The Elizabeth Tudor Conspiracy Page 2

  “Does it?” said Perdita, surprised. “The house is old but not all period houses come with a title. We don’t have any, do we?”

  “Mary didn’t use them,” Alastair admitted, “neither did her mother, Eleanor Fitzroy. I think Lettice Lakeby was the last of your female relations to use the title officially.”

  “And what is it?” asked Piper.

  “Haven’t you guessed?” he said, with a searching look at Perdita.

  “The title is connected to the house?” she clarified.

  “Yes,” confirmed Alistair.

  “And is this a rather unusual female title?”

  Alistair nodded.

  “Marquess of Pembroke — the title bestowed upon Anne Boleyn so she was of a high enough social rank to marry King Henry VIII,” Perdita said, slowly. “A male title given to a woman. I presume this is the reason Randolph Connors thinks he has a right to it? It should really belong to a man.”

  “It’s possible,” said Alistair, “and you’re correct, Perdita, your official title, should you ever choose to use it is the Marquess of Pembroke and, as your heir, Piper is Viscountess Cleddau.”

  “This is insane,” said Perdita.

  “Connors is one of the richest men in the world,” continued Alistair, “so money has never been his motivation. He is only interested in things he cannot buy, like the history and kudos of having an aristocratic title. When Randolph married Lady Marianne O’Rourke, they had one son, Xavier. Three years ago, Xavier married the heiress, Amber MacDonald and in May this year, Amber gave birth to identical twin girls, Ruby and Pearl. When Mary died in June, Randolph tried to claim Marquess House on behalf of his granddaughters.”

  “What?” Perdita was astonished but then something she had read in one of Mary’s letters finally made sense. Her grandmother had written that things had changed and they must protect themselves. Was she referring to the birth of Randolph’s twin granddaughters? Had Mary suspected Connors would try to claim Marquess House on their behalf?

  “Randolph Connors is not the most stable of men,” said Alistair. “He believes Marquess House should have been passed to his granddaughters, allowing him to administer and control it on their behalf, while also using the titles until they come of age.”

  “But he has no claim while we’re alive…” began Piper, then realisation dawned and her voice faded away.

  “Connors is wealthy and influential,” said Alistair. “He has nefarious connections with dubious and powerful groups around the world. He might try to have you removed to clear the way for Ruby and Pearl.”

  “Do you mean murdered?” asked Kit, horrified.

  With great reluctance, Alistair nodded. Perdita watched the blood drain from Piper’s face and knew she was probably just as pale.

  “And Kirstin Chaplin, the woman who is having an affair with my husband, has links to Randolph Connors?” confirmed Piper.

  “I’m afraid so,” replied Alistair. “While the Home Secretary has given me his assurance about MI1 being bound by the Milford Haven Treaty he refuses to issue any commands for further protection for you while you’re in the UK, unless I can show proof that Connors is a threat.”

  “But why?” gasped Perdita.

  “Because Connors donates heavily to many organisations, including leading political parties,” said Susan, who had been silent until that moment. “The Home Secretary doesn’t want to upset one of the government’s best financial backers.”

  “Marquess House has proved that it is easily breached,” said Alistair, “whereas Castle Jerusalem is an old fortress with better defences. I have also been able to secure a number of agreements with the French, Spanish, Italian and Swiss authorities to guarantee your protection. I refuse to take risks with any of your lives.”

  Perdita put the two mugs of hot chocolate on the long low table in front of the fire before sitting on the sofa in their private apartment and glancing over at Piper. After Alistair’s revelations, neither of them had contributed much to the conversation over dinner, both relieved that Megan and Pablo’s upcoming nuptials had dominated the discussions.

  “Perds, there’s something I don’t understand,” Piper said, picking up her mug, “does this mean we’re related to Anne Boleyn?”

  “We could be, but unless someone has researched our family tree going back to Tudor times, we won’t know. If there are only certain people who can inherit, it makes the bloodline rather twisted.”

  “I bet MI1 Elite know,” muttered Piper.

  “I’ll call them, shall I, and ask?”

  “They might at least give us a straight answer.”

  “Shortly before they assassinate us.”

  “Perds, don’t,” said Piper, her voice harsh. “I keep having nightmares about being murdered — saying things like that seems like bad luck.”

  “I’m sorry,” replied Perdita. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s this whole situation which is making me spiky. The endless drip-feed of information is so frustrating. I’ve decided to ask Alistair to sit down with us and tell us everything he knows, even if Granny told him not too. We’re still here, she isn’t, and at the moment I feel as though I’m operating blindfolded. If we’re going to solve this mystery and stay alive, we have to know everything about our inheritance.”

  Piper sipped her hot chocolate, nodding in agreement, then asked, “If we’re going to be here for a few more months, I’ve decided to accept Alastair’s offer of setting up a studio on the top floor of the business centre. If I’m busy, time will pass more quickly. It’ll also stop me brooding over Jeremy. Will you begin your research again now you know we’re going to be here until at least Christmas?”

  Perdita drained her mug and placed it on the table in front of her.

  “Yes,” she said, although her tone was flat. “I’ve been putting it off because it felt wrong to be working here. All the historical anomalies we discovered about Catherine Howard were connected with Marquess House, so it felt right to be revealing them within its walls.”

  “And now?”

  “I have no choice; like you, I can’t bear to sit around doing nothing any longer,” Perdita replied. “I’ll talk to Kit and ask him if the office opposite his is still free for me to use, then I’ll ask Deborah Black in the library to bring the next lot of Marquess House account books out of storage.”

  “The story will continue then?” asked Piper.

  “Yes — we’ve found the first ruby ring, which we think belonged to Catherine Howard, and I hope the account books will offer some clues to the whereabouts of the second ruby ring and the silver locket. Catherine Howard may have told us her story through her codex but now we need to discover what happened to her children.”

  Chapter Two

  Each book was a sentinel of the past, laid out on its own separate, cotton-covered, foam wedge. The books stretched the length of the boardroom table, waiting to reveal their secrets. The ancient bindings were brown with age but they had been carefully dusted and now glimmered in the crystalline mountain light that was flooding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Perdita approached the first book with great caution as though the inanimate object were a wild animal that could be scared away. “You realise what these are?” she said, her voice low and respectful as she turned to Piper, who was watching her from the doorway.

  “Old books?” suggested Piper.

  “These are the key to the past,” said Perdita. “They hold the answers.” She pulled a pair of white gloves from a pile that lay at one end of the table and slid them on. “Inside these pages is the truth about who lived and who died. The words collected here could change history forever.”

  “You’re worrying me now, Perds,” said Piper, joining her by the table. “These are old account books. They might be able to tell us a certain amount but please don’t get your hopes up that they could solve the mystery.”

  Perdita turned her startling grey-green eyes on her sister, the gold glints within flashing; their depth as raw as a
winter storm.

  “It’s too late for that, Pipes,” she said, “my hopes have been up ever since I knew these books existed. It’s taken me a while to find my enthusiasm again, but now they’re here and I’m breathing in their scent, I know they’re going to help me discover the truth. Even if they can only tell me the kind of feed they bought for the horses back then I’ll feel as though I’ve discovered something.”

  “Perds, you’re crazy,” Piper said, laughing.

  “No, I’m feeling better about things and exploring unexamined books always excites me. If they’re anything like the other accounts book I’ve studied over the years, they’ll be jammed full of small trinkets of information, minutiae that have been overlooked, missed or ignored but which could reveal a whole world of deceptions. Remember, Pipes, history is in the details.”

  “Exactly,” Piper said, “and it’s the details you could discover that scare me.”

  The twins stared at each other, then both moved at the same time and embraced.

  “We no longer have a choice,” said Perdita, breaking away first and holding her sister at arms’ length, trying to impart some of her own strength to her nervous twin. “Either we find the truth first and use it as leverage or we spend the rest of our lives knowing we could be murdered at any moment, especially now we know Randolph Connors is chasing us as well as MI1 Elite.”

  “I’m going upstairs to the studio,” Piper said, turning away.

  “Pipes, I’m sorry, it was a stupid thing to say — I didn’t mean to upset you,” said Perdita.

  “You don’t need to apologise,” said Piper. “We are in danger — why else would we be hiding here in a castle carved out of a mountainside? Good luck with the books, Perds, I’ll see you later.”

  Piper gave her a watery smile and waved as she let the heavy door swing shut. Perdita cursed herself — she was not usually so insensitive. It must be anxiety, she reasoned with herself as she walked back to the books. Or eagerness, she admitted, not to be rid of Piper but to be able to disappear into another world for a while and forget the horror of this one. Scraping her long, thick dark hair into a ponytail, Perdita rummaged in her computer bag, set up her laptop, extracted a notebook and a series of pencils, then turned to the first account book entitled: Marquess House, February 1543 and stared down at the heavy leather cover.

  It was thanks to the ancient account books dated from 1542 that Perdita, Kit and the Marquess House research team had been able to unravel the final truth about Catherine Howard. The set Perdita was studying now had been held in deep storage in the Jerusalem archive in Andorra but had been requested by her grandmother, Mary, a few days before she had died. Rather than ship them to Pembrokeshire, Dr Deborah Black, the head of the library team at Castle Jerusalem, had kept them in one of their storage units, awaiting further instructions. To Perdita’s frustration, they were not a complete collection, only six remained for 1543 — March through to September — and for 1544 and 1545, there were only a few — June, July and October for 1544, and January, April and August for 1545.

  “Knock, knock,” a tentative male voice announced.

  “Oh, hello Kit,” Perdita said, her eyes coming back into focus as the turned to look towards the door.

  “Are you all right? You were miles away,” he said, walking across the room to join her. He had his battered Fred Perry sports bag slung across his chest and was carrying a tray of coffee and pastries. Perdita pulled off her cotton gloves, then cleared a space on a small round table away from the priceless ancient books and relieved Kit of his burden.

  “I was thinking about all this,” she replied, sweeping her hand in an all-encompassing gesture, “our moonlight flit, Granny Mary, Marquess House, Catherine Howard, the Llyn Cel mermaid, the ruby ring, everything that’s brought us to this moment. It’s been quite a bumpy ride so far.”

  “Yep, and it isn’t over yet,” said Kit with a frown.

  Perdita stared up into Kit’s piercing blue eyes, unnerved by this chink in Kit’s usual armour of optimistic sunniness. At 5ft 7in, she was tall, but Kit towered over her at 6ft 4in, and with his mop of dark curly hair and toned surfer’s physique he was an imposing figure, but today he seemed strangely fragile.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Nothing.” He paused, then turning away from her as though he were embarrassed, continued, “I had another nightmare last night and I can’t seem to shake that feeling of dread.”

  Perdita’s eyes were sympathetic. Since their escape, she had suffered bad dreams of being chased by faceless, terrifying strangers dressed in black. Piper, too, had confessed to experiencing similar unease.

  “You don’t have to pretend to be brave to me,” she said, taking his hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “We went through a horrible ordeal. You wouldn’t be human if it didn’t trip you up every now and then. In fact, I’d be more concerned if it hadn’t affected you in some way.”

  “You’re right,” he murmured, then to her surprise he drew her into a tight, almost suffocating embrace, burying his face in her hair. It was over in seconds and he released her, leaving her tingling all over, her heart pounding. “Sorry, needed some human contact.”

  “Any time,” she replied, in a choked voice. They stared at each other, then Perdita reached for her coffee and walked over to the vast windows, sipping it, as her heart rate returned to normal. She watched Kit as he wandered over to the waiting books, enjoying the change in his expression as his professional expertise rose to the surface.

  When he was not working with Perdita, Kit had two major roles within his family business, Jerusalem. The first was using his legal qualifications to act as an assistant to his father in the administration of Marquess House — a job he would take over from Alistair when he retired. The second, he shared with his siblings, Megan and Stuart, which was to rescue and restore important antiquities and documents. If they were of national interest the organisation would donate the items to the government of their country of origin. Megan ran the organisation from Andorra, covering Africa and Asia. Stuart looked after the Americas, while Kit concerned himself with Europe and Australasia.

  “These are in exquisite condition,” Kit said, after examining them. “How far have you got?”

  “I haven’t even opened them yet,” Perdita admitted and he grinned, looking more like his usual self.

  “Together?”

  A thrill of anticipation and excitement ran through Perdita and she returned Kit’s grin.

  “Ready?” asked Kit, his hand positioned over the account book for Marquess House, March 1543.

  Perdita mirrored his pose. “Set?” she said, then together they both shouted: “Go!” and in unison they opened the covers and began to read.

  The familiar writing of the housekeeper, Mrs Helen Page, filled the page, once more beckoning Perdita into the past. It had been Mrs Page’s accounts that had helped Perdita solve the final mystery of her grandmother’s work. Although in conventional history books, Catherine Howard, the fifth bride of Henry VIII, was said to have been executed at the Tower of London on 13 February 1542, Perdita had proved that not only had this been incorrect but that Catherine had been spirited away to Marquess House in Pembrokeshire.

  The account books had shown that she had been preparing to give birth and Perdita had realised Catherine had delivered twins: a girl and a boy, a legitimate Tudor prince and princess, who for reasons she had yet to discover, had at some point been written out of history. Perdita was determined to discover the identity of Catherine’s children so she could understand why there had been a systematic rewriting of historical events to wipe these children and their lives from all official records.

  Perdita and Kit had also found a Tudor ring — an ancient ruby surrounded by a golden filigree case that opened to reveal a hidden cavity for passing messages and the Latin inscription Luncta Sanguine, which translated to Joined in blood. As an expert in jewellery and its symbolism Perdita knew this ring was more than an ornamen
t. It had significance and if she had guessed correctly, the matching pair to this ring was going to provide the evidence they needed to locate one of the children, while a silver locket would point the way to the other.

  The only question was, how were they going to find them? This was where she hoped the account books would help. There might be unwitting clues in the daily lists of household activity, snippets of information that to the uninformed eye would mean nothing but which could give Perdita a clue. She had other sources to check that she hoped would provide corroborating evidence, but the search had to begin somewhere. Mrs Helen Page had helped them once, Perdita hoped she would offer the hand of service across the centuries once again.

  As before, it took only moments for her eyes to become accustomed to the extravagant writing and she was soon making copious notes on her laptop. Beside her Kit was doing the same. After an hour, he stretched and looked up.

  “How are you getting on?” he asked.

  Perdita finished the sentence she was writing and pulled a face.

  “Not bad. There are a few references to a wet nurse for ‘the boy-childe’ and orders of linen and swaddling clothes but there’s no mention of the little girl. Do you think she died?”

  “No,” said Kit, looking enigmatic.

  Perdita narrowed her eyes at him. “Come on Smug-Mackensie-Kid, what have you found?” The name had been a derogatory term Perdita’s ex-fiancé, Warren, had once used about Kit but it had made Kit laugh so much, Perdita had been using it ever since.

  “You know when we were compiling the list of anomalies in Catherine Howard’s life and one of the odd things we came across was a baby who was supposedly lodged at the house of Anne of Cleves — a baby rumoured to have been hers and Henry VIII’s child?”

  “Yes, 15 November 1541, if my memory serves me correctly. Two of Anne’s ladies-in-waiting — Jane Rattsay and Lady Wingfield — were questioned and denied any truth in the rumours. After an inquiry, Anne and her household were exonerated.”