for the grace of God…Edward Stanley, died 1566.”

The others were also Stanleys of the same era.

Jen allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts. “The dates are getting older; we must be getting closer.”

They passed two more chambers, neither of which seemed to contain anything physical. For the first time Jen considered the possibility that there was actually something in the priest’s plague victims’ story, at least indirectly. The graves were old and heavily weathered. If there was any truth in it, most likely they were from the 14th century rather than the 17th.

Nevertheless, she was still to find anything that old.

The evidence came in the next chamber, the largest so far. The roof was vaulted, reminiscent of catacombs.

Whatever it was, it had clearly been built for a specific purpose.

There were tombs everywhere, arranged in some kind of order. Most of them lined the walls: they were short, flat, and contained some kind of symbol on the top. The light from their phones revealed it was a long cross, with Calvary steps at the base.

“This is where the friars are buried.”

“How can you tell?” Anthea asked, joining her from across the room.

“It’s obvious from the symbol,” Jen said. “Only a cleric or someone of a monastic order can be buried with a long cross and botonny base. It depicts Christ’s death on Calvary.”

There were more graves in the centre of the chamber, these containing an effigy on top of the slab. There was also writing along the verge.

“Reginald, prior of St Michael’s, died 1384.”

It took several seconds for the find to sink in. The grave was nearly seven hundred years old.

“Wow.”

Jen finished her inspection of the elaborate tombs. Once done, she moved on to the ones lining the walls. She finished at the far wall, opposite where they had entered the chamber. She concluded that the surrounding graves were those of the friars, while the ones in the centre, the more prominent graves, belonged to the priors.

The chamber contained a further doorway, this one even larger, leading in the same direction.

Jen sensed that this was the one she had been looking for.

At 9:45 Father Martin’s Vauxhall Corsa made its way along the driveway, heading toward the presbytery. It was getting dark outside, the ruins of the priory nearly invisible.

He entered the presbytery through the front door and punched in the four-digit code to deactivate the alarm.

Something was wrong. Though he had entered the code correctly, a second red light was still flashing. He had seen it only once before – exactly a year ago.

Someone had entered the restricted vault.

45

The editor of the
London Chronicle
was still in his office after 10pm. Most of the journalists had gone home, and he knew that his floor was deserted.

It was something of a surprise when he heard two lots of heavy footsteps approaching his office.

The princes entered side by side, Stephen carrying a copy of the
Chronicle
. Thomas knocked, but both entered without invite.

“Care to explain this?” Stephen asked. He threw the paper down on the desk.

The editor was gobsmacked. He recognised the Duke of Cornwall, but not the person with him.

“Well?”

The editor remained seated, merely staring.

“How dare you write this sort of thing about my family!”

Thomas, meanwhile, monitored the editor from across the desk. He was bearded, brown haired, and aged probably somewhere between fifty and sixty. It looked as if the man had endured quite a long day.

“Mr Symons,” Thomas said, attracting his attention, “my name is Thomas Winchester, son of the Duke of Clarence–”

“How on earth did you know that the duke had been taken unwell?” Stephen interrupted. “I demand to know your source!”

“Mr Symons–” Thomas began.

“The duke is aware of the article and has already consulted his lawyers.” Stephen pointed his finger at the editor. “I swear to God–”

“Stephen, please…Mr Symons,” Thomas spoke only to the editor, “you have an opportunity here to make the best of a bad situation. Where is Mr Atkins?”

The editor remained speechless.

“Mr Symons.”

The man made eye contact with Thomas for the first time. His expression was gaunt and clearly overwhelmed.

“Mr Symons. Where is Atkins?”

“He-he’s gone for the day,” the editor finally muttered. “Be in tomorrow.”

“We must see him tonight. What is his address?”

The man, clearly stunned by the unexpected presence of his high-profile visitors, made no reply.

“WHAT IS HIS ADDRESS?” Stephen demanded.

The editor scrambled for his mouse. “It’s here, somewhere…” After a few seconds he started feverishly checking his desk drawers before returning his attention to the computer.

He found the address listed in a staff database.

Thomas wrote it down on a piece of paper. “Come on.”

From behind his desk, the editor watched with a blank expression as the son of the Duke of Clarence left the office.

“You’re, you’re not going to hurt him?”

Stephen delayed his exit. “Take a good look around, editor. After all, you never know when it might be your last.”

Thomas grabbed Stephen’s arm. “Come on.”

He looked back at the editor and could see that the man was close to tears.

“Thank you, Mr Symons.”

Thomas and Stephen left the building via the staircase and through the electronic doors that led out onto the street. Like a number of other London newspapers, the
Chronicle
’s headquarters was in the London Borough of Tower Hamlets. The journey from the Old Kent Road had taken less than twenty minutes through the Rotherhithe Tunnel.

Judging from Atkins’ address, the next journey would be about the same.

They had parked on the main road, about fifty metres from the entrance.

“What the bloody hell was that about?” Thomas asked as he started the car.

“What?”

“Wh-what do you mean, what? Accusations of lying, lawyers, f-for all we know, Uncle Bill hasn’t even seen it!”

Stephen opened the window and began to smoke. “Never hurts to keep the bastards on their feet.”

Thomas breathed out heavily. He stopped the car at a red light and entered the postcode of the address he had been given by Symons into the GPS.

The result was somewhere in between Barking and West Ham.

He waited for the lights to change before flooring the accelerator.

If luck was to hold, they would arrive well before eleven.

46

Jen felt her breathing become more intense. The archway was peculiarly large and seemed a suspicious and ostentatious prelude for the chamber they were about to enter.

She had never been so nervous. Or excited. The combination was alluring, but also strangely unique. It was definitely different to a nice surprise – a birthday present, Christmas morning, the start of a holiday – but there was definitely a feeling of anticipation.

She feared the unknown more than the prospect of further graves.

The light was non-existent, even compared to a few minutes earlier. As best she could tell, the chamber was even larger than the previous one. The air had improved, despite the smells becoming more dominant. If she was where she thought she was, it was probably about the size of the Jeffries’ vault. Ideally she needed to see it in the daytime.

Not that that was likely.

She heard a faint cry from several metres away.

“Anthea.”

“Sorry. I just lost me footing.”

Jen exhaled, relieved. The last thing they needed was an injury.

She shone the phone light in every direction. She could see objects, somehow more foreboding in appearance than the previous chamber. There were statues, possibly wall markings and other things normally found inside the church itself. There were tombs, as she had expected, but these were definitely more elaborate than the ones she had seen so far.

Without question this was what Debra Harrison had photographed.

Father Martin left the house immediately, carrying a torch and a shotgun. He decided against informing the owners of the vault. Instead, he opened the gate that led to the priory ruins and headed across the grounds of the estate.

There was a stone stairway that led into the crypt near the wall. He had never used it, but he’d been told it was there. He shone the torch on the wall and found it almost instantly. The vegetation, though thick, was not how he had expected it to be.

The vines had been moved.

Jen took a deep breath, in then out. The air was dank, perhaps less so than the other chambers, but its effects were far worse. It was the darkness that did it, her other senses accommodating for the decreased visibility.

She couldn’t remember a time when she had experienced anything so pitch black.

The first tomb was located close to the entrance. It was large in height, length and depth and contained a fine effigy of an elegant-looking man lying with his hands together. There was colour on the outline, possibly maroon, the coating partially worn away. He wore some kind of headwear, though definitely not a helmet.

It looked like a crown.

Jen walked to one side and looked along the verge. There was Latin writing on it.

“
Ricardus VII,
Rex Angliae
.”

She translated.

“Richard VII. King of England. 1612–1622.”

She stood there, totally lost.

Richard VII?

There had never been such a monarch.

She moved on to the next, this one equally strange. Richard VI, 1566–1612.

Anthea had joined her, also holding up her phone. The extra light was useful, allowing Jen an opportunity to take in all of the inscriptions.

“I don’t understand,” Anthea said. “Who were these people?”

Jen shook her head, dumbstruck. She pointed the light at Anthea, causing her pupils to contract. Against the dark background, her skin looked even whiter than usual.

“Is this the room you saw when you were young?”

“I think so…Jen, can we leave now, please.”

Secretly she wanted nothing more. The potential seriousness of the discovery, combined with the foulness of the air, was becoming increasingly difficult to stomach.

“Not yet.”

Jen moved onto the next, studying the tombs one by one. She read each name as she passed, making a mental note of them. Names repeated themselves: Richards V–X, Edwards VI–VIII, Johns II–V, and Williams III–VII.

What seemed strangest was how different they were to the real kings of the same name. She had studied history; she knew who Edward VI, VII and William III and IV were.

She knew what she was looking at should not exist.

Jen continued around the far side of the chamber, taking in as much as her eyes would allow. There were things on the walls, possibly paintings or else stained-glass windows – strange considering they were so far underground. There were other decorations, swords, shields, and other things that seemed suspiciously regal.

Whoever these people were, they were clearly revered.

She followed the tombs to the far wall and found a door. She recognised the outline; it was the same one she had tried to open the day before. She tried opening it, but again found that it was locked.

She continued to explore, every tomb seemingly offering more of the same. She saw three in a row, starting with Edward IX, died 1688.

To Jen, the date stood out.

It was the man who had attracted her interest at Bishopton.

Who Lovell claimed was a Barghest.

Jen examined this one in greater detail. Based on the effigy, he was a large man, strong in stature, bearded and with large eyes. She looked for an inscription along the side of the tomb. Like the others, it was written in gold on red.

Yet again referred to as a King of England.

She took in the detail as best she could in the dim light. The effigy seemed to depict a young man of warrior-like appearance.

She now had proof the story recited by Lovell was untrue.

“Come on, let’s go.”

“Jen.”

The cry was soft and desperate, the tone enough to make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Numbed by uncertainty, she walked slowly between the tombs and stopped on reaching Anthea, who was standing by the final wall, shaking.

In front of them were four tombs, perhaps the most elaborate in the crypt. There was something on the wall behind them, though neither could make out what it was.

Jen approached the first tomb and read the inscription. The Latin translated:

“Edward V, King of England, March–November 1483.”

She looked at the effigy in detail. It was surely the tomb of a boy.

She moved on, speechless. The next tomb was even more elaborate. The man was a fine figure, although slightly smaller than most. The first thing she noticed was that his shoulders were slightly out of line.

She translated the inscription aloud: “In memory of King Richard III of England, whose body was buried in the Franciscan church of…”

She froze, unable to finish the sentence. She tried to catch her breath, but doing so was becoming difficult. She moved on to the next and looked carefully for a name.

This one was a joint tomb, a man named Edward Plantagenet, 17th Earl of Warwick. Beside him was a woman. The inscription read, Lady Elizabeth, daughter of Edward IV.

Impossible! The woman had married Henry VII.

Finally she moved on to the fourth and final tomb. This was also a joint tomb, a man and his wife.

She looked at the name on the inscription.