Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

“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.