The King's Deception

Eva pointed at the tomb. “This monument to Elizabeth is the last one ever erected in Westminster over the spot where a sovereign was buried. Isn’t it interesting that, though two are buried here, only Elizabeth is displayed on top? And as an old woman, directly contrary to her wishes?”

He was listening.

“Robert Cecil oversaw Elizabeth’s funeral and her entombment. He then served her successor, James I, as secretary of state and personally oversaw the building of this monument. Again, only you would understand the significance of that fact.”

He did. Farrow Curry had taught him about both Cecils, and especially Robert. He was a short man with a crooked back, who walked awkwardly on splayed feet. He had a penetrating gaze from black eyes, but was consistently noted as courteous and modest, with a gentle sweetness. Aware of his lack of physical attraction he became a man of two personalities. One as a public servant — prudent, rational, and reliable. The other as a private gentleman — extravagant, a reckless gambler, a lover of women, subject to prolonged bouts of deep depression. His popularity with the people waned the longer he served. Enemies amassed. His influence eventually slipped and his ability to produce results dimmed. By the time he died he was hated, called the Fox for unflattering reasons. He recalled a rhyme Curry had said was popular at the time.

Owning a mind of dismal ends
As trap for foes and tricks for friends.
But now in Hatfield lies the Fox
Who stank while he lived and died of the pox.

The fact that Cecil created a coded journal was puzzling, and seemed contradictory to his secretive nature. But, as Curry had explained, what better way for posterity to credit him than by leaving the only way to discover the secret’s existence? Everyone who mattered would be dead. Control the information and you control the result. And the only one who would benefit from that would be Robert Cecil.

Eva led him to one side of the monument and pointed at another Latin inscription, which she translated.

“To the eternal memory of Elizabeth, queen of England, France, and Ireland, daughter of King Henry VIII, granddaughter of King Henry VII, great-granddaughter to King Edward IV. Mother of her country, a nursing mother to religion and all liberal sciences, skilled in many languages, adorned with excellent endowments both of body and mind, and excellent for princely virtues beyond her sex. James, king of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, hath devoutly and justly erected this monument to her whose virtues and kingdoms he inherits.”

He caught the key words.

Excellent for princely virtues beyond her sex.

More meaningless and unimportant phrases, unless you knew that Elizabeth I was not what she had seemed.

“Clever, wouldn’t you say?”

He nodded.

“There is a lot about Robert Cecil that fits into that category. For a Renaissance man it was a sign of a superior spirit to wish to be remembered after death. If Cecil was nothing else, he was that.”

Exactly what Curry had told him.

“By 1606, when this monument was placed here, Robert Cecil was the only person left alive who knew the truth. So he was the only one who could leave these markers.”

She pointed to the shopping bag and he handed over the drives.

“Two and a half million pounds will be deposited within the hour into the account you provided earlier. Once your operation is officially over and the remaining evidence destroyed, the balance will be paid. We need that to happen within the next forty-eight hours.”

“What about my other matter?”

“Where is Cotton Malone?”

He knew the answer, thanks to the call from Malone last night asking him to take custody of Ian Dunne and the bookstore owner. He hadn’t wanted to do either, but to keep Malone in the field he’d dispatched an agent to retrieve them.

“He’s headed for Hampton Court.”

Thirty-seven

9:10 AM