The King's Deception

The sight of Henry’s bones still bothered her. Never had she thought that she’d be privy to such a thing. Who would have burglarized that tomb? Bold, whoever they were, since security within Windsor Castle was extensive. And why? What did they think was there? All of these questions had weighed on her mind as she drove back into London, eager to know what awaited her at Middle Temple Hall.

The rain came in spurts, her short brown hair dry from earlier but once again being doused by a steady mist. No one manned the vehicle gate, the car park beyond empty. Nearly 7:30 PM and the Friday workday was over at the Inns of Court.

Hers, though, appeared to be only just beginning.

She crossed the famous King’s Bench Walk and passed among a cluster of redbrick buildings, every window dark, entering the courtyard before the famous Temple Church. She hustled toward the cloister at the far end, crossing another brick lane and finding Middle Hall. A sign out front proclaimed CLOSED TO VISITORS, but she ignored its warning and opened the doors.

The lit space within stretched thirty meters long and half that wide, topped by a double hammerbeam roof, its oak joists, she knew, 900 years old. The towering windows lining both sides were adorned with suits of armor and heraldic memorials to former Middle Templars. Along with Dickens, Sir Walter Raleigh, William Blackstone, Edmund Burke, and John Marston were all once members. Four long rows of oak tables, lined with chairs packed close together, ran parallel from one end to the other. At the far end beneath five massive oil paintings stretched the ancients table, where the eight most senior barristers had eaten since the 16th century. The portraits above had not changed in two hundred years. Charles I, James II, William III, Charles II, Queen Anne, and, to the left, hidden from view until farther inside, Elizabeth I.

At the far end a man appeared.

He was short, early sixties, with a weathered face as round as a full moon. His silver hair was so immaculately coiffed it almost demanded to be ruffled. As he came close she saw that thick, steel-rimmed glasses not only hid his eyes but erased the natural symmetry of his blank features. He wore a stylish, dark suit with a waistcoat, a silver watch chain snaking from one pocket. He walked dragging a stiff right leg, aided by a cane. Though she’d never met him, she knew who he was.

Sir Thomas Mathews.

Head of the Secret Intelligence Service.

Only 16 men had ever led that agency, responsible for all foreign intelligence matters since the beginning of the 20th century. Americans liked to call it MI6, a tag attached during World War II.

She stood on the oak plank floor, not quite knowing what to say or do.

“I understand you are a member of the Middle Temple,” he said to her, his voice low and throaty.

She nodded, catching the cockney accent in his vowels. “After I studied law at Oxford, I was granted membership. I ate many a meal in this hall.”

“Then you decided enforcing the law would be more intriguing than interpreting it?”

“Something like that. I enjoy my job.”

He pointed a thin finger at her. “I am familiar with what you did a couple of years ago with the fish.”

She recalled the batches of tropical fish, imported from Colombia and Costa Rica to be sold in British pet stores. Smugglers had dissolved cocaine in small plastic bags, which hung invisibly as they floated with the fish.

But she’d found the ruse.

“Quite clever on your part, discovering that scheme,” he said. “How unfortunate that your career is now in jeopardy.”

She said nothing.

“Frankly, I can sympathize with your superiors. Agents who refuse to show good judgment eventually get themselves, or someone else, killed.”

“Forgive me, but I’ve been insulted enough for one evening.”

“Are you always so forward?”

“As you mentioned, my job is probably gone. What would be gained by being coy?”

“Perhaps my support in saving your career.”

That was unexpected. So she asked, “Then, could you tell me what you want?”

Mathews motioned with his walking stick. “When was the last time you were here, in Middle Hall.”

She thought back. It had been almost a year. A garden party for a friend who’d attainted the rank of bencher, one of the select few who governed the Middle Temple.

“Not in a long time,” she said.

“I always enjoy coming here,” Mathews said. “This building has seen so much of our history. Imagine. These walls, that ceiling, all stood during the time of Elizabeth I. She, herself, came to this spot. Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night was first performed right here. That impresses me. Does it you?”

“Depends on whether it will allow me to keep my job.”

Mathews smiled. “Something extraordinary is happening, Miss Richards.”

She maintained a stiff face.

“May I tell you a story?”

* * *