The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

Brendan DuBois Richard’s Children

From Much Ado About Murder

For mid-October, the weather in London was quite warm and the sun was out, another rare occurrence in this cloudy town. Kevin Tanner, assistant professor of English at Lovecraft University in Massachusetts, sat on a park bench in the middle of a small courtyard at the Tower of London. He still felt a bit jet-lagged, like everything he saw was too bright and loud, and the scents and sounds were too strong and forceful. He was near one of the largest stone buildings in the Tower of London complex, the White Tower, and there he waited. He had been here once before, as a grad student, more than sixteen years ago, and it seemed like not much had changed over the years. There were manicured lawns, sidewalks, and walls and battlements and towers, all representing nearly a thousand years of English history. And beyond the Tower complex, the soaring span of the Tower Bridge — looking ancient, of course, but less than a hundred years old — and the wide and magnificent Thames.

At his feet was a small red knapsack, and just a half-hour ago — after spending nearly twenty minutes in line for the privilege of spending eleven pounds to gain entry — a well-dressed and polite security officer had examined his bag and its contents. Inside the bag was a water bottle, two candy bars, a thick guidebook to London, and secured in a zippered pouch within the knapsack, his passport and round-trip airline ticket. He supposed that if the security guard had been more on the job, he would have looked at the airline ticket and inquired as to how an assistant professor at a small college with a savings account of just over two thousand dollars could have afforded a round-trip, first-class airline ticket. Now that would have been something worth investigating.

Despite the oddity of this whole trip and the arrangements, he had enjoyed the flight over. He had never traveled business class in his life, never mind first class, and he felt slightly guilty at having all the attention and comforts of being up in the forward cabin. But after ten or so minutes, he quickly realized why it was so special. How could anybody not want to fly first class if they could afford it? The wide, plush seats, with plenty of elbow- and legroom, and the flight attendants who were at his beck and call. That’s when he felt that familiar flush of anger and embarrassment. Anger at being someone supposedly admired in society, a teacher of children, a molder of future generations, and the only way he could come to England and in first class was through the generosity of strangers. And embarrassment, for he was a grown man, had made grownup choices, and he shouldn’t be angry at that.

Still, he thought, looking down at his bag, it was going to be pleasant flying back.

He looked around him, seeing the crowds of tourists. There were two types: those moving about the grounds of the Tower by themselves, with brochures and maps, and those in large groups following one of the numerous Yeoman Warders, dressed in their dark blue and red Beefeater uniforms. Each uniform had ER written on the chest in fine script. Elizabeth Regina. Kevin crossed his legs, waited, checked his watch. It was 11 A.M., and a man came over to him, wearing a red rose in the lapel of his suit coat. He was tall, gaunt, with thick gray hair combed back in a lionlike mane. The suit and shoes were black, as was the tie, and the shirt was white. The man came to him and nodded.

“Professor Tanner,” he said in a cultured English accent that said it all: Cambridge or Oxford, followed by a civil service position at Whitehall, relaxing in all the right clubs, following the cricket matches on the BBC.

“The same,” Kevin said. “And Mister Lancaster?”

“As well,” he said. “May I join you?”

He shifted on the park bench, turned so he could watch the man sit down and see how he carefully adjusted the pleat of his pants.

“I trust your flight was uneventful?”

“It was,” he said.

“And your room is satisfactory?”

Kevin smiled. “The Savoy is just as it’s advertised. I think even a broom closet would be satisfactory in that place.”

If he was hoping for a response from Mister Lancaster, it didn’t happen. The older man nodded and said, “I see. I appreciate you coming here on such short notice. Will your university miss you?”

“No,” he said, a note of regret in his voice, he realized. “I’m on sabbatical. Supposedly working on a book. Which is why I was able to drop everything to come here and see you.”

“Really, then.”

Kevin paused. “All right, I have to admit, you folks raised my curiosity. A round-trip first-class ticket, first-class accommodations, plus a stipend in pounds equal to about a thousand dollars. All to meet with you at the Tower of London. And to discuss what?”

“Quite,” Lancaster said, folding his long hands over his knees. “History, if you don’t mind. Some history old and history new, all starting here in England.”

“Are you sure you want me?” he asked. “I’m an assistant professor of English. Not history.”

The older man shrugged. “Yes, I know you’re not a professor of history. And yet I know everything there is to know about you, Professor Tanner. Your residence in Newburyport, Massachusetts. Your single life. The courses you teach, your love of Shakespeare and Elizabethan England. Your solitary book, a study of gravestone epitaphs in northern New England, which sold exactly six hundred and four copies two years ago. And the fact that you are currently struggling on another book, one that will guarantee you receive tenure. But that book is nowhere near being completed, am I correct?”

Kevin knew he should be insulted by the fact that this pompous Englishman knew so much about his life, but he was almost feeling honored, that someone should care so much. “All right, you’ve done some research. To what purpose?”

“To help you with this book you’re working on,” Lancaster said.

“Excuse me?”

Lancaster turned away and said, “Look about you, Professor Tanner. Hundreds of years of history, turned into a bloody tourist attraction. The other day I was on a tour here, with a visitor from Germany. One of the Beefeaters told the tourists that the ER on his chest stood for ‘Extremely Romantic.’ Imagine that, making sport of our monarch, in this property that belongs to her. And think about all of the people who have been imprisoned here, from Lady Jane Grey to Sir Walter Raleigh to Rudolf Hess. And in this White Tower behind us, do you know what famous black deed happened there?”

He turned on his bench, looked at the tall building, the line of tourists snaking their way in. “The two princes.”

“Yes, the two princes. Young Edward the Fourth and his younger brother Richard, the Duke of York. Imprisoned here by Richard the Third. You do know Richard the Third, do you not?”

“If you know my background, you already know the answer to that.”

“Ah, yes, Richard the Third. One of the most controversial monarchs this poor, green, sceptered isle has ever seen. Made even more famous by our bard, Mister Shakespeare. ‘Now is the winter of our discontent.’ Either a great man or an evil man, depending on your point of view. And what happened to the young princes, again, depending on your point of view. What do you think happened, Professor?”

Kevin said carefully, “There’s evidence supporting each view, that Richard the Third either had the princes killed, to remove possible claimants to the throne, or that he was ignorant of the whole thing. But the bones of two young boys were found there, buried under a staircase, some years later.”

“Very good, you’ve given me a professor’s answer, but not a scholar’s answer. So tell me again, Professor, what do you think happened?”

Kevin felt pressure, like he was going up before the damn tenure board itself. “I think he had them murdered. That’s what I think.”

“And what’s your evidence?”

“The evidence is, who profits? After Richard the Third seized the throne, he had to eliminate any possible rivals. Those two boys were his rivals. He did what he had to do. It was purely political, nothing else.”

“Hmmm. And your book, the one you’re working on, compares and contrasts our Richard, our Duke of Gloucester, with another Richard from your country, am I correct?”

“Jesus,” Kevin exclaimed. “Who the hell are you people?”

“Never mind that right now,” Lancaster said, leaning in closer to him. “Correct, am I not? Our Richard and your Richard, the Duke of San Clemente. Mister Nixon. Quite the comparison, eh? Richard the Third and Richard Nixon. The use of power, the authority, all that wonderful stuff. But tell me, the book is not going well, is it?”

Kevin thought about lying and then said, “Yeah, you’re right. The book isn’t going well.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because it’s all surface crap, that’s all,” he said heatedly. “Sure, it sounds good on paper and in talking at the faculty lounge, but c’mon, Richard the Third and Nixon? Nixon certainly was something else, but he didn’t have blood on his hands, like your Duke of Gloucester. And don’t start yapping at me about Vietnam. He didn’t start that war. Kennedy and Johnson did. And for all his faults, he ended it the best way he could. Messily, but the best way he could. And I think, and so do other historians, that his opening to China balanced that out. And that’s why the book isn’t going well. Because it’s all on the surface, like it came from some overheated grad student’s imagination.”

Lancaster nodded again, plucked a piece of invisible lint off his suit coat. “Perhaps you’re ignoring the rather blatant comparisons.”

“What do you mean?”

The older man gestured to the White Tower. “What crime was committed here. The murder of two young princes. And what kind of crime was committed in your own country. In 1963 and 1968. Two young princes, loved and admired, who promised great things to their people. Cut down at a young age.”

Kevin was aghast. “The Kennedys?”

“Of course.”

“You brought me all the way over here to spout conspiracy theories? Gibberish? Who the hell are you?”

“I told you, in a matter of—”

Kevin grabbed his knapsack. “And I’ll tell you, unless you come straight with me, right now, I’m leaving. I’m not here to listen to half-ass Kennedy assassination theories. And you can cancel my room and airfare home, and I don’t care. I’ll pay my own way.”

“And not finish your book?”

“That’s the price I’ll pay,” Kevin said.

Lancaster smiled thinly. “How noble. Very well. Here we go. Leave now and your book will never be completed, you know that, don’t you. Leave now and you won’t get tenure. In fact, your life will start getting unwound. You will be forced out of your college, perhaps be tossed back into the great unwashed. Teaching English at high schools or what you folks call vocational technical schools. Or perhaps conjugating verbs to prisoners. Is that a better life than teaching at a comfortable university?”

Kevin felt his breathing quicken. “Go on.”

“Stay with me and learn what I have to offer, and you’ll not only write your book, you’ll write a book that will become an instant bestseller. You will be known across your country and ours as well. If you want to stay at your university, that will be fine, but I can tell you, once this book comes out, Harvard and Yale and Stanford and Columbia will come begging at your door. That’s your choice now, isn’t it. To stay or go.”

“Yeah, that’s a hell of a choice,” Kevin said.

Lancaster smiled. “But a choice nonetheless. It’s a pleasant day, Professor Tanner. We’re both alive and breathing and enjoying this lovely autumn day in the best city on this planet. Let me continue with what I have to say, and what I have to offer. And then you can leave and decide what to do next. All right? Don’t you at least owe me some time, considering the expense that was incurred to bring you over to our fair country?”

Kevin lowered his knapsack to the ground. “All right, I guess I do owe you that. But make it quick and to the point. And I’m not going to do a damn thing until you tell me who you are, and why you spent all this money to have me fly over.”

Lancaster nodded, folded his long hands. “Very well. That seems quite fair. Well, let’s begin, shall we? Another history lesson, if you prefer. Let’s set the stage, that place, as Shakespeare said, where we are all just actors. But this stage has a bloody history. Tell me, who runs the world?”

Kevin hesitated, thinking that he had fallen into the clutches of that odd group of loons and eccentrics who sometimes haunt college campuses. At one faculty luncheon some months ago, he remembered some physics professor bemoaning the fact that a junkyard dealer in New Hampshire had finally come across a Unified Field Theory and wanted the professor’s assistance in getting his theory published. So now it was Kevin’s turn, and again that temptation came up, to walk away from this odd man.

But...like the man said, it was a pleasant day, he had money and a nice room and a ticket back home, and if nothing else, at least he’d have a good story to tell at the next English faculty function.

So he nodded, gestured toward Lancaster. “All right, a fair question. Who does run the world? I’m not sure the world is actually run. If anything, I think it’s hard to even come to an agreement as to who actually runs the country. As a conservative, I could say legally elected governments, in most cases, run most countries in the world. As a liberal, I suppose I could make a case that in some nations, corporations or the military have their hands in running things.”

“Ah, not a bad answer,” Lancaster said. “But let’s try another theory, shall we? What would you say if I told you that royal families across this great globe actually... as you say it, run things?”

Oh, this was going to be a great story when he got back to Massachusetts, he thought. Kevin said, “All right, that’s a theory. An odd one, but still a theory. But I’m not sure I understand you. Royal families, like the House of Windsor, actually run things?” Kevin found himself laughing. “Then you’d think they could do a better job in running their own personal lives, don’t you?”

Lancaster didn’t return the laughter. “How droll, I’m sure, Professor Tanner. But when I say royal families, I don’t restrict myself to Europe. To make you feel more comfortable, let’s discuss your own country, shall we?”

“The States?” He tried to restrain a laugh. “What royalty we have resides in Hollywood. Or Palm Springs. Or on Wall Street. They’re involved in entertainment or business, and they get their photos in People magazine when they become famous, and in the National Enquirer when they get arrested or sent into drug rehab. That’s our royalty, Mister Lancaster. Your royalty’s been written up by Mister Shakespeare himself. Our royalty, if that’s what you call it, is a pretty ratty lot, if you ask me.”

Lancaster’s face seemed more drawn. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t being amusing.”

“You certainly weren’t. And you’re not taking this seriously. Not at all. And I suggest you do.”

“Or what? Will you have me arrested?”

Lancaster’s look was not reassuring. “That would be easier to accomplish than you think, Professor Tanner. So let’s proceed, shall we? I was asking you about royalty in America. I don’t care about your tycoons or your entertainers. What I do care about is the royalty involved in politics, the kind that actually, again as you say, ‘runs things.’ ”

Kevin didn’t like the threat he had just heard, but he pressed on. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. We don’t have any kind of royalty in the United States.”

Lancaster’s look was imperious. “Really? Look at your own history. What names in the last half of the twentieth century have either been in your Oval Office or nearby in your Congress? Let’s try, shall we? Roosevelt, Kennedy, Rockefeller, du Pont, Bush, Gore, Byrd, Russell... wealthy families of influence who reside in and maintain the circles of power in your country. Tell me, Professor Tanner, are you really that naive?”

“No, I’m not that naive, and I’m also not that stupid,” Kevin said, thinking again of what a great tale this would make once he got back home. “But you’re reaching, Mister Lancaster, you’re reaching quite a lot. Those families are political families, that’s all, just like other families that have their backgrounds in oil, retail, or other kinds of business. Some families pick cattle, others pick politics. That’s it.”

“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 the 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.

Los Angeles, California. In the hallway of a hotel, holding back part of the crowd. A man dressed in a policeman’s uniform, nose prominent, a nice profile shot.

In both pictures, there’s an odd expression on the face, different from the crowd about him, those people shocked and scared and horrified.

The expression... Happiness? Sadness? Grief?

He blinked his eyes, looked again. It was the same man. Had to be. And what would be the chances that a police officer would be in Dallas the day JFK was killed, and would leave town and get a job in Los Angeles as a police officer, and then be present at the time RFK was killed?

What would be the chances?

He bounced back and forth again to the two photos, and then realized what the expression was on each face, frozen in time almost five years apart.

It was satisfaction.

That’s what.

Satisfaction for a job well done.

He slowly got up and left the office, leaving the lights on, and then went back to bed and stayed awake until it was time for breakfast.

Three weeks after the night he had spent with the photos, Kevin was in a rental car, shivering, wondering if he would have the guts to take it this far. For nearly the past month, he had gone down a twisting and turning path, trying to identify the police officer who appeared in both photographs, separated by nearly five years and thousands of miles. Luckily for him, his university had a library that was one of the best in the region. Through its research assistants and some microfilm files and in searching old newspapers and magazines, he had found captions identifying the officer in the Dallas photo as Mike McKenna and the officer in Los Angeles as Ron Carpenter. That had taken almost a week of backbreaking work, sitting in hard chairs, blinking as the black-and-white microfilm reels whirred by, almost like a time machine, taking him back to tumultuous times when it seemed like the two princes would make a difference in the American empire.

Once he had the names, what next?

Then came frustrating contacts with the police departments of Dallas and Los Angeles, trying to find out who Mike McKenna and Ron Carpenter were, and if they were still living. Another couple of days, blocked, for the departments weren’t cooperative, not at all. Then, not really enjoying what he had to do next, he delved deeper into the outlands of the Internet, looking into the different conspiracy pages put up by people still investigating the deaths of JFK and RFK Then, this was followed by flights to Dallas and Los Angeles — spending the latest money from Lancaster — to two separate offices, where obsessive men and women were keepers of what they felt was the real truth, and he made some additional contacts. In turn, they led him to other people, who gave him two interesting facts: the names of Mike McKenna and Ron Carpenter still existed in the systems of the Dallas and Los Angeles police departments, and forwarding addresses for pension and disability information were exactly the same: 14 Old Mast Road, Nansen, Maine.

Unbelievable. So here he was, on a dirt road in a rural part of Maine, and after doing some additional work at the local town hall, looking at tax rolls, he found out who lived at 14 Old Mast Road: one Harold Brown, age seventy-nine. Retired. And that’s it.

So here he was, at a place where the driveway intersected Old Mast Road, waiting in his rental car. The driveway — also dirt — went up to a Cape Cod house on top of a hill, painted gray. Smoke tendriled up from a brick chimney. Kevin rubbed at his chin, kept an eye on the house. Could this be it, right up here? All the years of controversy, investigations, claims, counterclaims, all brought to this one point, this little hill in a remote section of Maine? And all coming about because of him, Kevin Tanner, assistant professor of English?

Insane. It all sounded so insane.

And now what? That he had debated with himself for a couple of days, before he had worked up some courage, rented a car — his old Toyota would have never made it — and spent nearly four hours on the road. All along the way, he had practiced and repracticed his approach, what he would say, what he was going to try to come away with.

Now it was time.

He opened the door, shivered from the early November cold. He walked up the muddy dirt driveway, looking at the old Cape Cod house, one of thousands sprinkled throughout the rural regions of Maine, Vermont, and New Hampshire. A very insignificant house, one easily ignored, except if the book was written and was published and became a bestseller, this sagging collection of wood and windows would become one of the most famous houses in the world.

The front lawn was brown, stunted grass, and Kevin went to the concrete stoop and knocked at the door. There was no doorbell, so he knocked again, harder. He could hear movement from inside. Kevin stood still, feeling his heart race away in his chest. Could this be it? Truly?

The door slowly opened, and an old man appeared, dressed in baggy jeans and a gray sweatshirt. His face was gaunt, his white hair was spread thinly across his freckled scalp, his eyes were watery and filmed, and his prominent nose was lined with red veins. Kevin felt his breath catch. This was him, the man in the photos.

“Yes?” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Kevin cleared his throat. “Mister Brown? Harold Brown?”

“Yes,” the man said. “Are you the tax assessor? Is that it?”

“No, no sir, I’m not,” he said. “My name is Kevin Tanner. I’m a professor of English.”

The old man blinked. “An English professor? Are you lost, is that it?”

“No, I’m not lost,” Kevin said. “I was wondering if I could talk to you, just for a couple of minutes.”

Brown looked suspicious. “You’re not one of the those door-to-door religious types, are you?”

“No, sir, I’m not. Just a professor of English. That’s all.”

Brown moved away from the door. “All right, come on in. I guess there won’t be no harm in it.”

Kevin walked into the house, breathing slowly, trying to calm down. The house had the scent of dust and old cooking odors, and he followed Brown as he moved into the living room. Kevin felt a faint flush of shame, watching the shuffling steps of Brown as he used a metal walker to move into the room. The black bedroom slippers he was wearing made a whispering noise against the carpeting.

Brown settled heavily into an old couch, and Kevin sat near him in an easy chair, balancing an envelope on his knees. The wallpaper was a light blue, and there were framed photos of lighthouses and ships, but nothing that showed people. There were piles of newspapers around the floor of the small living room, and even piles on top of the television set. Brown coughed and said, “So. An English professor. Where do you teach?”

“Lovecraft University, in Massachusetts.”

The old man shook his head. “Never heard of it. And why are you in this part of Maine?”

“To see you.”

“Me?” Brown said, sounding shocked. “Whatever for?”

“Because I’m working on a book, and I think you have some information I could use,” Kevin said.

“Me?” Brown said again. “I think you’ve come a long way for the wrong reason, young man.”

Kevin remembered how he had thought this would go, and decided it was time to just bring it out in the open, just barrel right ahead. He opened up the envelope and took out the two black-and-white photos that Lancaster had provided him and passed them over. Brown looked at the photos and then fumbled in his shirt pocket, to pull out a pair of glasses. With the glasses on, Brown examined each photo, and then there was a quick intake of breath. Kevin leaned forward, wondering if he would have to pull out the other bits of information he had when Brown would deny that it was him in the photos. From the college newspaper research, he had additional photos, showing Brown in a variety of photos at each murder scene. From information supplied by the conspiracy buffs, he had old police department records, placing him at each scene. Kevin waited for the answer, and when the answer came, he was shocked and surprised.

Brown looked up. “Are you here to kill me?”

Kevin said, “No, no, not at all. I really am a college professor, and I really am working on a book. About the deaths of both JFK and his brother. And my research led to these photographs, and then to you, Mister Brown. So that’s really you, isn’t it? You were present at both assassinations.”

Brown’s voice lowered to a whisper. “So long ago... so very long ago...”

Then, Kevin surprised even himself as a burst of anger came up and he said, “Why? Why did you do it?”

Brown looked stunned at the question. “What do you mean, why? I did it because I was ordered to, that’s why. I was younger back then, full of energy and purpose, and I did what I thought was right, and did what I was told. It was a different time, a turbulent time.”

“And who ordered you to do it?”

Brown shook his head, lowered the photos down on the couch, kept his gaze on them both. “I’m not going to say a word. I’m an old man, living up here nice and quiet, and I’m not going to say another word.”

“Was it Richard’s Children? Was it?”

Brown’s eyes snapped right back at him. “Who told you that?”

“That was part of my research. Richard’s Children.” Kevin took a breath, thinking, true, all true. That loon Lancaster was right. “I’m working on a book, Mister Brown, and I’m going to reveal your part in it, whether you help me or not.”

Brown put his shaking hands in his lap. “It could be dangerous.”

“Maybe so, but it’ll be the truth.”

Brown didn’t say anything for what seemed to be a long time, and then he said, “I’ve been retired, for years... but I was a pack rat, you know. Against all orders. I kept documents and papers and photographs... lots of information...”

“You did?”

A slow nod from the old man. “I certainly did... A book. You said you’re working on a book?”

“I am.”

Brown said, “Would you like to see those materials?”

“God, yes.”

Brown nodded, slowly got up off the couch, holding on to the walker with both gnarled hands. “You wait right here. I’ll go get them.”

Kevin clasped his hands together, his heart thumping yet again, thinking of how he would spend the day with the old man, debriefing him, figuring out all the angles of this story, the biggest story of the millennium, and all belonging to him. Kevin started smiling. Questions of tenure at old shabby Lovecraft U? Lancaster was right. When this book was done, he’d be considering offers from Yale and Harvard and —

Brown came back into the room. He moved quickly. He didn’t have a walker with him, not at all, and he moved with the grace of an old man who had kept himself in shape. And there were no papers or books or photographs in his hand. Just a black, shiny, automatic pistol.

“You should have stuck with your Shakespeare,” Brown said, his voice even and quite strong, and those words and the sharp report of the pistol were the last things that Kevin ever heard.

After receiving the news from a coded transatlantic phone call, the man who sometimes called himself Lancaster and sometimes called himself York got up from his desk and walked across the room to a thick oaken door. He rapped once on the door and entered at the soft voice that said, “Do come in.”

The room was cozy, with long drapes and bookshelves lined with leatherbound volumes, some framed photos on the dull white plaster walls, and a wide window that looked down upon the windswept Thames. From his vantage point, looking over the desk and the comfortable chair that the old man sat in, Lancaster could make out the round shape of the rebuilt Globe Theatre.

The man wore a thick dressing gown, and his black hair was swept back, displaying a prominent nose. One arm was on the desk, and the other one, withered and almost useless, was propped up on the arm of his chair. The old man was known as one of the richest and most philanthropic men in all the world, and on the wall were photos of him with the president of the United States, Prince Philip of Great Britain, the prime minister, and several other notables. Including a small photograph of him with Richard Nixon, and Nixon was the one smiling the most, as if pleased at what had just been agreed to. He looked up and said, “You have news?”

“I do,” Lancaster said. “The college professor has been removed. Mister Brown fulfilled our request admirably, and his compensation is en route.”

“Good,” the man said. “Any loose ends?”

Lancaster paused, and then proceeded, knowing that the man before him was always one for direct questions. “No, no loose ends. But I am concerned about just one thing, sir.”

“Which is?”

Lancaster said, “I understand the whole point of this exercise. To locate those people with sufficient imagination and interest to look into our activities, and then see how far they can go before we eliminate them. And eliminate those they have contact with, who have supplied them with damaging information. But there’s just one thing. Mister Brown, our man in Maine.”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Don’t you think he should be... taken care of, as well?”

The man at the desk turned and looked out at the mighty Thames and sat still. Lancaster knew better than to interrupt him when he was in such a reverie. Finally, he said, “No. I don’t think so. And you want to know why?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Loyalty,” he said. “The man has done noble services for us, many times, over the years. He deserves our loyalty. So he shall remain alive. Understood?”

“Yes,” Lancaster said.

“Good,” said the man who called himself Richard. “As the Bard once said of my spiritual ancestor, ‘I am determined to prove the villain, and hate the idle pleasures of these days.’ Come, we have work to do.”

“So we do, sir,” he said. “So we do.”