JT01 - In The Blood

by Steve Robinson

  “Do you know the name, then?” Lowenna asked, her small voice wavering.

  James Fairborne stared at his own boots and Lowenna heard him sigh. “I do,” he said. “I know it well indeed.” They were solemn words.

  “And may I ask how you come to know of her?”

  The awkward pause returned. Her father shook his head as though denying his own thoughts, but his words betrayed him, though he could not yet know their significance to Lowenna. “She was my daughter,” he said. “By my first marriage.”

  Lowenna felt light-headed. She looked pale despite the midday sun. It was an answer she could not have prepared herself for. It was the very last answer she wanted to hear and until now she had not contemplated it or understood what it meant in light of what she had read. She swayed in her saddle. Her eyes fluttered. Then as her father reached out for her she fell.

  Unconsciousness lasted only briefly. When Lowenna’s eyes opened again, she was in her father’s arms being carried towards the house. She looked up at him, recognising his features, yet the eyes that looked down at hers were the eyes of a man she no longer knew. Katherine was real. The contents of Katherine’s journal pages were real. Her father’s answer had confirmed everything - and so much more.

  Lowenna felt sick.

  She struggled to be free, kicking her legs until her father let her go. Then she ran from him, away into the house and up to her room where she crashed onto her bed, sobbing. Her whole world was crumbling around her. She knew she must leave Rosemullion Hall; knew she had to take control of what remained to her if there was to be any salvation. And she now knew that Katherine Fairborne’s words, her few journal pages, could be used to protect her and her child if her father tried to stop her.

  Three days later, on that fateful Tuesday in the May of 1803 when Lowenna went to meet her love at the usual place beneath the broad oak, she went to tell him that their love must end. Her father had allowed her this one grace upon her promise that she would not try to see Mawgan Hendry ever again. Her promise had been given readily enough and now as she trod the path that led away from Rosemullion Hall, between lavender shoots that grew to meet their summer, she went to deliver that promise; or such was the illusion she would have her father believe.

  Lowenna wore yellow, in part to spite the deepening grey of the afternoon and to brighten her spirits, but most of all she wore yellow to conceal the bag that hung from her shoulder, fashioned from identical silk. She passed through an iron gate at the end of the lavender path and breathed the fresh air that she could no longer find within the bounds of Rosemullion Hall. Her eyes scanned the periphery, knowing her father’s man would be there, watching her, waiting to follow her down to the river and along to their meeting place where he would witness the scene she had rehearsed in her mind so many times. She was concerned at how Mawgan would react, but he had to suspect nothing. It must look real to the man who would later report back to her father. The letter hidden inside the box would explain everything, and she was confident Mawgan would find it; the secret compartment was no secret to him.

  She thought herself clever that the clue she had placed in the box with the silk heart had further meaning. She caressed her midriff in a gentle circular motion, thinking fond thoughts of Mawgan. Then she wondered how she could have been so foolish as to let her father know. The baby inside her barely showed. She could have gone another month before nature would wield itself too obvious to conceal. Were it not for her anger at her father’s insistence that she saw no more of Mawgan then things might have been easier. That anger re-kindled when she recalled her father telling her how fortunate she was that he had allowed her to see the farmer this one last time.

  The sea was dull and brooding as Lowenna came upon it, reflecting a moody sky that quickly began to spit down at her. As her pace quickened, following the path through flowering gorse that was yellow as her dress, the heavens heaved and opened. But she was not deterred. She had to see this through. As she took the box now to Mawgan, she knew it was her only hope. If she failed, she would lose both her child and her love, and she cared nothing for a life without them.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  When Jefferson Tayte awoke he had no idea where the train was. The display on his watch told him he’d been out almost two hours. He gazed through his reflection in the window, at the darkening countryside that sped past his eyes. In the distance it was a slow-moving landscape of fields and farmland, a far-away woodland, then a town unmindful of their passing. He gripped the edges of the rucksack on his lap, feeling the outline of the box again, just to know it was still there. It caused him to think of Amy. He tried her number again.

  The call rang unanswered as before and as he listened to the ring-tone he wondered why Amy hadn’t tried to call him. Surely she would want to know how his trip to London had gone - would want to know that the box she was pinning so much hope on was on its way back to her. He couldn’t quell the anxiety that began to take shape inside him, particularly when he reminded himself that they were not the only people interested in this family history and the box that was the key to unravelling it. A box that in 1803, someone was prepared to kill for.

  When Lowenna arrived back in her room at Rosemullion Hall that Tuesday in 1803, the day she had feigned the end of her association with Mawgan Hendry, she was still crying. She had cried all the way back through the rain and her tears were genuine enough, unable to bear Mawgan not knowing what was in her mind; unable to bear his obvious suffering at the notion that the love between them had ended so abruptly. But her tears had served her purpose well. The illusion could not have been more complete.

  The man in her father’s pay, whom she knew had witnessed everything, did not follow her into the house - he never did. He and her father would always meet elsewhere so their business could not be overheard. Whenever Lowenna asked about him, her father would say nothing other than to portray him as a man who did occasional work for him around the estate.

  But Lowenna knew better.

  As she lay on her bed, listening to the rain at the window, her tears gradually dried. She began to smile again as she pictured Mawgan opening the box and finding the silk heart she’d made for him; her heart, which belonged to him and was now returned for his safe keeping. Her clue would be plain enough to Mawgan. He would find her letter, understand her true intentions and be overjoyed, knowing that it was what is inside that counts.

  He must know everything by now…

  Lowenna went to the window and opened it, knowing that she could not remain at Rosemullion Hall one hour longer than she had to. The very idea left a taste in her mouth so bitter it made her retch. Rain gusted at her already soaked clothing until it rolled from her skin like glass beads. She looked out towards the river; towards Mawgan. The box was away now and in strong hands. It held the secret to their happiness and very soon she would follow after it. And if her father came for her or tried to take her child then she would use the contents of the box without compassion for the man she no longer knew.

  Such were her plans.

  But she was suddenly distracted from them. Lowenna turned away from the window and stared across the room as the door creaked slowly and deliberately open. There was no knock or announcement and she sensed that her caller would not be welcome. She had never seen her father look so utterly terrifying - or so terrified. He stood there, filling the doorway, his head bowed low to his chest, fists clenched to control the beast within as though knotted in a struggle to prevent it from lashing out. His eyes just glared at her.

  “Where is the box?” her father demanded through gritted teeth that spat down onto his waistcoat. “Do you think me so foolish that I cannot understand how you come to know of Katherine?” He lumbered into the room. The door splintered the frame behind him. “The box is all that remains of my old life. There is no other way you could know of her!”

  Lowenna cowered against the open window. The rain felt cold on her back. She shook her head as her father came closer
, her eyes pleading that he retreat. But he did not. James Fairborne caught her wrists and held her, staring straight through her until she thought he would crush her bones.

  “I do not have it!” Lowenna yelled.

  Her father locked eyes with her then, holding her close to him. “Then where is it? What secret has it shared?”

  “You’re hurting me!”

  “You bring this all upon yourself.” His grip did not relent. “What have you done with the box?”

  Her wrists began to burn and the pain at last gave Lowenna the strength to defy him. “You will not have it!” she said. The box was the only card she had to play against her father; she could not give it up. “It is safely away from here and I will not hesitate to use it against you!”

  Her father let her go. Lowenna continued her defiance, standing tall to him. The two were locked like battling stags, neither giving ground to the other. Then at last her father stepped away.

  “So the box is not here?” he said a moment later.

  Lowenna said nothing.

  “Safely away, you say?” Her father suddenly looked pleased with himself. “And I can guess only too well where you have taken it.”

  Mawgan! Lowenna thought. Was it so obvious?

  “You will remain in your room!”

  “Father - no! I will get the box for you.”

  “And take your little secret to the warden or the constable perhaps? No child, it is altogether too late for that. You will leave for your grandparent’s house this very night and you will return again only when this -” He waved a dismissive hand at Lowenna’s belly like he was flicking at a fly that was bothering him. “When this bastard child is ready to show itself!”

  Her father turned away from her then and Lowenna impulsively threw herself at him, stumbling to her knees. “Where are you going, father?” She was close to tears. She knew the answer.

  Her father stared down at her, his eyes now bereft of emotion. “Your door will remain locked until I come for you myself. Then a carriage will take you to Devon.” He pulled away from Lowenna and passed through the doorway.

  “Father!” Lowenna could no longer control her emotions. She lay there, sprawled and wet through, openly sobbing.

  James Fairborne paused a moment in the doorway. Then he turned back to Lowenna and drew a deep breath to calm himself.

  Lowenna lifted her eyes to meet his. “What will you do, father?” Her eyes pleaded with him but he made no attempt to answer.

  “I will send your maid in with supper,” he said. “And that is more than you deserve!”

  The door slammed and a key rattled in the lock.

  As Lowenna lay there, she could think of nothing other than Mawgan Hendry. She had not foreseen this. This was not part of her plan. Now, by giving the box to Mawgan, she had put her love in danger.

  I must get word to him, she thought. I must recover the box. Tamsyn…

  The pitiless rain fell as heavy as Lowenna’s heart that evening when her father returned to her locked room and dragged her out by her wrists. He carried her to the waiting carriage, kicking and screaming, seemingly ignoring her pleading questions about Mawgan Hendry. As he lifted her into the carriage she glimpsed the lumbering form of the man in her father’s pay, waiting by the horses. It made her shiver all the more to think that he was the man charged with her delivery to her grandparent’s house in Devon.

  The carriage door slammed shut, shattering her already brittle nerves. Lowenna watched her father fix a bar across the door, sealing her in, making no eye contact with her as he turned and walked away. She draped herself against the window, hanging onto the rail by her fingertips in the vain hope of opening it. But it was useless. The iron nails she could see beyond the glass were driven deep to prevent the window from dropping. She slumped back onto the carriage seat and as she settled, she heard their conspiring voices. She heard mention of the box.

  “Just tell me you have it!” her father said.

  “I cannot.”

  The exchange lifted Lowenna’s spirits. If the box had not been recovered then she supposed Mawgan was safe; that her maid must have reached him in time. The conversation beyond the carriage came and went with the severity of the rain that continued to beat a sharp drum roll against the roof. But sitting close to the window, she was able to follow it in part.

  “We must cover this up,” she heard her father say. “And soon, such that this matter is quickly forgotten.”

  Lowenna could still see her father through the window. He stopped pacing and the other came close to him, like an overbearing shadow.

  “The box must be returned to me,” he added. “It must never be allowed to tell its secret.”

  “There is a greater risk of that sitting in your carriage.” the other man said.

  “She is my daughter! What would you have me do?”

  Lowenna saw his answer. She recoiled from the window, startled as his eyes pierced hers. She receded into shadow, yet his eyes still managed to find her, holding her with such hatred as to suggest that he would have her father bid him kill her and be done with it.

  She watched her father move away then, back towards the house. “We shall conclude the matter upon your return,” he called.

  Then he was gone, leaving Lowenna to the other’s mercy.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The man rocking Tayte’s shoulder startled him.

  “End of the line,” he said with an obvious eastern European accent.

  Tayte’s head felt sore as he recoiled from his glass pillow to the almost musical twang of the nerves catching in his stiff neck as he straightened. The train was at a standstill. Through the window he recognised Truro train station. He blinked and rubbed at his neck.

  “Thanks,” he said, but the man had already moved on to the next waste-bin.

  Tayte checked his watch: ‘22:18’. That last snooze had taken him out cold for a few hours, rendering him oblivious to the fact that the train had lost some time and was overdue. He grabbed the rucksack and his briefcase then struggled out of his seat, passing the cleaner as he left the otherwise empty carriage. He was surprised that a call from Schofield hadn’t woken him before now with news of James Fairborne’s last will and testament; the meeting with his mystery caller should have taken place almost three hours ago. He checked his phone for missed calls - nothing.

  What’s Schofield playing at?

  Tayte cleared the station concourse like he was running late for an interview. It was a cool night, pricked with stars and the slightest crescent moon. Floodlights over the car park shone circular pools onto the tarmac. As he reached his hire car he pulled out his phone, thinking he’d try Amy again, this time to let her know he was on his way over. She must be home now, he thought. His phone rang before he had chance to dial. Schofield, he thought. About time.

  He answered the call. “Schofield! How’d it go?” He didn’t recognise the voice that answered. The caller spoke slowly, almost mechanically, punctuating every few words with sharp precision.

  “Is that Mr Tayte? Mr Jeff Tayte?”

  Tayte was cautious. Only Schofield called him Jeff. “Who wants to know?”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Bastion, Mr Tayte. Devon and Cornwall Police. I am speaking to Mr Tayte then, am I?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And Jeff? Short for Jeffrey, is it sir?”

  “It’s Jefferson actually. Look, where did you get my number and what’s this all about.”

  “Well that’s just the thing, sir. I found your number in the call directory of Peter Schofield’s mobile telephone. Are you related to Mr Schofield, sir?”

  “No, I’m not.” Tayte gritted his teeth. “We’re … working together.” It was painful to say it. “What’s he been up to?” A few random thoughts scattered through Tayte’s mind. Reasons why he might not have made the meeting he had lined up. He knew he’d be unreliable. “Don’t tell me,” Tayte said. “He’s had a couple of drinks too many, been a pain in the
ass and now you need someone to look after him.” Well not me, he thought.

  “I wish it was that simple, sir. I’m afraid Mr Schofield is dead.”

  An eerie calm washed over Tayte, punctuating the silence.

  “Sir?”

  He wasn’t sure how to react. That he didn’t like Schofield was no secret - but dead! Peter Schofield! He’d always put him up there with the Duracell bunny when it came to staying power. He’d been a constant thorn in his side; an itch that would never go away. Only now it had, and it felt like it had taken something vital to him along with it.

  “Dead?” Tayte said. He was thinking about that cool British sports car Schofield had mentioned earlier. Had he pushed it too hard on Cornwall’s tight country lanes? “I spoke with him just this afternoon,” he added.

  “I know, sir. Yours was the last number to call him. Are you in Cornwall by any chance?”

  “Truro. I just got back from London.”

  “That’s very useful, sir. I’d be grateful if you could identify the body for us. Help speed things along.”

  “Yes, of course.” Tayte had no idea how this sort of thing worked. “When do you want to see me?”

  “Right away, sir. If that’s at all possible. We’re still at the scene if you’d care to come down.”

  “Scene?”

  “That’s right, sir. The crime scene. Peter Schofield was murdered.”

  The unusually pitched voice of Tayte’s earlier caller replayed in his head, setting up the meeting at Nare Point. What have I done? There was no other explanation. He stared out into the quiet car park and tried to convince himself that this was real; that he wasn’t still on the train, asleep with his head against the window. He’d sent Schofield to his death tonight and he wasn’t sure if that upset him more than the realisation that it should have been his own life instead.

  “I know it’s a little irregular,” Bastion added. “But we’re about wrapped up here and I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me. Might take a couple of hours.”