Three Kings Read online

  ‘So, you don’t look like much.’

  ‘So many have said, sir.’

  ‘According to this,’ he laid a hand on a file and Noel recognized the tabbing as being from the archives of the Silver Helix, ‘you were one of the Helix’s elite agents specializing in … er … clean-up until your … retirement.’

  Noel realized why he was here and his impression that Henry was a right bastard was now solidified. He strolled closer to the desk.

  ‘Shall we dispense with the euphemisms, sir? I killed people for the Helix and by logical extension with the blessings of the British government. And I didn’t retire, I stole sensitive information and used it to blackmail them so they would leave me alone. I presume my particular skill set has been taken on by another, but you’re not talking to that person so I must conclude that this conversation isn’t taking place.’

  The response from the King wasn’t what he expected. Henry laughed. ‘They told me you were a cheeky bastard.’

  ‘Dare I ask who?’

  ‘A couple of your former colleagues. They said they trained you.’

  Noel couldn’t imagine the Lion or Turing saying such a thing. It sounded much more like the lowborn, uncouth Spraggses, a married couple who had beaten him to a pulp during hand-to-hand training and enjoyed it far too much.

  ‘So, let me get to the point, Mr Matthews.’ Henry moved to a large mahogany bar in the corner of the room. ‘Drink?’ he offered, lifting a bottle.

  ‘Please. I suspect I’m going to need it.’

  Henry returned with two glasses. Noel took a sip. It was a dark, smoky Scotch and it was very good. Henry motioned them to a pair of armchairs in front of the fireplace. ‘You know that my aunt Elizabeth bore a child.’

  Noel cast his mind back to history classes at Cambridge. ‘Yes, it was stillborn …’ His voice trailed away and he looked up to meet Henry’s gaze.

  ‘Ah, I see I don’t have to elaborate. It was a boy and a joker. It was alive when it was taken from the palace. I need to know if that infant grew up and is still among us.’

  ‘I see … and if he did I gather you’d like me to change his status?’

  ‘I can see you are a very circumspect man. I like that,’ said Henry.

  ‘I’m also a traditionalist and a royalist.’ Henry looked pleased at that but the expression curdled when Noel continued, ‘Which means that this child, should he have survived, is King, and I owe him my loyalty.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you for the opportunity to visit the palace. Interesting to see something beyond the tour or on the telly.’

  ‘It’s considered rude to leave until you are dismissed. You might want to hear me out.’

  ‘Going to offer me a knighthood?’ Noel tried to prevent his lip from curling, but suspected he had failed.

  ‘No. Though if you were to do a service to the Crown you might be rewarded. No, this is more by nature of a warning.’ Henry also stood up and they measured gazes. ‘I understand you are locked in a legal battle regarding the custody of your son.’ An oily sickness began to fill Noel’s stomach. ‘I expect the Crown Prosecution Service could be persuaded to take an interest in whether the child was taken by force and whether you are in fact a kidnapper.’

  Have a stroke, have a stroke, have a stroke. It had become a mantra running through Noel’s mind as he stared at Henry. The satisfaction on the man’s face made him want to use some of the more esoteric skills he had been taught that resulted in death.

  ‘Conversely, efforts could be made on your behalf so that you achieve the desired outcome.’

  For long moments the only sound in the room was the ticking of the eighteenth-century clock on the desk. Ironically, it sported a figure of resting Justice reclining against the clock face, her sword a flash of gold in the shadowed room. A counterpoint tapping joined the clock as a crow pecked at the glass of the window.

  ‘Fine,’ Noel snapped. ‘Have you anything that might aid me in this pursuit?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Just the date, November 14th, 1948. Good hunting, Mr Matthews. And now you are dismissed.’

  Noel inclined his head. Not as much as when he had entered. A small piece of rebellion against the bonds that now held him.

  Wednesday

  March 4th

  OVER THE YEARS NOEL had come to Constance Russell several times for one of her special suits. They had saved his life when targets or their guards had tried to shoot him or knife him. He didn’t expect a seventy-two-year-old joker would pose much of a threat to him, but experience had taught him to be cautious and assume nothing.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors in the elegant outer room of the shop. There were lines in his face now and his brown hair held flecks of grey. The years had certainly taken their toll since he’d first entered these doors as a sixteen-year-old. He wasn’t even counting the scars that littered his body.

  He also deliberately left out the word ‘innocent’ when describing his sixteen-year-old self. He doubted he had ever been innocent. One of his victims had called him a psychopath; personally he thought he was more of a sociopath. He had adored his father and had loved Niobe until she thwarted him, and his love for Jasper would drive him to any lengths, up to and including killing an elderly joker.

  ‘Noel, my dearest boy, how are you?’ Her bell-like tones were blurred a bit with the quaver of age, but Constance was still the vivacious, elegantly attired woman he had first met twenty-three years ago.

  ‘As good as can be expected with forty looming, but you … you are timeless and beautiful.’ Though if truth be told he thought she looked stressed and haggard.

  She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a suspicious look. ‘So what are you after?’ A hint of her East End roots slipped through the cultured accent.

  He pulled her off to the side, away from any employees. ‘I need a suit.’

  She did not mistake his question. ‘Why? You’re retired. Or so I was told by your compatriots, who by the way are none too happy with you, so I’m gathering your parting wasn’t all that amicable.’

  ‘That would be an understatement. Let’s leave it at this: I have been tasked with a job by a government official, and since I don’t want leave my nine-year-old son fatherless I’d like to take no risks. That’s why I came to you for help.’ He gave her his best smile, and mentally checked off one of the psychological traits: manipulativeness.

  She stared up at him, brushed the hair back off his forehead, sighed. He knew she was seeing the boy, not the man. ‘All right, let’s get you measured. Though I doubt you have changed much.’

  ‘Perhaps a bit heavier since the last time. Middle age, you know.’

  She led him into a private fitting room. He removed his jacket while she gathered up her tape measure. ‘Did you think you’d live to see it?’ Constance asked as she took the first measurement down his back.

  Noel thought about that for a moment and realized he wasn’t really surprised by his conclusion. ‘Yes, I actually did.’ He glanced back over his shoulder and gave her a smile as she wrote down the number. ‘You see, I’m clever as well as vicious, and most of my opponents, while they excel at being vicious, haven’t been very clever. Or at least not as clever as me.’

  She had continued to measure while he talked, and now as she drew the tape around his chest she felt the ridged tissue around his left pectoral. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she unbuttoned his shirt. Her fingers were cool against the scars that ringed his breast and crossed his abdomen, though her touch brought a faint throb of pain.

  ‘Looks like someone came close,’ she said.

  ‘Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades,’ he countered.

  ‘What the bloody hell does that mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah, perhaps I was too long in America. It means that there is no close in death. It’s a rather binary situation. Fortunately I’m on the living side of it.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad, though you are a bit of a bastard.’ She buttoned his sh
irt and finished. As she was writing down the final numbers she gave an unconscious sigh.

  ‘Business good?’ Noel asked as he donned his coat. He checked his phone then out of habit paired his phone to Constance’s.

  ‘Yes, though my staff is on edge. I hire a lot of jokers and, well—’ She broke off abruptly and he realized there was more to the story, but she didn’t elaborate. She made a vague gesture. ‘You see how things are. And my partner is missing.’

  ‘Partner as in romantic partner or business partner?’ Noel asked.

  The question seemed to stop her for a moment and Noel watched as her thoughts turned inward. ‘Business,’ she finally said. ‘It’s just that in this climate I’d like to know he’s all right.’

  ‘I take it he is a joker.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, if he’s smart he’ll have headed for friendlier climes.’

  ‘I … I hurt him, and if anything were to happen to him I … well, I wouldn’t have a chance to repair things.’ She correctly read his growing boredom, and the fact he was edging towards the door. Constance gave a sigh. ‘I should know better than to look to you for sympathy. Do you care about anything … anyone, Noel?’

  He didn’t answer, just touched two fingers to his forehead in a brief salute. ‘I need a rush on that suit, Constance.’

  She looked at him sadly. ‘I suppose I got my answer.’

  The door to the atelier slammed shut and Constance breathed a sigh of relief. Noel was in one of his famous moods and, though she’d only been on the receiving end of them a few times, she wasn’t a fan. He was snide and cruel and, at times, a bit of a bitch.

  Luckily, over the years she’d got faster at making her special clothing – not that she’d ever let on – and she could easily get both Noel’s and Henry’s suits done. The only thing that might slow her down was her arthritis and wanting to sleep, but there were drugs of a wide variety for both things.

  She went to her wall of fabric and debated which would work best for Noel. He was a bit of a dandy, but in a good way. At least, he knew how to dress and understood quality when he saw it. After all, she’d taught him.

  But she couldn’t concentrate on fabric. Her concern for Bobbin kept ruining her concentration. She shut the doors to the case with a sigh.

  The previous night she’d rung the police station and was informed, in an amazingly condescending manner, that an adult man – even in his seventies – missing for less than twenty-four hours was hardly a cause for alarm. She was none too polite in her reply and was informed that until seventy-two hours had passed there would be no investigation into the matter.

  ‘Ya couldn’t find yer arse with both yer hands,’ she snapped.

  ‘Well that’s as may be, ma’am,’ came the reply. ‘But I’m not going looking for my arse or your friend until seventy-two hours have passed.’

  Constance had tapped the off button on her phone, but it lacked the satisfaction she had once had from slamming a handset into its cradle.

  It was the second day of Bobbin being gone and she didn’t care what the police thought about how long someone should be missing before deciding something had to have happened to them. Bobbin was a joker and things weren’t safe for jokers since Henry IX became King. In only a couple of days the incidence of attacks on jokers had jumped precipitously.

  She considered her choices. None of them was good. There was one possibility, but its price would be high. That didn’t matter. She just wanted Bobbin found as soon as possible. The number she needed was still in her contacts list after all this time. She dialled it.

  ‘It’s me,’ she said when her call was answered. ‘I want a meeting.’

  ‘So who the Devil are you supposed to be this time?’

  That distinctive whisper emerging from between stone lips sent Noel momentarily tumbling back in time. Sixteen, frightened, in the custody of this terrifying towering figure that seemed carved from granite. The glowing red eyes were once more glaring down at him. It was hard to tell if Flint was actually angry with Noel or if it was just his manner due to the way the wild card had twisted his body.

  ‘I’m your new French lawyer who is going to argue on your behalf.’

  ‘Would that you actually were.’

  ‘Never. You’re going to die here.’ It was said with a smile.

  ‘Or perhaps these walls might crumble before I do,’ Flint countered. ‘Well, what is it you want, Noel, now that you have managed to allow us to meet without the inconvenience of cameras or microphones?’

  It had been a hectic morning. After leaving Constance, Noel had transformed into his male avatar and teleported to his apartment in Vienna where he kept a stash of passports for all three of his personae, extra computers, various outfits both male and female and an array of weaponry.

  There he had collected a French passport and supporting documentation that Monsieur Dujardin was a civil rights lawyer along with the appropriate attire. He had then teleported to the Hague, returned to his own form, changed clothes and donned a pair of fussy wire-rimmed glasses and affected a mincing gait and a nervous tic of wiping his nose with a large handkerchief. Even though his French was very good, he wouldn’t have attempted the ruse in France, but he was confident he could carry it off in Holland.

  And such seemed to be the case, for he now found himself in a secure room with Kenneth Foxworthy, former military officer and one-time head of the Silver Helix. He was also the man who had recruited Noel into the order and decreed he be trained as an assassin.

  Noel took a seat and lit a cigarette. Flint didn’t risk testing the tensile strength of the chairs in the interview room, so he remained standing. ‘This concerns the royals so I’d appreciate your discretion,’ Noel said.

  ‘You have it … and my interest,’ Flint replied.

  ‘Rumour has it that the child Elizabeth had in ’48 wasn’t stillborn, but was a joker.’

  ‘Well, that would certainly upset the apple cart.’

  ‘You ever hear any whispers about that?’

  Flint drew his fingers thoughtfully down his cheek, drawing sparks. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. My body became completely immobile in ’47, and people believed I was dead. I was buried in my home village and my resurrection didn’t occur until the early fifties. And the Helix wasn’t founded until ’52.’

  ‘Shit.’ Noel dropped the butt of his Muratti onto the floor and ground it out beneath his shoe. ‘Nothing lurking in the files at the Helix?’

  ‘Do your own research. After all, you stole the files.’

  ‘I wasn’t interested in ancient history. I took the more recent files, nineteen sixties forward, that detailed our less savoury activities.’ He stood and moved to the door. ‘Well, this was a waste of time.’

  ‘Who are you working for, Noel?’

  ‘Why? Does it matter?’

  ‘Whatever you might think of me, I’m still a patriot. If what you’re suggesting is true it could—’

  ‘Tear the country apart?’

  Flint nodded. ‘I also know your particular skill set and that has me concerned.’

  ‘I’ll say this much. You know I’m a total bastard. You also know I love my country. I’m not working for her enemies so if you can help me this would be the time to do it.’

  The fire in Flint’s eyes flared and he gave another nod. ‘You have to understand that after the virus was released people were terrified. Wild cards were shunned, even the aces. None of us would have been trusted with something like this. If this rumour is accurate any … arrangement for the child would probably have been handled by MI5.’

  ‘Is there anybody left from around that time who might know something?’ Noel asked.

  ‘Possibly. I would speak with Charlie Soper. I expect he’s retired by now, but he was a clever bloke. He might know something.’

  ‘He’ll be here in a bit. You want a cup of tea?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Constance replied.

  ‘Right,’ the w
oman said as she walked to the door. ‘I’m Wayfarer. If you need anything, just shout.’ She left the room, shutting the door behind her.

  Constance glanced around the office. It was neat and tidy. The desk was made of maple with a burl inset on top. Three Montblanc Meisterstücks rested neatly on the left side of the desk. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected. Maybe something like the Krays’ place where there was the constant threat of violence in the air even when they were gone. This felt more like the office of a very fastidious, but also very wealthy, government official.

  The door opened and she pushed herself out of her chair.

  ‘Please,’ Green Man said. ‘Don’t stand up for me.’

  Constance nodded then sank back down.

  ‘What can I do for you, Miss Russell?’ he asked. His voice was sonorous and Constance thought it sounded perfect for someone whose joker had turned them into wood.

  ‘I need your help finding someone,’ she replied.

  He rested his hands on the desk; the grain complemented his skin. Much to her surprise, Constance found herself comforted by the solid quality of him.

  ‘How long have they been missing?’ he asked. He reached out and adjusted pens which needed no straightening.

  ‘He’s been gone,’ she replied, ‘well, since Monday night … late.’

  ‘He’s been gone a day?’

  ‘Day and a half!’

  ‘He could just have drunk too much and be sleeping it off,’ Green Man said. It was clear he was annoyed.

  ‘He’s not!’

  Green Man held up his hands. One of his arms looked a little as if it was starting to grow leaves. ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ he said, placating her. ‘I see you’re quite concerned.’

  ‘You should be too, Green Man,’ she snapped. He might have been a gangster, and probably involved with the Fists, but she’d dealt with those types before. Fear was what they thrived on. ‘He’s a joker. Just an old joker and I thought you protected jokers …’ Anger and fear made her tremble. ‘He’s never gone off like this. Not once! I know I’ll owe you if you help me find him, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is you get him back! His name is Bobbin.’ She stopped and gasped for breath, balling her hands into fists to stop them from shaking.