“Professor Tanner,” he said in a cultured English accent that said it alclass="underline" 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.”