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“We have no way of really knowing what’s going on behind closed doors, particularly now that the royal family’s inner circle has closed ranks. But should there be even a kernel of truth in the rumours of Evangeline’s involvement, then we can only hope that for the sake of the country, the palace allows those investigating these attacks on the royal family to seek justice.”
“And if she is found guilty?”
“Well—let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The royal family is going through enough right now without us all playing judge, jury, and executioner for one of their own.”
“But no one is above the law, are they?”
“No, of course not. Not even those of royal blood.”
—ITV News’s interview with royal expert Henrietta Smythe, 18 January 2024
AS I STEP INTO THE interview room, which is little more than a featureless box only a few degrees above frosty, the heavy metal door clangs shut behind me, and the lock slides into place.
Suraj Singh is already inside, standing in a corner like a well-dressed sentry, and he acknowledges me with a single nod. His presence in the room is a condition of the deal Maisie and Jenkins managed to strike with the Home Office, but while I’m not thrilled about it, my attention immediately snaps to the girl sitting on the far side of the long metal table, her wrists and ankles bound in handcuffs and chained to the concrete floor.
Despite the red waves tumbling over her shoulders, Aoife Marsh seems colorless somehow, as gray as her oversized sweatshirt. Any hint of the bubbly girl I met in the gift shop near Sandringham is gone, replaced by hollow cheekbones, dark circles, and a hopelessness in her dull green eyes that feels excruciatingly familiar.
For a split second, when she sees me, there’s a spark of something on her face—excitement, or possibly relief. Maybe even hope. But when she offers me a tentative smile and I refuse to return it, that spark vanishes so fast that it might as well have never existed at all.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” she says, and even though here is a Category A prison, surrounded by so many layers of security that I feel claustrophobic, her voice is as sweet as ever. “I’ve been begging to speak to you, and my lawyer promised he’d pass the message on, but of course they say those things, and I never thought—”
“No one asked me to come,” I say flatly. “I’m here because I need answers.”
“Oh.” She parts her lips to say something else, but it takes her a moment to speak. “Did they tell you I’m innocent? It was all a setup, God’s honest truth. I had no idea what they were planning—”
“Is Ben involved in the ABR?” I say. After listening to Rosie sob all morning, I have no interest in hearing more excuses. “Prince Benedict. Is he in any way connected to you?”
“Prince…?” Her voice trails off, and she shakes her head. “Dylan talks about him sometimes, but I’ve never met him. Evangeline, I swear it on my grave, they were using me. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know what Dylan and the others were planning. The club—Fox Rex, it was just supposed to be a laugh—something to do together at uni, an excuse to drink and meet other people who weren’t so keen on the royals. I had no idea they were recruiting for a—a terrorist group, and if I had, I would’ve told someone, cross my heart—”
“What does Dylan say when he talks about Benedict?” I say, cutting her off. Aoife blinks.
“I—I don’t know. He comes up sometimes, when Dylan mentions Eton. I think they were mates, but I can’t say for sure. I didn’t know about the photo, Evangeline, I swear it. No one told me to hug you, and I didn’t know they had a camera—Ididn’t know what they were planning—”
“So as far as you know, Benedict isn’t involved in the ABR?” I say.
“I didn’t even know there was an ABR,” she insists, her voice cracking with desperation. “I was only at the museum because of your text.”
“My text?” I say, startled. “What text?”
Aoife bites her lower lip. “You know, the one where you said you wanted me there. It’s on my mobile. The police took it, but—”
“I didn’t text you,” I say, sharper than I should, given she looks like she’s about to burst into tears.
“But—but it came from your number. It’s the only reason I went to the opening. It’s why I’ve been asking to see you—because you could prove that you invited me. Because you did, right? It had to be you. I’m sure it was.”
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I glance nervously over my shoulder. But Singh’s already been through my phone—he knows every single message I’ve sent, and that none of them were to Aoife. Or the number Kit pretended was hers. “I never texted you, Aoife,” I say. “Whoever gave you my number…it wasn’t really mine.”
“I…” Aoife falls short again, and this time she looks so crestfallen that I almost feel sorry for her. “It wasn’t?” she whispers. “But…but Dylan said…”
A lump of frustration forms in my throat, and I force it down as I push my chair back with a hair-raising screech of metal against concrete. “I’m sorry if they really did trick you,” I say in a measured voice, even though my patience is frayed to the last thread. “But if you don’t know anything, then there’s no point in me staying.”
“Wait.” Her voice catches as I stand. “Evangeline, please—you have to believe me. I didn’t do this. I had no idea.”
“You must’ve known something, Aoife,” I say. “You can’t tell me you spent months hanging out with terrorists and didn’t overhear anything about Ben, or their leaders, or what they planned to do—”
“The leader’s name is Guy,” she blurts. “Except—I don’t think that’s his real name. But it’s what everyone calls him.”
“Guy? As in Guy Fawkes?” I say, and out of the corner of my eye, I see Singh shift his weight. This must be new information. “Who is he?”
