Breward turned away, pacing towards the back of the stable, to the pile of hay where Lowenna was hiding. He stopped at the edge, staring into space. A moment later he turned on his heels. “Then she knows,” he said.
“We cannot be sure of what she knows.”
“Then you must ask her. Force her to tell you what she has learnt from that box.”
“And if she knew nothing before, she will surely know plenty after I have questioned her.”
“She must be silenced,” Breward said. “I cannot live like this another day unless I can be sure of my reward at the end of it.”
Lowenna watched her father come at Breward again with a raised finger stabbing like a dagger at his heart. “If any harm comes to my daughter you will get nothing!” Ervan said. “And your children will get nothing!” he added. “Do you understand? Lowenna will not be harmed!”
Lowenna watched her father turn away then, anger forcing his pace as he made towards the house. The Brute’s nod acquiesced agreement, but as soon as her father was beyond earshot his features darkened to contradict.
“You are not the brother I once knew,” Lowenna heard him say. “You have grown as soft as the bed linen you have become accustomed to.”
She watched him take a steel horseshoe in his hands, twisting it until it snapped in two. “My blood will prevail, brother,” he said. “Not yours.”
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The nurse at the door reminded Tayte that Tom Laity was still under the hospital’s close care. “Your consultant’s on his rounds,” she said to Laity. Then to Tayte and Amy she wrinkled her nose and said, “You’ve got a few minutes.”
“Thank you,” Amy said.
Tayte was still bowed over the story that had waited over two hundred years to be told. Now lie with them in death, he thought, recalling the inscription on the sarcophagus that was hidden inside the Fairborne mausoleum. It made perfect sense to him now. Ervan Kinsey had lived James Fairborne’s life, and his brother, as some final act of retribution, had made sure he would remain with them in death.
“So these Kinsey brothers,” Laity said. “Surely they had to know the ship was coming?”
Tayte looked up from the letters. “Falmouth was a busy port back then.” he said. “Plenty of traffic coming and going, and it wouldn’t have been difficult to access the registers - they were clearly very persuasive people.”
“But how could they have known who these people were in the first place?”
“That would have been easier still. News of a wealthy family fleeing war-torn America and arriving to take up residence on such a valuable estate in Cornwall would have been hard to keep a lid on. And he arrived to a baronetcy, don’t forget. That would have been widely discussed in a tight knit place like this.”
“But surely they were leaving a lot to chance,” Amy said. Lady Luck would have had to play her part.”
Tayte thought about it. “Maybe luck did play its part. You never hear about the ones that get away,” he said. “They might have tried before, and they might have kept trying if this hadn’t come good for them.” It occurred to him then that the year the Betsy Ross came to England was familiar to him for other reasons. “1783,” he mused. Then it registered. “That was also the year of the Laki eruption in Iceland.”
Blank faces told him he would have to elaborate. “You’d be surprised how many of my British assignment trails turn up a death record for that year. They reckon when Mount Laki erupted, it killed twenty three thousand people in Britain alone from airborne sulphur dioxide poisoning. It had a crazy effect on the weather here too. Raging thunder storms and a lingering haze that reports say made the sun look blood-red. I don’t know how long the haze lasted, but I read the hailstones that year were big enough to kill cattle. Taking a gamble that an arriving ship would hit a bad storm in the latter half of 1783 was a pretty safe bet.”
“And the rest was easy for them,” Laity said.
Tayte agreed. “I’m sure they knew a thing or two about the wrecking business, and you’ve sure got the rocks for it around this coastline.”
The nurse appeared at the door again. This time an entourage of white coats accompanied her.
Tayte got up, slipped the letters into his briefcase and shook Laity’s hand. “Well thanks for everything,” he said. He collected his cases and the dive lamp he’d promised to return to DS Hayne. Then he followed Amy into the corridor.
“When are they letting you out,” he asked her once Laity’s door had closed.
“Soon, I hope,” Amy replied. “I expect they’ll be in to see me next. Better get into bed quick!” She feigned an exaggerated sprint to her room a few doors down, then turned back and laughed.
Tayte found her smile pleasantly contagious, even in that mint-green hospital gown.
They passed the door to her room and walked together along a busy corridor: a medley of medical staff talking into their patient reports. The pace was deliberately slow.
“So how are you coping?” Tayte said. He began to fish around in his pocket for something. “Finding your husband I mean. I know you don’t remember much about what happened in that cave last night.”
Amy took a moment to think about it. Then she said, “At least now I know.”
Tayte’s hand fell onto what he was looking for. “I knew you’d want this,” he said. He held out a gold ring: Gabriel’s matching Celtic wedding band.
Amy smiled as she took it. “We’ll have a small service for Gabriel when everything’s settled down. I suppose there’ll be an inquest.”
“I think that’s usual,” Tayte said. “Sorry I can’t stick around.”
Amy nodded as though she would have liked that.
“So what are your plans?” Tayte asked. “Might seem a little dull around here after all this.”
“You mean after you’ve gone?” Amy said.
Tayte laughed. “I didn’t say that.”
“You might as well have,” Amy said. “And it wouldn’t be far from the truth. Hey, I bet the police will be glad for the rest.”
Tayte laughed again and knew then that he would miss Amy as soon as he left. “What about the ferry business?” he asked. “You gonna keep at it?”
Amy shook her head. “No. Too many memories. But it’s the good ones I’ll be running away from.”
“Where will you go?”
Amy shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve no idea. It’ll take a while to sell up. That’ll give me some time to think. I guess I just want to pick up my life again. Move on, you know.” She stopped in her tracks and locked eyes with Tayte. “I think I can do that now,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “Did I thank you yet?”
“I’m sure you did,” Tayte said. “There’s really no -”
Before he could finish, Amy put her hands on his shoulders, rose up onto her toes and kissed him. “Thanks.”
Tayte’s whole face felt like it was on fire. “Got any hobbies?” he said, changing the subject. “Anything to distract yourself with?”
“I might take up fishing,” Amy said, settling back into a lazy stride.
Tayte scoffed.
“No, really. I promised Tom he could take me out in his boat again when he’s ready. And if I know Tom, that should get him up and about again pretty quick.” Amy eyed Tayte’s packed cases for the umpteenth time. “And what about you?” she said. “Your assignment’s all wrapped up I suppose.”
Tayte nodded. “Pretty conclusively. I came here to find James Fairborne’s family and now I can put a big line under 1783 for all of them, including James. I’m booked on a flight out of London later today. That gives me the whole of tomorrow free to tidy up my work before the deadline.”
“How will your client’s family take the news?”
“Oh, they’ll be sorry to hear they’ve no living family in England that’s for sure.” Tayte recalled some of the emotional scenes he’d started in the past. “I expect there’ll be a few tears shed when they hear what I’ve got to tell them. It does
n’t seem to matter how long ago a thing like this happened. If they were family, you feel for them. Especially when children are involved. It’s almost like time slips out of the equation briefly and you’re telling them about their own.” He reflected on those poor Fairborne children: their unfulfilled expectations, their unimaginable terror. “Mind you,” he added. “I should think Walter Sloane will cheer up when I drop the letters proving all this on his lap. The probate record names William Fairborne sole beneficiary. I think his real descendants have a good deal of money owed them.”
Amy went quiet. Then she said, “It’ll destroy the family, of course.”
Tayte nodded. “I guess it will.”
“And it’s not like they had anything to do with those terrible things that happened all those years ago.”
Tayte agreed. Generations of false Fairbornes had come and gone, oblivious to the origins of their wealth. And by all accounts they’d made a good show of it until now - until Breward Kinsey’s seed had risen again in Warwick.
“Ironic isn’t it?” Amy said.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, that’s just what Simon Phillips wanted.”
Tayte hadn’t thought of it like that.
They arrived at a set of double doors that led out into the main waiting area. Tayte could see DS Hayne sitting on the other side. He hadn’t spotted them yet. So soon, he thought. He checked the time and noted that his train was due in less than an hour.
“Well, there’s my ride,” Tayte said. “Not bad, eh? A free ticket to the train station in an unmarked cop car.”
Amy smiled. “They probably want to make sure you leave the county!”
Tayte snorted and said, “You could be right.” He was about to say goodbye when he remembered something he needed ask. “If you don’t mind,” he said. “I still have the lid from the writing box. I thought I could return it to the family it belonged to, but it’s your call. You found it.”
“Keep it,” Amy said. “I don’t want anything more to do with it.”
“Thanks. I’m sure they’ll appreciate it.” Tayte stood back from the doorway, not wanting to draw Hayne’s eye just yet as something else occurred to him. “What happened to the silk heart?”
Amy had lost track of it. Then she remembered she’d taken it out of the box the night Tayte called on her. “Must still be at the house,” she said. “I’ll hang on to that. It was Lowenna’s heart and she gave it to Mawgan. I like that part of the story even if things didn’t turn out for them. I think I’ll put it back in the room where I found it. Lowenna only meant it for Mawgan’s eyes.”
Through the double doors Tayte could see that Hayne was growing restless. “Well, good luck,” he said. He leaned in and gave Amy a peck on the cheek. Then he took four backwards steps, gave her a final wave and turned away. Before the doors had closed, he thought he heard Amy say, “Don’t forget to write.” But he couldn’t be sure.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
The departure lounge inside terminal three at Heathrow airport frothed with nameless faces and blank expressions, and by the time Jefferson Tayte had finished his succinct payphone call to Walter Sloane and fought his way back to his seat, he was missing Cornwall already. He sipped at the edge of his paper coffee cup, reflecting on the past week and wondering if life was all just another re-run on a channel you couldn’t change; whether we’re all destined to follow the genetic plans that define us. Time and the nature of our existence may alter the surroundings, he considered, but are we capable of breaking free from such fundamental triggers as our own imbedded instincts?
Simon Phillips and Warwick Fairborne weren’t, that’s for sure.
As Breward Kinsey had murdered Mawgan Hendry in 1803, so now had their descendants come violently together to replicate that same fate; two people chasing a stolen legacy neither of them had any right to.
History repeats…
Tayte found himself questioning whether things could really have been any different. Once those genetic instincts had been awoken, could either of them have reacted any differently to the stimulus? He doubted it. It was in their blood.
He looked up from his coffee, scanning the myriad faces he couldn’t avoid. He checked his watch; not long now. His briefcase was open between his feet, reminding him that something was missing. Have I done the right thing? he questioned. He knew DS Hayne must have found the envelope by now; probably read the letters. Is it enough that the truth’s been discovered and their story’s been told?
Tayte didn’t have the answer. He only knew that he owed it to Schofield not to let his killer succeed if he could help it, posthumous though any victory might be. And he owed it to Amy, for Gabriel and for what Simon Phillips had put her through. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to destroy the letters any more than he could wilfully fulfil Simon’s plans for revenge and wealth. While the letters survived, so too did the Fairborne story and the truth of what happened to that family. In being the first to tell it, Tayte felt he had a certain duty of care. His accompanying note to DS Hayne was clear; the letters should be filed as case evidence. Beyond that, Hayne was to use his own judgement.
The decision to leave them with Hayne became easier when, on the way to the train station, Hayne had explained how Sir Richard Fairborne had broken down during the night and confessed to sanctioning Tayte’s murder. Tayte knew the implications would be punishment enough for a man in his position and while it angered him, it came as no surprise. Tayte wasn’t out to get anyone for the sins of their ancestors; Amy had been right there. But they weren’t exactly getting away with it either and with Warwick as their only child, the stolen Fairborne dynasty had all but died with him at Nare Cove.
An announcement told Tayte that American Airlines were now ready for him to board. He snapped his briefcase shut, collecting it as he stood. He felt strong again; ready to have another go at tracing his own origins; ready to give that all-consuming hunger its last meal. He looked around at all the faces again - all the family history.
I’m a genealogist, he reminded himself. And a damn good one.
Out of the windows, Tayte couldn’t miss the sunset shimmer of the polished steel plane that waited to take him home. After all he’d been through it didn’t look so intimidating this time around - at least, not from the safety of the departure terminal. But he could already feel his hands getting clammy.
Gotta face your fears, JT, he thought as he headed for the boarding desk. When you fall off, you gotta keep getting back on.
His eyes were still busy taking in all the faces. Scanning… Where is she? She was cutting it fine and Tayte was surprised at how he felt at the idea of her not making the flight. Was he really ready to try his hand at romance again after all this time? He couldn’t quite believe it possible, but why did he feel like he was back in college again, getting ready for prom night? Maybe she’s not coming… She’d made no promises when he’d called her with his flight details. He’d been true to his word: Larry Hagman for his flight number. That was the deal. But she’d said she had a busy schedule; Sunday was no excuse to sit back and take it easy in her business.
But who was she kidding? Tayte knew Julia Kapowski wouldn’t have missed that flight, not even for a promotion. He heard her before he saw her.
“JT!”
A petit figure in a fitted black trouser suit asserted her way through the masses, clearly in a hurry to get to him. An amused smile spread across Tayte’s face, though he tried to guard it.
“JT, honey!”
Kapowski was almost running now. When she was no more than a few feet away she stopped hard in her tracks. Her eyes were big as a panda’s and radiated twice the sentiment.
“My God… Sweetheart…” she said, eying the hospital dressings. “What happened to you?”
“I don’t suppose I can get away with it being a long story?” Tayte said.
“Not a chance!” She threw herself at him. “We’ve got eight hours to kill, and look at you… You’re gonna need someo
ne to hold that poor hand of yours all the way to Boston!”
Acknowledgements
I can take no credit for the verse ‘Of all the mortals…’ reproduced here as part of the public domain. I came across it in a National Trust pamphlet while visiting Cornwall. It was written by an unknown Cornish farmer in the 19th century about the often tardy and drunken ferrymen who operated the Helford ferry service at the time.
My thanks to Tina Betts at Andrew Mann Ltd and to Cornerstones Literary Consultants for helping to shape this story. To Inspector Pat Rawle for assisting with my enquiries. To Mary Kemp for her encouragement and the pamphlet that started it all. And to my wife, Karen. For everything…
About The Author
Steve Robinson was born in coastal Kent, UK, and now lives near London on the Essex/Hertfordshire border. His passion for writing began at the age of sixteen when he was first published in a computer adventure magazine and he has been writing by way of a creative hobby ever since. When a career in software and telecommunications ended in redundancy, he began to write full time. In the Blood, his debut novel, was the result.
I write for the crime, thriller and mystery genres with a family history angle, having become interested in genealogy as a means to tell the story of In the Blood and perhaps because I have no idea who my own maternal grandfather is - which is something that has always intrigued me. He was an American GI billeted in England during the second world war and to my knowledge a few years after the war ended he went back to America leaving a young family behind and no further contact was made. I traced him through his enlistment record to Arkansas and know very little else about him. Perhaps this is also why my lead character is an American genealogist.
If you can find the time, please leave a review on the website you downloaded this eBook from. If you enjoyed it, please tell someone. If you would like to contact me, please visit my website at www.steve-robinson.me, or you can send an email to [email protected]. I’d love to hear from you.
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