“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.
Two days later, in his room at the Savoy — which had cost as much as two months’ rent in his apartment back home — Kevin looked at his meager collection of luggage. His head was still spinning, for in the two days he had had by himself in London, he tried to put Mister Lancaster and that envelope out of his mind. He had caught an afternoon matinee performance at the London Lyceum of The Lion King, had spent an entire day touring the British Museum, and in one surprisingly sunny morning, he had actually caught the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. He found himself enjoying London and its people and the black taxicabs and the tube system, even though at night, back in his room, he kept on being drawn to that envelope. He knew he should open it up and examine the evidence and the stipend, but no, he didn’t want to spoil what little time he had in London. So the envelope had remained closed, like a tiny cage holding a dangerous reptile, one that he wanted to be very careful while opening up.
“ ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be!’ ” he quoted. “Yeah, Puck, you had that one right.”
And he picked up his bags and left.
On the British Airways flight going home, again he was luxuriating in the comfort and pleasure of flying first class, and he drank a little bit too much champagne. His head and tongue were thick, and he wished he could convince the pilot and crew to keep on flying around the world, stopping only to pick up food and fuel. He was sure that if that would happen, he would gladly spend the rest of his days in this metal cocoon, reading newspapers and magazines, sleeping in luxury, eating the finest food — compared to what he could whip up at home in his own kitchen — served by conscientious helpers and watching the latest movies.