Rat?”
“It’s short for Ratcliffe,” Mitchell said.
“It’s all to do with history,” Brian added. “The village goes back a long way; most of them from the old side of the village can trace their ancestors back to the Middle Ages.”
“The old side?”
“Aye. Everything this side of the river is the old side. Or the posh side as we call it.”
The comment intrigued her. As a history student, Jen was aware that a William Catesby, Richard Ratcliffe and Francis Lovell had been prominent statesmen during the reign of Richard III. She thought back to earlier that day, particularly the cloisters of the church. Many of the windows were concerned with that period of history.
She knew that Yorkshiremen were always proud of their history.
Her mind began to wander. Ratcliffe’s nephew had been a friend of Debra Harrison; perhaps they had been even more than friends. The Ratcliffes were clearly a family of prominence in these parts, the head of the current generation particularly high profile. She wondered what had happened to the nephew. Ideally she wanted to interview him, see if he could shed any light on Debra Harrison’s last days – assuming, of course, she was dead.
Should that fail, an interview with the man’s uncle could surely do no harm.
Had the last election gone the other way, the man could well have been the current Prime Minister.
9
Buckingham Palace
The young man strode purposefully up the stairs and turned left on reaching the second-floor corridor. After twenty-eight years, he knew every inch of the building, and the various artworks, mostly portraits of his family and ancestors, appeared as little more than dots on the landscape.
He knew the stories of most, and of the remainder he had at least a passing knowledge. As a Winchester, his education had included detailed study of the family’s history from an early age, but, unlike some of his relatives, for him, it had continued into adulthood. As usual for members of his family, his life up until now had largely been mapped out for him. His education had included five years of boarding at Winchester College, followed by a degree at Oxford. Keeping to the strengths of his youth, he chose history.
It had been both a blessing and a curse.
The young man followed the corridor toward one of the far doors and stopped as he passed a mirror.
He looked himself over. His brown hair was slightly askew, the inevitable result of over an hour standing in the windy grounds. He hated the formal occasions, particularly when they were televised.
At least this one was over.
Satisfied he appeared presentable, he continued to the far door and knocked. Immediately he was welcomed.
Like most rooms in the palace, the setting was lavish and the furniture predominantly Victorian. A brown French carpet from the 18th century covered the wooden floor, surrounded by an antique chest and several side tables decorated with photographs of the present family. Two large portraits of his grandparents hung from the bright cyan-coloured walls, accompanied by masterpieces by Canaletto, Gainsborough and Monet, and a gilt mirror that reflected the evening sunlight as it entered through the large windows overlooking the grounds.
Standing by the windows was his uncle, better known to most as His Majesty King Stephen II. He had reigned less than a month and was still to be crowned.
The King smiled at his nephew. “Take off your jacket, Thomas – there’s a good chap.”
The prince obeyed, taking care to fold the fine material before placing it down on the back of the nearest chair. Beneath it, he wore the black regimental uniform of an army captain.
Standing opposite, the King was also dressed in military uniform, in his case an Admiral of the Fleet, a courtesy for the sovereign, but only a small exaggeration of his real-life service, peaking at the rank of commodore.
“Father says you wished to see me, M-Majesty,” the young man stuttered on the final
“It’s short for Ratcliffe,” Mitchell said.
“It’s all to do with history,” Brian added. “The village goes back a long way; most of them from the old side of the village can trace their ancestors back to the Middle Ages.”
“The old side?”
“Aye. Everything this side of the river is the old side. Or the posh side as we call it.”
The comment intrigued her. As a history student, Jen was aware that a William Catesby, Richard Ratcliffe and Francis Lovell had been prominent statesmen during the reign of Richard III. She thought back to earlier that day, particularly the cloisters of the church. Many of the windows were concerned with that period of history.
She knew that Yorkshiremen were always proud of their history.
Her mind began to wander. Ratcliffe’s nephew had been a friend of Debra Harrison; perhaps they had been even more than friends. The Ratcliffes were clearly a family of prominence in these parts, the head of the current generation particularly high profile. She wondered what had happened to the nephew. Ideally she wanted to interview him, see if he could shed any light on Debra Harrison’s last days – assuming, of course, she was dead.
Should that fail, an interview with the man’s uncle could surely do no harm.
Had the last election gone the other way, the man could well have been the current Prime Minister.
9
Buckingham Palace
The young man strode purposefully up the stairs and turned left on reaching the second-floor corridor. After twenty-eight years, he knew every inch of the building, and the various artworks, mostly portraits of his family and ancestors, appeared as little more than dots on the landscape.
He knew the stories of most, and of the remainder he had at least a passing knowledge. As a Winchester, his education had included detailed study of the family’s history from an early age, but, unlike some of his relatives, for him, it had continued into adulthood. As usual for members of his family, his life up until now had largely been mapped out for him. His education had included five years of boarding at Winchester College, followed by a degree at Oxford. Keeping to the strengths of his youth, he chose history.
It had been both a blessing and a curse.
The young man followed the corridor toward one of the far doors and stopped as he passed a mirror.
He looked himself over. His brown hair was slightly askew, the inevitable result of over an hour standing in the windy grounds. He hated the formal occasions, particularly when they were televised.
At least this one was over.
Satisfied he appeared presentable, he continued to the far door and knocked. Immediately he was welcomed.
Like most rooms in the palace, the setting was lavish and the furniture predominantly Victorian. A brown French carpet from the 18th century covered the wooden floor, surrounded by an antique chest and several side tables decorated with photographs of the present family. Two large portraits of his grandparents hung from the bright cyan-coloured walls, accompanied by masterpieces by Canaletto, Gainsborough and Monet, and a gilt mirror that reflected the evening sunlight as it entered through the large windows overlooking the grounds.
Standing by the windows was his uncle, better known to most as His Majesty King Stephen II. He had reigned less than a month and was still to be crowned.
The King smiled at his nephew. “Take off your jacket, Thomas – there’s a good chap.”
The prince obeyed, taking care to fold the fine material before placing it down on the back of the nearest chair. Beneath it, he wore the black regimental uniform of an army captain.
Standing opposite, the King was also dressed in military uniform, in his case an Admiral of the Fleet, a courtesy for the sovereign, but only a small exaggeration of his real-life service, peaking at the rank of commodore.
“Father says you wished to see me, M-Majesty,” the young man stuttered on the final
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