The Furies Read Free

be,’ she whispered.
    â€˜Yes, but most of the visitors are leaving,’ Sylvia replied. ‘I expect it’ll be empty now – come on, let’s go up.’
    Elspeth mounted the staircase, each step creaking loudly as she climbed. The noise was unnerving, almost as if the staircase was sending out a warning; an absurd notion she quickly dismissed. Arriving at the top of the steps, she followed Sylvia through the archway.
    They were at last inside the chapel, a space bordered by the tombs of five kings and queens. In the middle of the room stood a tall, gilt-trimmed shrine, and according to the guidebook, St Edward was buried beneath it. But Elspeth wasn’t interested in that fact: she was much more concerned with who else might still be in the chapel.
    And with dismay, she now saw an older couple reading an inscription on the side of the shrine. She walked a little deeper into the room and her heart sank even further as she caught sight of a third person; an unkempt, bearded young man drawing on a sketchpad. A few more steps and the rear of the chapel – the back of the carved stone screen – came into view. And then finally, resting against the stone screen, she saw the Coronation Chair.
    Elspeth’s initial reaction to the modestly sized wooden seat was one of disappointment: the chair did not look particularly grand or regal; indeed, at first appearance it seemed rather ordinary. It was only as she drew near, that she could see the intricate engravings and graffiti on the darkly varnished oak frame that told of the chair’s turbulent history. And beneath the seat was her own country’s Stone of Scone, the red sandstone encaged in a metal cradle, guarded by four gilt lions…
    â€˜The English on top of the Scots, as always,’ whispered Sylvia, and Elspeth looked across and saw the mischievous grin on Sylvia’s face.
    â€˜Then we’ll be striking a blow for Scots, as well as for women, won’t we,’ she whispered in reply, before returning her attention to the chair.
    Where to place the bomb?
Protruding above both sides of the seat’s high back-rest were two spikes of wood: after some consideration she decided she would hook the bag over one of the spikes and allow it to hang behind the chair. Then she would light the bomb inside the bag, so the explosion would occur between the stone screen and the back of the chair, reducing the risk to anyone inadvertently walking into the chapel. Feeling more confident with this plan in mind, she tried to act like a normal visitor, casually flicking through the guidebook and then wandering back to the shrine. A number of purple velvet knee-cushions were scattered around the altar’s base, and with Sylvia beside her Elspeth knelt, positioned so she could see the entrance archway and chair at the same time.
    Her hands clasped as if in prayer, Elspeth discreetly monitored the other occupants. The elderly couple were now standing in front of the chair. They both appeared frail: the husband – bald and stooped – was reading from a guidebook, while his wife – white-haired, painfully thin – held onto his arm, her head tilted slightly towards him. To her right Elspeth could see the young man with the goatee gazing at the top of the shrine, making deft strokes on his drawing pad with a piece of charcoal. With scruffy shoes and clothing he looked to her like an art student.
    Elspeth pulled out her pocket watch; only twenty minutes before the Abbey was due to close. A sudden movement caught her attention and she glanced across to see the older couple turn away from the chair and, arm in arm, shuffle towards the archway. A moment later Elspeth heard the creaking of wood as they descended the stairs. Good, she thought; only the art student left.
    But now he moved to stand in front of the chair, and for the next few minutes remained engrossed with his drawing. Elspeth tried to stem her rising frustration: the