“Really?” the man asked, his voice filled with skepticism.
“Really,” Kevin said.
“These . . . families, as you call them, have been running your government and your lives for many decades, Professor Tanner. Just like the royal families in Shakespeare’s time. In public they may show their good works and charities, as they run for office and for influence, but in private, it’s quite different. They lie, they cheat, and they steal, and oftentimes they kill. Look at your own news reports over the years, when famed members of these families would often die.”
“What do you mean? They kill each other?”
Lancaster made a dismissive motion with a long hand. “Of course. Again, look at the news reports. Many times, members of your royal family — a Kennedy, a du Pont, a Rockefeller — perishes. Sometimes it’s called a drug overdose. Other times, an accidental shooting. And in one memorable case a few years ago, a plane crash. Those are the cover stories. The real stories are darker, more malignant, as they kill each other, always vying for power, for influence, for money.”
Kevin sighed. The shadows were getting longer, it was getting cooler, and he recalled the size of the bed waiting for him back at the Savoy. He said, “No offense, Mister Lancaster, but I think you’re nuts. Again, no offense. The story of royal families in the United States, acting like characters from Shakespeare ... Well, it’s too fantastic.”
“Is it, now?” he asked. “Think of young John F. Kennedy, Jr., the one who died in that plane crash. He was a charming young man, of middling intelligence and skills. But what did he have going for him? Any extraordinary talents, any extraordinary gifts? Not really, am I right? He was just a pleasant young man. Yet tell me, Professor Tanner, if he had decided to enter politics, perhaps as a congressman, how long before he would be a leading candidate for president on the Democratic ticket? Two years? Four? Do you doubt that?”
And the truth is, Kevin couldn’t doubt what the old man was saying about that particular subject, because it made sense. In his own home state of Massachusetts, old Teddy Kennedy was the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla of politics, swatting down ineffectual opponents every six years, like King Kong on top of the Empire State Building, swatting down aircraft. Not to mention the Kennedy offspring that had been spun off from Massachusetts, setting up their own political dynasties in Rhode Island, New York, and Maryland ...
“So you’re telling me that John-John was murdered, is that it?” Kevin asked.
Lancaster slowly shrugged. “A possibility, that’s all I can say. Just a possibility. But there’s a reality we need for you to look at. A very real event that happened almost forty years ago. A lifetime, for sure, but the death of your own young princes is still a topic that bestirs the imagination, does it not?”
With this odd talk and the cooling weather and the harsh cries of the ravens — legend had it that if they were ever to leave the Tower, England would fall, which is why they had their wings clipped — Kevin was starting to get seriously spooked. The Tower of London no longer seemed to be the cheery tourist attraction that it had been earlier. His imagination could bring forth all of the bloody and horrible deeds that had taken place among these buildings, among these battlements. He suddenly wished that this gaunt man had never contacted him, had never pulled him away from his comfortable little life at Lovecraft University. He wished now he had tossed away that thick airmail envelope with royal mail emblazoned in the upper right corner.
“Yes, the two princes — the two Kennedys — still bestir the imagination,” Kevin said. “But I have to ask you again, who are you people? And why me?”
Lancaster shifted his weight. “Very well. A fair question. For the past few hundred years, ever since Shakespeare’s time, this poor little globe has been under the influence of these families, who front companies, governments, and armies. As time passes, they have formed two alliances. Not a firm alliance — there are shifts here and there — but groupings of interest.”
The old man made a noise like a sigh, as if he had worked hard every day, carrying a heavy burden on those thin shoulders. “Our group believes in the freedom of the individual, in concentrating power in the smallest possible arena. Where you have an open press, a Freedom of Information Act, legitimate elections, you can trust that our group or its allies have been behind it. “
“So that’s your group,” Kevin said. “And the other one?”
“The second group has as its goal power: power of a government over people, a corporation over people, of one group of people over another. When you read about a newspaper in Russia being closed, when you read about Internet software that can track you on-line, when you read about Balkan tribes slaughtering each other, you can be sure this group is behind it. By their actions, by their deeds, they are the offspring of Richard the Third. For lack of a better phrase, we call them Richard’s Children.”
“You do, do you,” Kevin said, now convinced that he was spending the afternoon with a madman. “And what do you call yourselves?”
A thin smile. “You’re a bright young man. I’m sure you can figure it out.”
Then it struck him. The red rose in the lapel. The last name. “The War of the Roses . . . The House of York fighting against the House of Lancaster. White rose versus red rose. Is that it?”
A crisp nod. “Very good. You’re correct. It’s been a long struggle, over generations and generations, but now we feel it’s time to strike a blow. Despite the fall of the Berlin Wall and communism, Richard’s Children and their allies are gathering strength. It’s time to bring things out in the open.”
“Which is where I come in?”
“Exactly,” Lancaster said. “Meaning no offense, but an anonymous professor from an obscure college comes across documentation and facts about the murder of America’s two young princes. His book becomes a worldwide bestseller. The evidence he presents is irrefutable. The major news organizations, upset that such a scoop and story have escaped them over the years, perform their own research, based on the leads that this young professor has uncovered. And when these leads are followed, they will end up in some very interesting areas of inquiry. Richard’s Children will have to retreat, maybe for decades, maybe long enough so that a true human civilization can emerge, a civilization based on the sanctity of the individual.”
Lancaster reached into his coat pocket, withdrew a thick brown envelope. “In here you will find some evidence. But not the whole story, and nothing so directly offered, of course.”
Kevin refused to take the offered envelope. “What do you mean, nothing so directly offered?”
“What I mean is that you will be offered leads, avenues to explore,” Lancaster said. “It makes sense that way, does it not? For if everything is offered to you on a silver platter, then it will be shown that you performed little or no original research on your part. Your work, your published book, will be roundly criticized and ignored. But if you follow these leads” — he wiggled the envelope back and forth — “all will become clear. Everything. And your life will change in ways you can’t imagine.”
Kevin waited, watched the man who was offering so much. But what was behind that offer? Lancaster said, “Enclosed in the envelope, of course, is another stipend. About five thousand dollars.”
Again, Kevin waited. He finally said, “There’s no guarantee, you know. Publishers aren’t exactly lining up outside my office to sign me up for a new book. I could write this and nothing would happen.”
“I doubt that,” Lancaster said. “And speaking of doubts, don’t believe that we won’t be watching you. Do the research, do the work that goes into this book. Don’t entertain any thoughts of going back home to your little place and pretend this meeting didn’t happen, that you don’t have an obligation. Have I made myself clear?”
His hand seemed to move of its own volition as it grasped the heavy envelope. “Yes. Quite clear.”
“Good. We’ll be in touch.”
Kevin bent over to place th
e envelope in his knapsack, and when he raised his head, Lancaster was gone. He looked around at the paths, now almost entirely deserted of tourists, and he got up himself and shouldered his bag. Within a few minutes he was on a crowded sidewalk, heading for the Tower Hill tube station, and the knapsack — with the envelope safely inside — felt like a boulder.
~ * ~
Two days later, in his room at the Savoy — which had cost as much as two months’ rent in his apartment back home — Kevin looked at his meager collection of luggage. His head was still spinning, for in the two days he had had by himself in London, he tried to put Mister Lancaster and that envelope out of his mind. He had caught an afternoon matinee performance at the London Lyceum of The Lion King, had spent an entire day touring the British Museum, and in one surprisingly sunny morning, he had actually caught the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. He found himself enjoying London and its people and the black taxicabs and the tube system, even though at night, back in his room, he kept on being drawn to that envelope. He knew he should open it up and examine the evidence and the stipend, but no, he didn’t want to spoil what little time he had in London. So the envelope had remained closed, like a tiny cage holding a dangerous reptile, one that he wanted to be very careful while opening up.
“‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’” he quoted. “Yeah, Puck, you had that one right.”
And he picked up his bags and left.
~ * ~
On the British Airways flight going home, again he was luxuriating in the comfort and pleasure of flying first class, and he drank a little bit too much champagne. His head and tongue were thick, and he wished he could convince the pilot and crew to keep on flying around the world, stopping only to pick up food and fuel. He was sure that if that would happen, he would gladly spend the rest of his days in this metal cocoon, reading newspapers and magazines, sleeping in luxury, eating the finest food — compared to what he could whip up at home in his own kitchen — served by conscientious helpers and watching the latest movies.
It would be an odd life, a strange life, but one worth it, so long as he could avoid thinking about his knapsack and that envelope, up there in the overhead bin.
He had one more glass of champagne, and then slept the rest of the way home.
~ * ~
His apartment was in an old house, built near the Merrimack River in Newburyport, Massachusetts. He knew he paid an extra hundred dollars a month for the privilege of a river view, and most days he thought it was worth it. He sat in his office, brooding, staring at the piles of papers, books, and file folders that represented a book in progress, a book that was months, if not years, away from being finished. Kevin powered up his computer, looked at the little folder icon that represented his months of work. Two Richards was going to be the name of it, contrasting Richard III with Richard Nixon. And damn that Lancaster character — he knew he was nowhere near completing it on time and in the way he wanted it done. At the beginning, he had wanted a dark, brooding book, full of facts and contrasts. A book that would safely secure his tenure, would at last make a mark in the world. And now?
Now it was stuck in the mud, just like Lancaster had said.
Sitting in his dark office, he usually got a feeling of peace and tranquility, here among his books and papers. But not this evening, not after that strange meeting at the Tower. Those people — he doubted Lancaster could have pulled everything off on his own — had poked and pried into his life, knew almost everything about him. He picked up the envelope from his desk. Such a choice. Continue working on Two Richards, or dive into the ravings of a lunatic.
He looked up on the wall, where a tiny framed portrait of the Bard looked down at him. “Old Will,” he said aloud, “did you ever have days like this? With odd people and noblemen coming to you, demanding you write about them or their families or adventures? Did you?”
The portrait remained silent. Of course. If Will had started talking to him, Kevin would have gotten up and driven to the hospital, demanding to be admitted.
Things were odd, things might be mad, but they weren’t that bad.
Not yet.
He picked up the envelope, took a letter opener, and slit open the top.
Inside were three sheets of blank white paper, folded over. Inside was another cashier’s check, drawn on the Midlands Bank, for three thousand pounds. About five thousand dollars, give or take. And beside the check and the paper were two 8-by-10 glossy black-and-white prints, also folded over. He switched on the overhead lamp on his desk, flattened out both photos. The air in the office seemed to get suddenly cold and damp. Both photos he recognized, though he had never been at either location in his entire life. The first showed a black open-top Lincoln limousine parked outside a hospital. Police officers and reporters and other people were clustered around the luxury car, their mouths open in shock, some of the people holding up hands to their faces. It looked like a bright and sunny day, and near the car was the emergency room entrance to the hospital.
But of course. Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas. November 22, 1963.
The second photo was of a crowded hallway in a building of some sort, people clustered about, some reporters standing on chairs or tables, trying to get a better view, police officers trying to hold the crowd back. A man was on the ground, and only his feet were visible. As in the other photo, the people’s faces were almost the same, mirroring shock, disbelief, anger.
And of course, the second photo was the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles. June 4, 1968.
America’s two young princes. Murdered.
He stared at the photos for a long time, knowing of the official stories, the ones that said both men, both young princes, had been cut down by deranged men with dark passions and grudges. Kevin had never really paid that much attention to the various conspiracy theories and stories, but now, since his meeting with Lancaster . . . He looked again at the faces of the people in the crowds. Citizens of a nation, confident that their leaders and rulers were freely elected every two, four, or six years. Not a nation as in Shakespeare’s time, ruled by royalty and extended families, with long knives and longer memories.
But what was the point of the two photos? What was their meaning? Back at the Tower, Lancaster said that only leads would be provided. Not information. Not direct clues. No, just leads, so that Kevin would have to work and work at it to get the leads to uncovering the story of the century, and perhaps the story of the millennium.
He sighed, went back to looking at each photo, sparing a glance up at the print of Shakespeare.
“What the hell are you looking at?” he grumbled as he picked up the first photo.
~ * ~
Kevin woke with a start, tangled up in his sheets and blankets. A dream had come to him, a dream of running along a muddy path, chased by wraiths armed with long knives and pikes, closing in on him. He rubbed at his eyes and mouth, feeling his legs tremble from the memory of the dream. He rarely ever had nightmares, but this one had been a doozy. He rolled over and sat up, looking out at the night. Like his office, his bedroom had a view of the Merrimack River, and he could make out the red and green navigation lights of a fishing craft, heading out to the cold Atlantic for a hard day of fishing.
He rubbed at the base of his neck, wondering what about the dream had disturbed him so. He had spent several hours holed up in his office before going to bed. He had looked at each photo until he was almost cross-eyed. He had gone on the Internet and had quickly been sucked into the strange world of conspiracies and plots. A few Web sites he had gone to had even hinted at the story Lancaster had been peddling, about powerful interests and families ruling the world, but those sites had gone off the edge with racist nonsense about religious cabals.
After a quick dinner of macaroni and cheese and an hour decompressing before the television, he had gone to bed and had instantly gone to sleep, until that dark dream had come upon him.
What in the hell was he doing? he thought. An obscure English
teacher at an even more obscure college, supposedly holding the key to a worldwide conspiracy? Please. No doubt he had fallen in league with some elaborate prank of some eccentric Englishman, trying to gain some amusement by making Kevin run around like a fool, chasing down spirits and ghosts.
Spirits and ghosts, just like the wraiths chasing him in that dream, wraiths that were frightening and uniform in their appearance . . .
Uniform.
That thought stuck with him. Why?
Uniform. Uniform wraiths, armed and heading toward him . . .
He stumbled out of bed, almost fell as a sheet tripped him up, and went back to his office, switching on the lights. The office looked strange, illuminated at such a time in the morning, but he didn’t care. He grabbed both photos, took a magnifying glass, and started looking. His chest started thumping, and the hand holding the magnifying glass began shaking. He took deep breaths, tried to calm down, and looked again.
Dallas, Texas. Outside the hospital, holding back part of the crowd. A man dressed in a policeman’s uniform, nose prominent, a nice profile shot.