The Tower Grave

The Tower Grave

The Tower Grave

J. E. MONCRIEFF

James Moncrieff Publishing

First Edition

P
ublished by James Moncrieff Publishing 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted

This novel is a work of fiction. The names and character
s, other than those clearly in the public domain, are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any name, detail, location and methodology relating to law enforcement or law enforcement agencies is also a product of the author’s imagination and is in no way based upon true facts. Any resemblance to actual law enforcement is again, entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not,

by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out,

or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior

consent in any form of binding or cover other than that

in which it is published and without a similar condition,

including this condition, being imposed on the

subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN:
978-0-9927496-0-6

Copyright © 2013 James Moncrieff

All rights reserved.

For Carly, my amazing wife, who keeps me sane;
And for Hallie, Kami and Sienna – my girls.

Prologue

9
th
October 1483

             
“Peter? Peter? Are you alive?” called Matthew of York as he touched the end of the arrow that impaled his left shoulder and pinned him against the oak door behind him. He was stuck fast and every man who lay around him was dead; struck down with trembling shafts from unseen bows, or run through by the long swords of the masked men that followed them.

             
His shallow breath quivered in panic as the noise of fighting rose ever louder above him and he looked down at his shoulder, grimacing at what he knew he must do. Not because of the impending death that faced him, but because he was the head guard sworn to protect the thirteen year old King and his brother, he snapped off the rear half of the arrow and without pausing long enough to change his mind, closed his eyes and sat forward to slide his wound over its frayed end. He ground his teeth through the trembles that rocked his body, and then hoisted himself to his feet, hobbling to the backstairs of the King’s chambers. Yanking his body up the straight staircase, he found the outer chambers abandoned and searched in panic as he stumbled into the King’s room. He took in the empty, blood-soaked bed and groaned as he saw the bodies of the four remaining guards spread across the floor with their fear forever fixed in their eyes.

             
A distant cry led him towards the main staircase and he clattered clumsily off the wall as he bundled down and out over the bloody remains of the fallen door-guard. His left arm remained useless as he shrugged his way past the half-open, heavy oak door and stumbled into the humid air of summer-time London. Reaching the Tower street only in time to see the group of dark men moving towards the gate in the outer wall, he spotted the bodies of two boys being carried amongst at least eight figures shifting briskly in the shadows. One body hung limply while the other struggled and called out in fear.

             
“Halt!” Matthew shouted, ignoring the fear that clawed him back inside. “Stay where you are or die!”

             
“Die?” One of the masked men repeated as he turned, flashing a bleeding bite mark on his cheek beneath his disguise. He and two others stopped with the form of the wriggling child while the others escaped through the gate. “Die?” he repeated again, and with a gait that betrayed his amusement, seized the loose hair of the boy, tugging his head to reveal the crying face of the eleven year old Prince Richard.

             
“Your Highness!” Matthew screamed, frozen in horror.

             
“Highness,” the masked intruder smirked as he spat on the boy’s face then drove a long, thin blade hard under his smooth chin. Matthew shuddered in horror as dark liquid washed over the hand of the murderer and the young Prince’s face fell limp and lifeless. With nothing more than a yell of rage, he held his sword high and sprang forward, sprinting towards the men and his certain death.

             
“Deal with him,” the masked leader uttered with disgust to the third man standing freely to his side and with a chuckle turned to leave quickly through the gate with the shadow holding the dead boy.

             
The remaining masked man nodded his agreement and turned with a blinding pace to parry the blow aimed straight to his neck by the young guard.

             
Matthew tried with all his might to fight and kill the faceless warrior before him, but his wounded arm robbed his speed and balance. As he tired, the once defensive moves of the opposing figure grew in ferocity until it was all he could do to feebly toss his sword about in an attempt to block the blows.

             
Eventually, after agonizing seconds of fear, Matthew’s defence faltered and he left himself open. A gloved hand connected hard with his mouth and he found himself stumbling, disorientated, as a fresh, white-hot pain stung his wounded shoulder. He dropped to the floor and clambered at the iron in panic as his numb hands were sliced apart and the blade was pulled from inside him.

             
“Who are you?” he whispered weakly as the dark, deadly mass dropped his sword tip to the floor and knelt down beside him. He wriggled backwards as the shadow slipped in and out of his blurred vision and reached out to painfully check the wound in his shoulder. “Who do you work for?” he pressed on in confusion.

The man stopped and watch
ed him silently, then spoke a name that shook him from his daze and echoed around his head. The realisation of why he would die was his final notion as the shadow silently slipped away in the edge of his vision and a blow from a solid sword hilt forced his thoughts away into darkness.

Part One

One

March 15
th
2014

“Do you
know what time it is?” Dr David Staple grumbled into his mobile phone as he glanced at the 02:30 shining brightly at him on his bedside clock.

             
“I’m sorry, David,” came the animated voice of his long-term friend and most senior employee. “But there’s something you need to see. Can you get to the office?”

             
Mumbling agreement, David hung up the phone and leant over to kiss his wife’s head as she murmured in between snores next to him. “It’s the office, Sal,” he said, smiling as she mumbled back in her sleep and wriggled her head deeper into the pillow. He kissed her cheek gently, then kissed the nose of his thirteen month old daughter Emma, stirring in her sleeping bag between them.

             
It was within the hour that he pulled into the staff car park at the British Museum and nodded to the chuckling night guard as he parked by the rear entrance. His cramped office was tucked just inside the back door in a corner of the ground floor of the museum, and compared to its usual quiet and abandoned daytime atmosphere; it seemed to be bursting at the seams with bustling activity.

             
“Jeff, did you wake up the whole world?” David asked his head field supervisor as he walked in and looked in disbelief at the chaos.

             
“Pretty much,” he replied. “But it’s worth it and I’m so glad you’re here, Dave. I can’t wait to show you this.”

             
David looked at his friend and grinned in excitement. In his fifteen years of archaeology, he had seen a number of exciting finds and times, but had never seen the relaxed Jeff as animated as he was now.

             
“Well?” he asked as he caught on to the fever in the office, “What’s happening? I take it it’s something we haven’t seen before?”

             
“That’s an understatement, Dave. It’s something we’ve only ever dreamed about. It was at the dig; the dig in St. Albans? You know, at the Roman site?”

             
“Yes, of course, the Roman site. But I thought it was a loss? I didn’t imagine anything new there, unless it’s British?”

             
“It’s certainly British! But it’s not the period we expected.” Jeff was literally tip-toeing with excitement and made David grin excitedly again.

             
“It’s older?” he asked. “What don’t we know about the Britons?”

             
“No, it’s far more recent. It’s a chest; a fifteenth-century chest. It just happened to be buried bang smack in the middle of a Roman site. Intentionally or not, we don’t know, but it was deep, David, really deep. Someone really did not want it found.”

             
“Unless they did want it found? Maybe they knew it was a Roman area. Digs were happening by then. Do you think it’s possible? Anyway, go on, why is it so exciting?”

             
“Well, there’s some jewellery, some letters, some sort of comb, I think. And…” he paused dramatically, watching his boss, “a diary.” His eyes glinted and he smiled as David’s head snapped round eagerly. He knew David better than anyone. They’d worked together since graduating fifteen years earlier, and he knew full well that if there was one thing that spiked his partner’s interest, it was a diary, from any period. His best friend was drawn to the thoughts of those who lived before him like a child to a Christmas tree. He loved it.

             
“Don’t just sit there, what does it say?” David shouted excitedly as he stood up. “I can tell by your face it gives something away. What?”

             
“I don’t know how to tell you, but it’s the diary of a plot of treason. Treason, David.
Successful
treason.”

             
“What do you mean successful treason? There was no successful treason in the fifteenth century, discounting the war of the roses and related politics, of course. What don’t we know? A treason plot against whom?”

             
“Against King Edward the Fifth and Prince Richard! We have found the diary detailing every aspect of the assassination of King Edward the Fifth.”

“
Edward the Fifth? Jesus, Jeff, the brothers.”

“The brothers,” Jeff repeated back to him.
“Mate, we’ve solved the mystery of the boys in the Tower.”

             
“My God,” David whispered as he sat back down to think. No historian or investigator had ever been able to put an answer to the mystery. After King Edward the Fourth died, his brother Richard, Duke of Gloucester, took the heir King Edward the Fifth and his brother, also Richard, to the Tower of London. They were declared illegitimate, the Duke was crowned King Richard the Third shortly after and they were never seen again. “Is it as we thought?” he added.

“Not even close
.”

“Not Richard?
Henry Tudor?”

             
“Nothing previously considered, anywhere.”

“
Well, who wrote it?”

             
“It’s not clear who the author is, but it lists the full plot. And, it names Lord Edmund Courtridge of Exeter as the co-ordinator of the plot.  Lord Edmund Courtridge.”

Two

June 1
st
2014

             
“Hi, thanks for coming in to see me, John. I’ve got something to talk to you about.”

             
“No worries,” answered Detective Inspector John Bridge as he sat down in the office of Will Sharp, his Superintendent of 3 years and the head of the Metropolitan Police’s East London Murder Investigation Teams. It was ten in the morning and John was used to being hauled into his boss’ office for a grilling on the latest investigation. “What can I help you with?”

             
“How’s the latest job going? Anything come from the post-mortem?”

             
“The pathologist noted the knife wounds in the torso were deep but not vital. She thinks the fatality was caused by a blow to the back of the neck. There are fractures caused by blunt trauma to the C1 and C2 vertebrae, and there’s a large haemorrhage to the back of the kid’s brain.”

             
“And the lad in the text messages?”

“Hid
ing out in his girlfriend’s shed. By all accounts I think he actually shit himself when the uniform ripped it to its foundations. He’s in Forest Gate custody now.”

             
“Good, good! Well done, mate. So, as that’s in hand, I need to take you off the job for a while.”

             
“Really? What’s up?”

             
“I don’t know, actually. It’s come from the Yard. I believe you know Derek Pritchard?”

             
“Yeah, I know Del. I was at Hendon with him. He was a good mate for a long time but then we lost touch as he started jumping up the ranks and moving about wherever he was needed. The way he was going, he must be a Super by now.”

             
“Commander, actually. But he won’t tell me where he works. ‘An office in Scotland Yard’ he said. Either way, he’s asked you down there to assist him with a job. I said I’d release you, if you want to of course?”

             
John knew the nature of the job in an instant. He’d worked all over the Met in his twenty years police service and had eventually settled as a DI in the Murder team as his day job. But for fifteen years he’d also worked as an undercover officer whenever he was summoned to do so and Derek had been in the same business. The boss Will Sharp had never known the full extent of it; as none of his bosses had. But his ex-wife did, and six months ago after his last deployment, he promised her he’d drop the extra work for the sake of their children.