Tabitha stared at the pages and wondered about Henry’s motives. Perhaps the king had understood this symbolic goad and, after his marriage to Anne, he had instead created Thomas Boleyn as Earl of Wiltshire, making Elizabeth a countess, giving him the chance to make good on his threat to raise Thomas high before casting him down into the mud.There are so many unanswered questions, thought Tabitha.
She grabbed her phone and called Mark Llewellyn.
‘Hey, Tabs,’ he said. ‘Everyone here is ecstatic aboutThe Mother’s Tale. Perdita is desperate to see the Chaucer when we’ve finished the tests and, obviously, with your permission.’
‘I’m sure neither Edith nor Gull will mind her looking,’ said Tabitha. ‘I wondered how far you were in examiningThe Canterbury Tales?’
‘We’re doingThe Squire’s Taleat the moment,’ he said, and Tabitha could hear the excitement in his voice. ‘Once we realised there might be a link to Elizabeth Boleyn, it became our priority.’
‘And have you found anything? Any hidden messages? Poems?’
‘Not yet, but we’ll let you know if we do,’ he said. ‘There is a poem, though, it’s written on an illumination at the beginning ofThe Squire’s Tale,but it was written by the former abbess, Lady Reynolds, when she was a novice. Any use?’
‘It could be,’ she said. ‘Do you have a transcript?’
Her phone pinged.
‘Already with you,’ Mark said with a huge guffaw. ‘Let me know what you think and I’ll send regular updates to Edith and Gulliver.’
Tabitha opened the message. She gasped when she saw the photograph of the illuminated page at the beginning ofThe Squire’s Tale. Most of the gold leaf had flaked away, but the remaining hints suggested the beauty this page had once held. At the base were six lines of tiny, faded text. Tabitha enlarged it and saw it was written in Latin. She opened the Word document Mark had sent, hoping there was a translation. As she read the words, she felt a strange understanding sweep over her.
If breath is loosed in trembling fear,
Then danger soon will draw it near.
If breath is loosed in wrathful fire,
The devil shall appear in ire.
If breath is loosed in love sincere,
The ancient curse shall break – and clear.
‘None of these poems are the curse,’ she said aloud. ‘The Boleyn curse was Henry VIII himself.’
She tried Gulliver’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail, Edith’s was the same and Molly was away for a few days staying with a friend. Frustrated, Tabitha flung her phone onto the table. She paced around the cottage. It was Saturday, but it was pouring with rain, and she had no desire to go into the village or even drive to the nearby town. The kettle boiled and with a mug of tea in her hand, she returned to her sofa, trying Gulliver again but to no avail. Wondering where he had disappeared to, she opened the genealogy site where she had been researching the Last and Forelli family tree, in order to distract herself.
After an hour of searching records, Tabitha was bored. Gulliver continued to be unresponsive and she was at an impasse with the family tree, which could be brought no further forward than 1921. She opened a new tab and pulled up a website she had used when researching her PR campaigns at work. It was a searchable database of newspapers from all over the country, dating back to the Victorian era.
Entering the name ‘Eglantine Last’, she waited hopefully, but there were no direct hits. Instead, there were several highlighting the name Forelli, which seemed to be connected to Eglantine, in particular, Joseph Forelli. Checking her notes, Tabitha confirmed that Eglantine’s aunt, Juliette, had a nephew through marriage called Joseph Forelli. Intrigued, Tabitha changed her search criteria and entered Joseph’s name instead.
Page after page appeared, including a court report naming Joseph’s wife: Eglantine. The name was too unusual for it to be a coincidence. Eglantine Last had definitely married into the Forelli family. Tabitha scrolled through the newspapers, the dates becoming more recent, gaping in horror as she read the increasingly damning headlines. Then she saw a familiar name on one of the more recent pieces – Mikey Jarrett. She had been correct, Mikey must have mentioned the Forellis during a night out.
Her hands trembled with anticipation and nervousness as she flipped through her contacts to the name Mikey Jarrett. An old friend of Blake’s, Mikey was an investigative journalist for one of the more respectable broadsheets. Over the years, she and Blake had often helped him out with PR placements, while hehad always been happy to pass on useful tips. He had emailed her with his condolences when Blake had died.
‘Tabs,’ he exclaimed, answering after the second ring, ‘how are you?’
‘Not bad, yourself?’
‘Good days and bad days,’ he replied, Blake hovered between them, a ghost who cast a long shadow.
They chatted for a few minutes, catching each other up on their news, then Tabitha said, ‘Can I pick your brains?’
‘Sure, what do you need?’
‘Have you ever heard the name Forelli?’
Mikey let out a low whistle. ‘Have I?’ he said. ‘The Forellis’ ice-cream business is notorious for being a front for money laundering and drug dealing.’
