The Assassin King

For all its once fabulous wealth, the single surviving trace of Temple Bruer was a three-storey limestone tower with a rusted weathercock on its turret, which sat at the end of a private road between a small enclave of modern housing and a tumbledown stone barn with a wired-off chicken run. Anna and Oliver were its only visitors. They parked by the chicken run then went through a latched wooden gate and up a short flight of steps to a heavy door that creaked open to reveal a large gloomy chamber with slit windows, graffiti-scrawled walls and a strange buzzing noise that sounded like faulty wiring until Anna looked up to see that the ceiling was turned almost black by an astonishing swarm of flies.

A narrow spiral stairway led upwards to a similar-sized chamber above. ‘There’s something I don’t get,’ said Oliver, as they searched for they knew not what. ‘Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say that St Maur got worried about having lent too much Templar money to King John, and so decided to hijack the baggage train to get it back. That’s how you see it, right?’

‘Then why still kill John? He’d already pulled off his heist. Going after the king meant taking a huge additional risk even though he’d already got what he wanted.’

Anna frowned. It was a valid question. ‘Maybe he was scared John would work out what he’d done,’ she said. ‘Or maybe he’d just had enough of the man.’ But neither answer satisfied her. She went to stand at one of the windows to gaze out over the patchwork of fields, some tilled, others still coated with their harvest stubble. Oliver came to stand beside her, close enough that their arms brushed. She pulled reflexively away before remembering everything he’d done for her, and also what it was like to have a man in her life, a man she liked and found attractive, so she let it fall back again. He waited a moment then took her hand in his, and it was as warm and sweet as honeyed toast.

The sun was setting behind them and to their left, stretching the tower’s shadow out like a finger across the fields towards an ancient copse. Those weren’t the trees that grabbed Anna’s attention, however. That was rather the pair of stately oaks whose foliage blazed scarlet in the day’s dying rays. She explained their significance to Oliver. They went back down to the BMW. The sealed road ended at the tower, but a badly rutted farm track continued onwards. They bumped along it between open fields to a cobbled lane, surely putting beyond doubt that this was where Uncle Dun had come with his drone. They pulled up by the oaks, got out. Anna opened her laptop on the bonnet to show Oliver the composite she’d made from her uncle’s photos. He came to stand behind her, clasping his arms lightly around her waist, resting his chin upon her shoulder. ‘What are we looking for?’ he asked.

‘Anything unnatural.’

He tilted the screen further backwards, reducing the reflected glow of sunset. They studied the image in silence for a minute or so, until Oliver reached out to trace his fingertip diagonally across the screen. ‘How about this?’ he asked. Anna leaned closer and squinted to make it out. Yes, he was right. There was something there – a faint line of dots and dashes that ran like ancient Morse between Temple Bruer and Wellingore, crossing multiple fields, hedgerows, paths, even a small wood.

‘Your vicar’s underground network?’ he asked.

‘What Uncle Dun saw, at least.’

The line ran almost the full breadth of the screen. He might have dug down at any point along it. Except that these fields were almost as exposed as Warne Farm’s, meaning that he’d surely have had to wait until after dark. Even then, on a moonlit night, he might easily have been spotted by anyone out walking their dog or returning home late from a drink with their neighbours. Except that that wasn’t completely true, for the broken line passed at one point beneath the old copse, and he could have dug there to his heart’s content.

They got back in the BMW and drove on a little way. The sun had fallen behind the western trees, making it gloomy enough for headlights. There was a small walled-off area next to the copse for hikers and picnickers to leave their cars. They parked in it and got out. ‘Have a look at this,’ said Oliver. Anna went around to see. The gatepost had clearly been struck by a vehicle, for several bricks had been dislodged. And recently too, to judge by the paleness of the exposed grey mortar. ‘I’ll bet this was your uncle.’

‘He was too good a driver.’

‘Even if he was overexcited by the silver pennies he’d just found? Even if he had his headlights off for fear of being seen?’ He didn’t wait for her reply, but rather went around to the boot of his BMW for his video camera. ‘To prove we behaved,’ he said, when he saw her disapproval. ‘Just like yesterday morning.’

‘We weren’t trespassing yesterday morning,’ she pointed out. But she let it go, not least because it was dark enough that they’d need the light from its lamp. In fact, she rather wished she had some light of her own. ‘You don’t have a spare torch, by any chance?’ she asked.

‘Only the one on my phone.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘That would be great.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t quite what I…’ But then he laughed and handed it over. She tapped on its torch and led the way into the copse, hoping for the kind of open woodland that pleasant afternoon strolls are made of. It wasn’t like that at all, however, with only a thin animal track wending between the tangled thickets, creepers, nettles, ivy and brambles. She had to high step her way through them with her forearms up, yet still she got stung and scratched and snagged by thorns, from which she had to keep stopping to pluck herself free.

The sun had fully set by now, and the canopy of trees blocked out what little ambient light remained. Inevitably, it stirred memories of her abduction, crashing through woodland that in places had been almost as thick and tangled as this, the dried leaves and dead branches crunching treacherously beneath her feet, making it easy for Harry Kidd to follow her. He’d been the faster too, catching her slowly yet remorselessly, until in the end she’d had no choice but to throw herself to the ground and roll beneath a bush, drawing up her legs, tucking her hands beneath her stomach and burying her face in the earth lest their pallor give her away. Rustling and heavy breathing and a flash of light as Kidd shone a torch right over her before moving on, then having to listen to him as he hunted both closer and further away.

She’d lain there for hours, terrified that he’d been lingering nearby, waiting for her to stir. First light had finally arrived, not only enabling her to see a little, but also to be seen. It had been the most terrifying time of all, her nerves so frayed that she’d imagined him behind every tree. She’d been disoriented too, with no idea which way to go. Then she’d heard sporadic traffic and had crept towards it, reaching a back lane with occasional vehicles passing by, any one of which might have been him still out looking.

She’d waited for enough light to see the drivers’ faces. When a young woman in a blue Mini had approached, Anna had run out to wave her down. Her name had been Sophie Prior. She’d been wonderful. She’d driven her straight to the nearest police station to report her ordeal, and had stayed with her all morning, until Uncle Dun had arrived to take her home. They’d become friends for a while, until the stress of living in Nottingham had become too much and Anna had moved to York in the hope of starting over. Yet she’d taken her trauma with her, slowly reducing her to a huddled mess upon her sofa, a shell of what she’d once been, without friends, pleasures or prospects – at least until Oliver and his documentary had offered her a path back. She glanced gratefully around. He grinned and gave her a wink, buoyant with adventure.

They drew roughly level with the broken line from the photographs. It appeared the same as all the rest, thick with nettles and brambles, and no obvious sign of Uncle Dun ever having been there.