******
PC Davidson explained on the drive over that Mrs Reade only took short term foster work. Mainly children whose parents needed some respite.
Mrs Reade confirmed this, telling them to call her auntie Dottie, proudly displaying the fourteen month old baby she was caring for, then ushering Wren upstairs and into the bathroom.
Now she bustled into the garden, hurrying over to check on the baby, sprawled on a rug next to Rhyllann, trying to grab fistfuls of hair and shouting with laughter when he succeeded and Rhyllann squealed.
‘Little darling. Mum’s picking him up tomorrow, it’ll be just the three of us.’
He smiled. ‘You’re not what I expected.’ Dottie Reade was around Gran’s age, but that was all they had in common.
Rhyllann eased a strand of hair from the baby's fist, marvelling at the softness of skin and strength of grip. The miniature hand flew open, impulsively he blew a raspberry onto the palm, delighted when the baby's eyes lit up, and the little body convulsed with merriment. Rhyllann couldn't resist doing it again, there was something addictive about being the centre of someone's world.
‘Some of us actually like kids. Couldn’t eat a whole one though.’ Mrs Reade chortled at her own joke. ‘Derek’s told me to keep an extra eye on you two. I’m to take you to school, and pick you up.’
Rhyllann started to protest - he’d never live it down; the coolest kid in school, well his year anyway, having his hand held like a mummy’s boy.
‘Now then.’ Auntie Dottie's voice sharpened. ‘I never ask why my kids are here. I don’t want to know. I just look after them the best I can. Derek’s laid on extra security, and until you two leave, I won’t have any more kids staying here. You’ll be completely safe.’ She said pointedly. ‘Do you want to see if your cousin’s ready for dinner?’
Sensing discord, the baby's face crumpled. Before it could begin to howl, Rhyllann jumped to his feet and headed for the house.
He found Wren in the bedroom they’d been given, towelling his hair.
‘What d’you think of her?’ he hissed. Wren hadn’t spoken since learning about his mum. A bath and the smell of good home cooking seemed to have helped a little. Still he surprised Rhyllann when he answered.
‘OK. Bossy but harmless. You’d better unpack.’ Shrugging a dressing gown over borrowed pyjamas he nodded towards Rhyllann’s bag.
Rhyllann emptied the bag's contents onto one of the beds. He frowned.
‘Did you pack this?’ He asked, showing Wren the glossy photo. A photo of him, at his first cadet camp. A chubby thirteen year old wearing a green flying suit, silver helmet, holding two thumbs up to the camera and grinning as he posed in front of a small plane. His first time: The thrill, the excitement listening to air control, then his pilot confirming flight details. The pre-flight checks, the rush to get into the air, the ground falling away behind him. On the fields far below the mid day sun projected a tiny silhouette of a plane, pleasing him enormously. Then he’d actually been given the controls. Pulling the joy stick towards him, feeling the plane respond to his every whim, dancing through air. Just as he began to anticipate each uplift and down draught, they were landing, and Rhyllann wanted more than anything to be up in the air flying again. Each time was like the first time. The exhilaration never palled.
Wren peered over his shoulder. ‘Happy days.’ He said bleakly.
Without comment, Rhyllann slid the photo into the bedside cabinet drawer between the two single beds. His fingers brushed against paper, and he drew out a wrap of notes. He blinked in surprise, holding them out mutely to Wren for an explanation.
‘My savings. I found them on the kitchen floor.’ Closing his fingers round the notes Wren tucked them into Rhyllann’s pocket. ‘You keep it Annie, look after it. Our money.’
Rhyllann nodded agreement.
‘Annie … d’you think we’re safe here?’
‘We’d better be. Crombie’s threatening to lock us up.’
Wren snorted. ‘That’s their answer to everything.’
‘They? Who are they?’ Rhyllann lowered his voice. ‘And just who have you hacked off brawd? Who is after you?’
Wren surveyed him silently. Then: ‘Remember that beetle I showed you? I hope there’s no bugs in this room.’ With a smile he added. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if insects spoke different languages? Like – I dunno – Welsh.’
With that, he turned to clump down the stairs.
Jesus. Wren could be such a geek, and needed to get his paranoia under control. Bugged! As if his life wasn’t weird enough.
His house had been trashed, Wren’s notebook appeared to be the only thing stolen. Wren had attracted some bad company; he knew a couple of names at least. But he wouldn’t tell Crombie. Why? It hit Rhyllann like a lightning bolt. Because they wanted what Wren knew. And Wren reasoned that if he turned them in, chances were everything would come out. The whole story. Crombie and the Met Police would go after the treasure. Jeez! Rhyllann tugged at the chain around his neck. The stupid little sod. There was no treasure. Things like that just didn’t happen to people like them. The sooner he got that through Wren’s thick head the better. Except Wren was the brightest kid he knew. A year younger than Rhyllann, yet still in most of his classes. Auntie Dottie called up to him. Exhaling heavily, he rushed to shower and change.
After dinner, Rhyllann casually asked Auntie Dottie if he could use her computer to access the internet.
‘We’ve got a history test on Monday, I thought I’d do some revision.’ he said in reply to her questioning, carefully avoiding eye contact.
‘I’ll clear away.’ Wren offered, pulling himself up. ‘You see to Baby Henry.’
‘Thank you lovey, but I need to supervise your cousin. You understand don’t you lovey? You two wash up, while I put the baby to bed.’ Auntie Dottie said firmly, leaving them with no choice but to agree.
Twenty minutes later, Rhyllann was squeezed on the sofa between auntie Dottie and Wren, staring at the laptop screen resting on the coffee table.
‘Magna Carta – remember Annie.’ Wren prompted.
‘Aha! Naughty old King John!’ Auntie Dottie smiled at the chance to display her knowledge. ‘Habeas Corpus and all that!’
‘Habeas Corpus?’ Rhyllann repeated, clicking on the top link.
‘Literally – "I have the body" – the body of evidence. It meant that no one could be held prisoner without being proved guilty. That’s why it’s so hard to convict someone on purely circumstantial evidence.’ She finished obviously thrilled at the chance to show off.
Wren stared at her. ‘Auntie Dottie – were you ever in the police force?’ Her chins shook with laughter. ‘Next best thing. My godson is.’ She pointed to one of the framed photos hanging on the lounge wall.
Rhyllann froze. ‘Detective Crombie is your godson?’
He thought back struggling to remember if he’d said anything disrespectful. Like “Just how desperate are the Met Police for recruits?”
‘Who's that next to him aunt Dottie?’ Wren asked.
‘That’s his brother, Declan. He was in the RAF.’
‘The RAF?’ Rhyllann smiled at that.
‘Was?’ questioned Wren.
Aunt Dottie gave a bright smile. ‘He didn’t come back from the first Gulf war.’
While Rhyllann hunted for words to say sorry without sounding flippant, Wren echoed.
‘Didn’t come back?’
Rhyllann punched him. Wren just didn’t get subtle.
‘He’s dead fool.’ He muttered in Welsh.
Looking perplexed Wren rose to study the photo; aunt Dottie watched him placidly. When he finally turned back to the room, Rhyllann hunched into the sofa, wishing himself a thousand miles away. Wren’s head lowered, a restlessness stirred behind the clear blue eyes. Rhyllann knew that look. It indicated a burning question. One sure to embarrass the maths
teacher, or English teacher, or whoever had stated a fact Wren Prenderson disagreed with. Nothing, not even Coleman’s promise to beat him up after school would stop him. The entire class would suffer from extra homework or unscheduled tests from a humiliated teacher. But Wren would just smile, happy to be proved right once again.
‘Are you sure he’s dead?’
Rhyllann cringed. That was it. He would beat him up. Beside him, Auntie Dottie grew very still. Finally she replied.
‘After the war Declan stayed on in the Middle East, helping rebuild. One day he never returned to base. That was over twenty years ago.’
Rhyllann breathed again. Auntie Dottie didn’t seem cross. But then Wren gave another prod.
‘Has he been declared officially dead?’
Rhyllann knew who he wanted dead, but Wren ignored his glare. Aunt Dottie simply side stepped the question.
‘Derek wanted to join the RAF too – but of course he couldn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Derek?’ Rhyllann queried.
‘Detective Inspector Derek Crombie. Why couldn’t he join the RAF?’ Wren asked.
‘Would have broke his mother’s heart.’ Aunt Dottie said simply. ‘Come on now lovey, else your cousin won’t get his studying done.’ She patted the seat for Wren to sit down next to her, indicating the subject was now closed.
Rhyllann felt a small pang of pity, then turned to study the screen.
There before him were the facts according to Wikipedia.
King John of the House of Plantagenet. Also known as the Devil’s brood. Branded a murderer, traitor and coward. Forced to sign a charter, giving unprecedented rights to barons and commoners alike. Rhyllann skimmed over this, the links to the American Constitution, the references to Ireland, Knights Templars, clicking on the link to lost treasure. A new page loaded. He learned how John had been fleeing his enemies, yet again. How his baggage train had taken a short cut across the mud flats of the River Wash, only to be engulfed by the tide. Rhyllann jumped when Aunt Dottie pulled his hands down from his mouth. He hadn’t realised he’d been chewing on his knuckles.
‘Don’t bite yourself.’ She said.
Rhyllann didn’t like the smug smile on Wren’s face.
‘How did John survive? Could he swim?’ He asked.
Aunt Dottie shook her head. ‘No – he took a longer safer route round. Not that it did him much good. He lost everything – the entire baggage train: One thousand men, the crown jewels, all the gold he’d gathered in taxes, various religious artefacts. According to legend, he even lost Excalibur.’
‘Excalibur?’ Rhyllann shivered. The fabled sword of Arthur, the great Welsh Warrior. Rightfully known as Caliburn in the Celtic myths. Wren’s smile grew broader.
‘Hmm. The Plantagenets managed to entwine their history with the Arthurian legends. Richard the Lionheart supposedly had Excalibur – that’s what made him invincible.’ Adding ‘Okay, that’s enough for tonight. Don’t want to ruin your eyesight. Turn it off.’ Wren was right. Auntie Dottie could boss for England. But Rhyllann obeyed without murmuring.
‘Auntie Dottie – were you ever a teacher?’ Wren asked.
She laughed again, chucking him under the chin this time.
‘Bless your heart – you’re determined to find me an interesting job aren’t you!’ Wren started to protest. ‘No sweetie – Housewife all my life, never had my own kids, so I started fostering. Keeps me out of mischief!’
‘Lucky for us!’ Wren said with the sweetest of smiles.
Rhyllann decided to try: ‘Lucky for us.’ He echoed.
‘Get away with the pair of you! Little charmers! Come along – bed time.’
She had to be joking. But she wasn’t.
Laying in bed Rhyllann whispered to Wren. ‘What do you think happened to uncle Dottie?’
Wren whispered back. ‘Dunno. D’you think she ate him? She’s fat enough.’
Rhyllann sniggered. ‘Aunt Dottie were you ever a spider?’
Wren reached across to wallop him. Then came out with one of his stupid little bits of useless information.
‘You know, someone once said “King John’s virtues outweighed all the virtues of any other king.” Forget who though.’
‘Tell someone who might actually care!’ Rhyllann sneered in his best “Dr. Evil” voice.
The room quietened. Rhyllann thought Wren was accessing his memory banks like some half arsed computer. Peering through the gloom he saw Wren had fallen asleep. Those knockout tablets worked fast. His own mind swarmed with Kings, lost treasure and mythical swords, battling to decide how much of Wren’s story to believe.
Fact: King John had lost his treasure. Only according to Wren, it wasn’t lost, but hidden. The entire baggage train? His daughter, Princess Joan would have had to move mountains, or be a magician. Tomorrow, he would make Wren tell him everything. If he was going to be involved, he wanted equal partnership.
Uneasily he recalled practically kneeling in front of Crombie, and the promise he'd made. He’d given his word. No matter what proof Wren offered, Rhyllann determined they were both staying put, in Dottie Reade’s little haven. His stomach gurgled in contented agreement.