The Thornless Rose (3 page)

Chapter Three

The bloke faded, he just bloody faded...

The barkeep’s haunting words gave Anne a chill despite the heat of the day. She stood in the blazing sunshine outside the Westminster Tube. She turned, her gaze drawn to the majestic church and burial place of kings, queens, and England’s finest—Westminster Abbey.

She glanced at the Clock Tower of the Houses of Parliament. Two forty five p.m. She studied the Abbey again, its stone façade golden and shiny-bright. Still time, she realized, to walk among the greats of the past, now turned to famous dust. Time enough to think about Brandon’s vanishing, to wonder what to do.

A slight breeze ruffled Anne’s hair as she followed a group of tourists into the Abbey. The atmosphere was solemn at the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior, a black marble slab set into the floor, surrounded by red poppies. Its quiet beauty pulled her in, and she paused to read the inscription honoring those who had given their lives for sovereign and country. She found herself whispering the last poignant words, “They buried him among the kings because he had done good to God and his house.” Deeply moved, Anne remembered another soldier, also a hero, also lost—Jonathan Brandon.

She drew comfort from her surroundings, then headed deeper inside the building. Brandon had disappeared, his fate unknown, but, like the hallowed dead of Westminster, he would be remembered—he was a part of her now. Anne took heart listening to the energy surrounding her—the cacophony of a thousand conversations and the rich swell of a choir practicing for a religious service—the tombs and crypts in silent union with the living, the past ever linked to the present.

Gone...but not forgotten.
Anne realized this quest was no longer just about her grandmother’s peace of mind. She needed it, too. Weaving through the crowds, passing tombs and crypts, she came to the Chapel of Henry VII. Here were buried some of her favorites from history, including Queen Mary Tudor, Elizabeth I, and Mary, Queen of Scots.
Gone, but not forgotten
. Smiling, she joined several dozen tourists as they shuffled through the entrance of the chapel.

Anne climbed the chapel stairs worn smooth from centuries of use and studied the circular vaulting of the ceiling, with its intricate tracery and carvings of roses, lions, fleurs-de-lis, and other symbols of royalty. She noted the tomb of Henry and his wife, Elizabeth of York, its black and white marble enclosed by a beautiful bronze grille, then veered to the left and came to the sarcophagus holding the bodies of both Elizabeth I and Mary Tudor.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, our Good Queen Bess,” the tour guide announced.

The white marble tomb was carved with only Elizabeth’s effigy, the inscriptions written in Latin. The guide pointed to the one at the base and translated, “Partners in throne and grave, here we sleep, Elizabeth and Mary, sisters, in hope of the Resurrection.” He smiled, then continued, “Ah, yes! Sisters by blood, but not by faith. Catholic Mary and Protestant Elizabeth. Their differences on religion and politics brought them, at times, within a hair’s breadth of betrayal and execution.”

Anne felt a tingling, a creeping of skin on the back of her neck and arms. She closed her eyes, suddenly feeling faint, when the air stilled beyond anything she had ever experienced.

What the––?
From darkening shadows, she gazed out. Oddly, the chapel was brilliantly lit by dozens of candles. Black-clad monks knelt on wooden misericords, praying.

Their soft, collective droning was a counterpoint to her heart’s fierce drumming.

“Wh—what just happened?” Anne stammered, trying to keep the shrill edge out of her voice. “Where’d you come from?”

The monks turned. To a man, their gazes cut through her, sharp and deeply suspicious.

She swallowed in fear. “Where am I? There were tourists. What happened to them?”

Eyes widening, a young monk held up his crucifix. “Woman,” he said, straining to see Anne, “why dost thou speak gibberish? Hast thou no wits?”

“But this is Westminster Abbey, isn’t it?”

“Aye. But if thou seeketh absolution, thou must find the bishop, for we are at prayer.”

Anne took a deep breath and crossed into the light. Gasps exploded from the monks as they gaped at her shorts and bare legs.

“Strumpet! For shame!” a monk shouted.

“Princess of Sodom!” cried another. “Get thee gone!”

Anne backed up, anxious to escape, and quickly turned to avoid the royal tomb directly behind her. She stopped and stared. The place looked nothing like before. Instead of a marble sarcophagus, there was a pile of broken stones heaped on the floor.

She spun toward the monks, still frozen against their misericords. “Where’s the tomb? Queen Elizabeth’s tomb?” she croaked.

“Elizabeth?” The young monk rose to his feet. “Would that the foul heretic were dead! There,” he pointed to the heap of stones, “rests our true Catholic queen, Mary Tudor. God rest her soul.”

“Brother Daniel, silence!” shouted another monk. “If the queen’s men hear thy words of sedition...”

But the young monk, Daniel, shook his head, eyes blazing. “Witch, I’ll send thee back to hell!” He lunged at Anne.

Instinctively, she put up her arms, covering her face in a defensive posture. Then, in disbelief, she realized she felt nothing, no contact with her attacker. She turned just as Brother Daniel tumbled behind her onto Mary Tudor’s grave.

Anne looked down at herself, realizing for the first time she was fading away. Her body looked transparent! “Oh, help!” she shouted, panicked. “Help me!”

She started, blinked, and stared. The monks had vanished, the crowd of tourists surrounding the queens’ tomb the same as before. She held out a trembling hand. Her skin looked as it’d always been—she was whole again.

It took her a moment to get her bearings, to steady herself, but then a voice brought her fully around.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” a woman said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Anne muttered, even though she knew she wasn’t. She hurried off, only to run into a group of tourists standing at St. Edward the Confessor’s shrine.

“There are ghosts about,” the tour guide warned.

Anne twisted to face him.

“Oh, we’ve all heard the usual,” the man continued, “about chains rattling.”

Giggles, nervous and expectant, spread through the crowd.

“But in recent years the most compelling tale involved an angry monk...”

Anne’s heart froze.

“Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this monk confronted tourists, berating them about their inappropriate clothing. They did not view him as strange, however, until he walked straight through a wall and disappeared. Since many persons witnessed this, and because monks have not dwelt or prayed at the Abbey since Elizabeth I forced them out in 1560, it would seem this particular apparition may have credence.”

1560?
Shocked, Anne looked at her shaky hands, again solid, part of the here and now. She shoved them into her pockets and walked on.
What just happened?

She picked up her pace, intent on leaving. She shouldn’t have had that shandy on an empty stomach.

The lights suddenly dimmed, the atmosphere hushed, expectant.
Just like before!

She halted in her tracks. Flickering candlelight and deep shadows, no tourists. The Abbey was even darker than it had been when she’d seen the monks.

What the hell is going on?

“Anne! Anne!”

Stunned, she turned. A man in costume ran toward her.

“Go back,” he shouted, “back where it’s safe!”

She stood transfixed. As he came closer, she recognized him—his eyes, the scar.

He halted and pulled her tight against him. “I love you, Anne,” he whispered into her hair, “but you have to go with him. Save yourself.”

“But––”

He stilled her confusion with a tender brush of his lips, and she responded instinctively, their kiss deepening as her body arched against his, her blood ablaze with sudden desire, until the rest of the world seemed very far away.

When he finally drew back, he stared into her eyes, and Anne’s heart seized when she saw his pain, the sheer desperation in his gaze.

The feeling was apparently mutual, because he pulled her close and swore under his breath, “Bloody hell, the bastard will pay for this.”

I don’t understand.

He opened his eyes and stared at something in the distance. “Anne, go now,” his voice cracked, “because I can face anything if I know you’re safe.”

His fingers gently cupped her chin, his touch unleashing more heat. He lifted her face for another kiss, and then—nothing. He was gone. She fought for control, her breathing erratic, her legs threatening to crumble. She touched her lips, still feeling his caress, his soft breath on her skin, but he was gone.

The lights flashed on, the tourists once again milling about, unaware.

“Mummy, they were kissing!”

A small boy pointed at her, but his mother paid no attention.

He saw us!
Anne plastered a fake smile on her face until the boy disappeared into the crowd.
He saw us, and that means I wasn’t hallucinating. But how? How could Dr. Brandon be here?
She touched her lips once more. The way he’d held her, spoken to her, whispered her name, made her believe he was real—and he...

He knew me. But how?
A chill enveloped her as the memory of the monk’s stare supplanted Brandon’s.

Trembling, she left the Abbey.

Chapter Four

The skies had closed in again, and the gloomy, thick cloud cover mirrored Anne’s mood. Head down, she glanced up occasionally to make sure she was taking the correct route to her grandmother’s. She watched as the tips of her shoes advanced across the grain of the sidewalk, right, left, right, left. The monotony was comforting, something familiar. Something she could count on.

“What happened to me? What?” she asked until it sounded like a chant. But every time she allowed herself to search for an answer, she felt lightheaded. She knew what she’d seen, what she’d felt, and crazy scenarios surged to mind. Ghosts? Magic? Hearing voices? Sainthood or a straitjacket seemed to be the only two options open for such experiences, and she sure couldn’t match resumés with Joan of Arc.

Anne considered calling her parents to discuss her bizarro experiences, then shook her head. They might try to convince her to come home early, but she didn’t want to, not before she got to the bottom of this.

She looked up to make sure she was heading the right way. Old, familiar mulberry trees stood sentinel as she made the final turn onto her grandmother’s street. The door opened before Anne reached the steps. The housekeeper, Trudy MacCunn Leach, stood there, a solid woman with gray hair and a strong face, her expression twisted with a mixture of annoyance and concern.

“I’ve held tea for ye, Anne, but I canna say as I’m happy ’bout it, or ’bout yer grandmother’s goin’ off like she did with nary a word t’ me.”

“Grandma’s gone? When? Where’d she go?”

“Dinna I jus’ tell ye she went off without a word? I canna say more than I know, and that’s that.”

Anne walked past Trudy into the parlor, sank down on the sofa, and raised her eyes to meet the housekeeper’s intense stare.

“What’s troubling ye then, lass?” Trudy asked, her voice gentle now. “Would ye like a cuppa? Ye look a bit queer.”

“Yes, tea.” Anne sighed. “And bring a cup for yourself. We need to talk.”

Trudy nodded and left. Anne’s gaze fixed on the old photo still lying on the coffee table. She picked it up and stared. It looked so much like the man in the Abbey. Brandon?

“All right, then.” Trudy returned carrying a tray heavily charged with a silver tea service and some small sandwiches.

Anne put the picture back on the table.

“Here. Have a cuppa, dear, and tell me what’s troublin’ ye.” The housekeeper sat on the sofa and poured the tea.

Hand trembling, Anne took a sip. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“I’m certain it’ll no’ seem so dire with the tellin’. Begin at the beginning.”

“I’m glad Grandma’s not here, because I couldn’t tell her about this. And you’re always so steady, not one to fly off the handle, or become faint with worry.”

“Ye dinna flatter me overmuch. Aye, I’m no’ a fain-er.” Trudy gave Anne a determined smile. “Now, what’s all this about?”

Anne asked, “Did you ever meet Jonathan Brandon?”

“No, lass. I started workin’ for yer grandparents after they married, so I never met him.”

“I just thought you might have, since you’ve been with our family a long time.” Anne smiled. “You know you
are
like family to me, Trudy.”

She patted Anne’s hand and chuckled. “Aye, dear, as are ye t’ me. Yer grandmum and I have grown old together. We’ve had a bonnie time of it, we have, exceptin’ when me own husband died, and then when yer granddad passed.”

Anne watched as Trudy made the sign of the cross. “I know. Those were difficult days.”

“Aye, they were. Mr. Howard was such a good man. Did ye know I was only seventeen when he hired me? He and yer grandmum were young, too, and just about to have yer uncle, Reggie. Me mum pushed me out the door and said I had t’ work if I refused t’ go back t’ school.” Trudy shook her head. “Lord, I was headstrong! But I’m strayin’ here and not answering yer questions. What were we talking about?”

Anne hid her smile this time. “Jonathan Brandon.”

“Oh, Lord, aye! Weel, I did hear a thing or two about Brandon over the years, like he was verra good t’ yer grandmother and easy on the eyes, too, as ye saw from his picture. He was a war hero as well. A terrible shame, what happened t’ him, bein’ kidnapped or murdert an’ all.” Trudy tasted her tea and then looked at Anne. “What did Mrs. Howard tell ye, dear?”

“Only that he disappeared. Do you really think he was murdered?”

“The coppers said ’twere the only idea as made any sense.”

Then I saw his ghost?
But why me?
Anne wondered, shaking off the thoughts as soon as they came into her head. “I went to the pub today to have a look.”

Trudy crossed herself. “Christ defend us, are ye barkin’ mad? Why ever did ye go there?”

“I... I just wanted to see it for myself,” Anne sputtered, surprised by Trudy’s vehemence. “Afterward, I went to Westminster Abbey to clear my head.” She swallowed. “Not that it did any good.”

“What happened t’ Dr. Brandon were the Devil’s work, I fear.” Trudy crossed herself again. “No, I wouldna visit a place with such a dark past meself.”

A silence rose between them, and Trudy set about fussing with the teapot, then poured more tea into their cups.
Stoic
was the only word Anne could think of for the woman’s usual demeanor. But there was something else evident now, something uncharacteristic. Trudy’s hands had started shaking. She was afraid she’d give her a stroke if she said anything else about the vanishing.

Anne took a breath and switched gears. “I need to find out more about Dr. Brandon’s life––”

“Dinna ye hear me?” Trudy grumbled. “‘Tis not my place t’ be cross wi’ ye, but...”

“But you’re the only one who can help me figure this out. I don’t want to stress out Grandma with all kinds of awkward questions because I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Trudy huffed. “Weel, I see there’s no dissuadin’ ye. I canna say I’m willin’ or able t’ explain everythin’, but I’ve a guess where ye might go for more information. Yer grandmother has been puttin’ away this ’n that for years, and I reckon a large bit pertains t’ Brandon. Aye, I’ll wager there’s plenty more ’bout him she has kept, but dinna have a mind t’ tell ye, right off.”

Trudy stood up and began to clear the dishes, clucking her tongue as she surveyed the uneaten sandwiches. “Ye should have a bit o’ food,” she groused.

“Save some for later.” Anne finished her cup, then held it out for the tray. “Now tell me where I can find whatever you think she’s kept about him.”

“Aye, then. Go on back upstairs t’ the loft. We’ve been settin’ things t’ right up there o’ late, but I canna recall seein’ any o’ the old stuff. It’s been years now since Mrs. Howard had the heart t’ bother with it.”

“Okay, but when Grandma gets home, don’t let on I’m upstairs. I don’t think she’d be pleased to know I was snooping again. Right?”

“Right. Good huntin’ then, lass.” Trudy grudgingly nodded agreement as she left for the kitchen.

Anne glanced at the picture of Brandon one more time, then shut her eyes, remembering him in the Abbey, and the kiss they shared. For a moment, there was no sound in the room except her own beating heart.

She rose and headed for the stairs.

…

Catherine closed the front door and took the lead off Duffy’s collar. He rushed into the kitchen, nails barely finding traction as he careened toward his food bowl. She could hear Trudy grumbling and smiled to herself. Some things never changed.

“Hello, I’m back. Have I missed out on tea?” Catherine asked as she entered the kitchen.

“Weel now, Mrs. Howard,” Trudy said without looking up from her potato peeling. “I wasna sure when ye’d return. If ye had thought t’ tell me ye were goin’ out an’ when t’ expect ye back, then sure enough, I would’ve kept it ready.”

“You’re absolutely correct. Sorry I’m late, but Duffy and I ran into Kay and Paul and their dog, Solo. Be a dear and make me a fresh cuppa, would you? And please do bring it to Mr. Howard’s library.” She paused. “Where is Anne? Is she home yet?”

Trudy looked up from her work. “Aye, she came in just before ye, complainin’ of a fierce headache. Been t’ the Abbey, she told me.”

“Yes, I see. Poor dear. I’ll just pop in,” Catherine said.

Trudy turned. “No, no. She wanted t’ sleep a bit an’ asked no’ t’ be bothered before seven o’clock, just in time for supper.”

“Fine, but let me know, will you, if you hear her moving about before then?” Catherine scrambled for a reason to keep Anne out of the library, just in case. “I have some work I need to do, and I’d hate for her to come looking for me in there, because, well, it’s so dusty, you see. I’m afraid it might aggravate her headache.”

Oh, that was a dreadful excuse! Trudy keeps that room spotless.

Clearly upset, Trudy’s mouth dropped open, but she shut it again as quickly.

Mortified, Catherine wanted to make a quick exit. “Thank you, Mrs. Leach.”

Looking at her though narrowed eyes, Trudy nodded. “Aye, I’ll have yer cuppa brought in t’ ye in a wee bit.”

…

Anne looked inside the old trunk with a fresh eye. She studied the camel jacket and green hat, realizing they were the ones her grandmother wore in the photo. She set them aside and reached for the small corsage, brittle with age. An ivory ribbon held it together, a small envelope pinned to it.

She opened the envelope, removed a card, and read:
Engagement photo and corsage—7th July, 1945 Brighton by the Sea.

So, the Brighton photo had been taken less than six months before Dr. Brandon disappeared.

“It must have been so hard to lose him, Grandma.” Anne placed the corsage and note on the clothing and sifted through the newspaper clippings. They dealt with Brandon’s disappearance and the ensuing investigation, showing photos of him and the various eyewitnesses to his vanishing.

She zeroed in on a picture of a stocky man, wearing an apron and standing by the Crook’s front door. The caption read:
Mr. Tom Lloyd, proprietor of The Bishop’s Crook.

Anne regarded the man’s steadfast and sober gaze. “They all said you were a lunatic, but I think maybe you knew what you saw, didn’t you, Mr. Lloyd?” she whispered to the faded image. “And my guess is, you were the sanest man around.”

With a frown, she dug deeper into the pile of clippings.

…

Catherine stood in the darkened library. Breathing in the scent of old leather, she stared into the shadows and recalled her gloried past, conscious of its stark contrast to widowed life. She glanced at oak paneling ribbed with book-laden shelves, at red velvet curtains hiding a bow window of leaded glass. Dust covers draped heavy furniture, including a mahogany desk and leather sofa. The room had been unused since her husband’s death, a too-painful reminder of the brilliant solicitor, her friend and lover, her dearest heart.

“Arthur.” Catherine whispered his name once, gently, like a prayer. She walked to the window and briskly pulled open the curtains.

Light streamed into the room. She stared through the glass at her garden and then let her gaze roam over the wall of books.

“Arthur darling, I need your help. I went out today. I followed our Anne, and I talked to people who spoke with her. I’m afraid, Arthur, so afraid something could happen to her. I’m worried she might start experiencing things similar to what happened to Jonnie.”

Catherine moved toward the shelf containing history books and then reached for a slim leather-bound tome. Opening the book, she thumbed through the pages until she found a chapter on the early years of a queen’s reign.

“Elizabeth,” she whispered.

…

After glancing at the clippings, Anne read each one thoroughly. At first, they were all about Jonathan Brandon’s vanishing, but deeper down in the pile the subject of the articles changed to other people, other mysteries. Her grandmother had collected stories about disappearances around London, pinning them together by location. The dates varied widely, beginning several months after Brandon’s story faded from the headlines and continuing through the late eighties.

The articles spanned over forty years and covered unresolved disappearances around the Tower of London and St. Etheldreda’s, as well as Cannon Street Station, Hampstead Heath, and the churchyard at St. Giles Cripplegate. In each case, murder—some even hinted at serial murder—was the only explanation offered.

An article fell from Anne’s fingers, and she reached inside the trunk to retrieve it. Frowning, she read,
Hampton Court Shocker. A most unusual pair of occurrences yesterday at Hampton Court.

Anne checked the date—1973—and then continued reading.

Several groups of tourists claimed to have seen a variety of apparitions yesterday afternoon in and about the grounds of this famous site. German tourists were at first pleased to witness sixteenth century courtiers milling about the Pond Garden, but grew dismayed when the courtiers, so they claim, suddenly faded into mist before disappearing all together.

Another group, this time Americans, claimed to have seen Henry VIII himself riding off to the hunt. Whilst the king is not said to have vanished before their eyes, he did rein in his mount to berate a young American woman for wearing suggestive clothing. It seems old King Hal did not mind her halter top and hot pants, per se, but thought she should await him in his chambers and “not make so bold” in broad daylight.

The Royal Historical Society assures us there were no reenactments taking place yesterday at Hampton Court. The only people dressed in period costumes were those who work exclusively within the building complex. Officials at Hampton Court have refused to give credence to the assertions of the tourists, yet can offer us no logical explanation for the events.

“Whoa, that’s creepy.” Anne stuffed the clipping into her pocket. She had to visit Hampton Court as soon as possible.

Nervous because her grandmother could walk in at any moment, she replaced the other things she’d taken out of the trunk. Was there anything she’d missed? Trudy had said there’d be lots of old stuff up here.

She stood up and scanned the clutter: a clothing rack covered in plastic; some old furniture, including her father’s hobby horse; and boxes of Christmas ornaments. She pushed them aside and noticed a box with the notation
Articles
—
Jonnie
.