The Last Queen of England: A Genealogical Crime Mystery #3 (Jefferson Tayte)

by Robinson, Steve

  Tayte opened the folders. The first contained a three-month-old newspaper cutting of a double murder in Bermondsey: Julian Davenport and his wife. Fable quickly filled Tayte in on the high-level details of the case. Beneath the clipping was a sheet of A3 paper folded twice. It showed Davenport’s ancestry dating to the 1600s with plenty of gaps, particularly further back as Tayte would have expected.

  The second folder contained another ancestry chart much like the first: a left to right expanding pyramid of names also going back to the 1600s. The subject on this chart was a man called Douglas Jones and according to his entry he died twenty years ago.

  Tayte sat back in his chair. “They’re ancestry charts.”

  The woman in the dogtooth suit came back at him before he could elaborate. Her tone was sharp and to the point. “We know that much, Mr Tayte.”

  Tayte gave her an apologetic smile. He laid the charts out side by side and studied them more closely. His only idea at this point was to see if any of the names matched, but there were so many, the handwriting small and written by Marcus Brown, which added another level of difficulty. He didn’t quite need his degree in palaeography to read his friend’s writing and he knew he could sit there and work through it, but he didn’t think that was what the people around him had in mind.

  He turned one of the charts over, thinking it wouldn’t mean anything even if they did share a common name. It would prove that the people on the charts were related, but so what? Then as he leant in and smoothed the paper out he noticed a small three-digit number by the crease where the folds converged. It was on the chart for Julian Davenport. He checked the other chart and noted that it had no such marking.

  “Unless Marcus singled a name out,” Tayte said under his breath. “Then it would mean something.” He felt the room close in around him. “Can I get a pencil? It might be an ahnentafel number.”

  Someone handed Tayte a pencil and he wrote down the number, ‘594’ in large print so everyone could see it.

  “Ahnentafel?” Jean said, asking the question that must have been on everyone’s lips.

  Tayte looked up. “It’s a German word that literally translates to ancestor table. The system’s been around for centuries. It was invented by an Austrian historian named Eytzinger and later popularised by de Sosa and Stradonitz. Basically, it’s a construct that allows us to show someone’s ancestry in text form, either as a numbered list or even as a binary table.”

  Tayte put his finger on the chart entry for Julian Davenport. “Using the system, everyone on this chart has a unique reference number in relation to the subject.” He turned to Fable. “Your murder victim in this case.”

  “How does it work?” the woman in the dogtooth suit asked.

  Tayte smiled. “The beauty really lies in its simplicity. The subject is always number one. The father is double that and the mother is double plus one.” Tayte started writing numbers against the names. “So Davenport’s father is number two on the chart. His mother is number three.” He wrote the numbers in. “His paternal grandmother will be number five - that’s twice the father plus one. And his paternal great-grandmother will be twice that plus one again, which makes her number eleven. It’s easy once you get the hang of it.”

  The man with the nasal voice was over his shoulder. “So this three-digit number. Who does it point to?”

  “Well, the numbers haven’t been written in and it would take a while to do that,” Tayte said. “But fortunately the system provides us with an easy way to get there. I mentioned a binary table a moment ago.”

  Heads nodded.

  “If we convert this three-digit number to binary we can use that number to point directly to someone on the chart.” Tayte looked around. “Anyone know the binary conversion for five hundred ninety-four?”

  The only man in the room who hadn’t spoken yet - a big man with a military style buzz-cut - picked up the phone at the end of the table and hit a couple of buttons.

  “I need a numeric conversion,” he said in a baritone voice. “Decimal to binary. Five hundred and ninety-four.” He nodded then looked at Tayte. “Get your pencil ready.”

  Tayte wrote the numbers down as the man called them out.

  “One-zero-zero-one-zero-one-zero-zero-one-zero. Okay, got it. Thanks.”

  Tayte showed everyone what the number looked like written in binary: 1001010010. “The first time I saw this,” he said. “I thought it was a magic trick. As I’ve said, the leading digit is always number one and represents the subject. Then a zero translates to ‘F’ for father and a one is ‘M’ for mother. Another way to look at it is like this.” He scratched the first digit and wrote, ‘FFMFMFFMF’.

  He went back to the chart. “So our number five hundred ninety-four is Julian Davenport’s mother’s, mother’s, father’s, mother’s, father’s, mother’s, mother’s, father’s, mother.” He traced a finger across the generations as he spoke, arriving at an entry beside which he wrote the number, ‘594’. “That’s nine generations from the subject. A direct line of descent to a Reverend Charles Naismith. Born 1668. Died 1708. When Marcus wrote that number down it’s like he drew a big red circle around Naismith’s name.”

  Jean scoffed. “It would have been easier if he had.”

  “I guess he didn’t want to draw too much attention to it,” Tayte said. “It must be important though and I wouldn’t mind betting our man Naismith also appears on the other chart.”

  He checked. The name was there and easy to find now he had the dates. Naismith had twin sons according to the charts. Julian Davenport was descended from one, Douglas Jones from the other.

  “If you want to know what Marcus Brown was working on,” Tayte continued, “then the Reverend Naismith is your way in.” He sat back in his chair. “Now is anyone going to tell me why MI5 are so interested in his murder?”

  The woman in the dogtooth suit answered. “We understand that Marcus Brown was concerned about something we now believe could be a threat to our country’s national security. I’m sorry the matter wasn’t treated with more urgency when he first made contact with us and I can assure you that will be addressed. But, since he was murdered before we had the opportunity to speak to him, we have to suppose that the threat is real until proven otherwise.”

  “And you want me to help identify that threat for you?”

  It was clear to Tayte that these were the people Marcus was going to meet - the people who liked to keep their secrets close to their chest as Marcus had put it.

  “You seem very competent at what you do, Mr Tayte,” the woman said. “And you told Inspector Fable yesterday that you and Mr Brown were close friends. Can you think of anyone better qualified?”

  Tayte couldn’t.

  “We need to know where all this leads,” the woman added, tapping the charts. “In short, we need to know what Marcus Brown knew.”

  Tayte drew a deep breath. A threat to national security? What the hell were you into, Marcus? His friend’s dying words replayed through his mind. Treason… Hurry… This was all so much bigger than he’d imagined. He looked at Jean for confirmation that she still wanted in. She nodded back at him.

  “Okay,” Tayte said. He gathered up the charts. “First thing in the morning we need to visit The National Archives.”

  Chapter Six

  For their protection, and no doubt because the British Security Service wanted to keep them close, Tayte and Jean spent the remainder of the night at Thames House, sleeping in basic but comfortable accommodation. Early the following morning they took the Great West Road out of Central London and thirty minutes later the same silver Audi that had picked them up the night before arrived at The National Archives in Kew. It was another government agency building, this one home to almost three hundred million documents spanning a thousand years of history.

  Tayte recognised the modern stone building as soon as they came in sight of it. He’d only been there once before, having travelled to England via a cruise ship because he wouldn’t ge
t on an aeroplane. That was a while ago now but the building’s architecture was hard to misplace. It reminded him of something between an air traffic control tower and a compressed multi-storey car park. The windows on the first two floors were tall and angled towards the ground while those on the higher levels were no more than narrow slits that ran around the building, layering the stonework so as to allow in as little damaging UV light as was necessary.

  They parked in the visitors’ car park and Tayte and Jean got out the back as the two efficient-looking Security Service officers who had been assigned to them for the duration got out of the front. The taller man was called Hampshire - the other was Hues. Neither spoke much, not even to each other. Fable wasn’t joining them. He had a murder investigation to conduct and a new lead to follow from the genealogy charts: Douglas Jones. They all wanted to know who he was and where he fitted into the picture.

  As they paced beside a large rectangular pond towards the building’s main entrance - a tall cube-shaped glass appendage with a pyramidal roof - Tayte kept turning the data over in his head to keep it fresh. He had the charts in his briefcase but he wanted to commit the information to memory. Charles Naismith. Born 1668. Died 1708. The Reverend was their way in, he’d told them, and he hoped he was right.

  In the foyer, Tayte checked his briefcase with security and they were met by the Chief Executive who introduced herself as Victoria Marsh. Someone had called ahead and she was expecting them. Tayte put her in her early fifties. She had ash-blonde hair and wore a light-green trouser-suit. When she smiled at him he thought her face carried the weight of a loss shared.

  “We were all so shocked to hear about what happened to dear Marcus,” she said, leading them past a line of visitors who were already queuing for their readers’ tickets. “I was asked by Detective Fable to show you the records Marcus had requested in the last three months. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tayte said. “And thanks for your cooperation. I know it’s short notice.”

  They cleared the security checks and Marsh turned and locked eyes with Tayte. “Just catch whoever did this, will you?”

  They took a lift to the first floor where they passed the Open Reading Room and continued to the Document Reading Room. It was a large space, like any modern open-plan office, with grey carpet, overhead fluorescent lights and swivel chairs arranged around honeycomb-shaped desk pods. Every pod had a numbered cube at its centre and all were vacant because the regular visitors had been held back for now. They were taken to a pod adjacent to the windows and a member of security staff who had been waiting for them resumed his duties as they approached.

  Ordinarily, there was a strict no talking policy in the Document Reading Room, which was never going to be a problem for officers Hampshire and Hues, who stood rather than sat at the opposite side of the pod. The only sound Tayte could hear was the background hum of the air conditioning. Victoria Marsh indicated the records that had already been laid out for them.

  “I’ll leave these with you,” she said, exercising her executive prerogative to contravene the rules. “If you need anything else, just ask a member of staff to contact me.”

  Tayte smiled and mouthed a silent thank you as Marsh left. He was so used to keeping quiet in such rooms that he thought nothing of the fact that on this occasion they were the only people there to disturb. He looked at Jean and then at the records. Every document at The National Archives was referred to as a record, irrespective of whether it was a single sheet, an entire book, a newspaper or a photograph. If it had a catalogue number it was a record.

  There were only two records for them to see and Tayte thought there might have been more given all the work Marcus had put in on the charts found at his home, but he knew much of his friend’s research would have been focused on birth, marriage and death certificates, which were held at the General Register Office. His research would undoubtedly have taken him to other repositories, too.

  Tayte pulled one of the records closer and set it between them as he and Jean sat down. It was a book called the Newgate Calendar - Volume II. It bore the subtitle, ‘The Malefactors’ Bloody Register.’ He’d come across the Newgate Calendar before. It began as a monthly publication of the Ordinary of Newgate’s account of executions: the Ordinary being the prison chaplain, who made money selling his accounts to the publishing press. These accounts were later compiled into six volumes that were once among the top three books to be found in the family home along with the Bible and The Pilgrim’s Progress. They encouraged moral correctness through fear by showing illustrations of people like Thomas Hunter, the knife-wielding child murderer: one boy lying lifeless at his feet while another, caught by his hair, is struggling to free himself. The publications were against Catholicism, the Commonwealth and anything outside of the Common Law or Bloody Code as it was later known, favouring the Church of England and the monarchy.

  Tayte put on a pair of the white gloves that had been provided for them and turned to the index, feeling the old book’s uneven edges as his fingertips passed over them. There were several pages of names and he had a good idea what he expected to find. He turned one page and then another. Then he underlined an entry with his forefinger, drawing Jean’s attention to it. It read, ‘REV. CHARLES NAISMITH of St Mary’s Whitechapel. Executed at Tyburn, 23rd of April, 1708 for High Treason.’ He found the indicated page: a body of text split into two tall columns, above which was the heading, ‘The Ordinary of Newgate his Account of the Behaviour, Confessions, and Dying Speeches of the Malefactors that were Executed at Tyburn, on Monday the 23rd of April, 1708.’

  “High treason,” Tayte whispered, glancing at Jean.

  “We must be on the right track,” she whispered back.

  Tayte began to read the text, noting how the author used capital letters seemingly at random, perhaps for emphasis: a practice that was common in the early eighteenth century.

  ‘AT the Sessions held at Justice-Hall in the Old-Bailey, on Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, the 4th, 5th, and 6th instant, several Persons (viz. 5 Men and 3 Women) who were Try’d for, and found Guilty of several Capital Crimes, receiv’d Sentence of Death accordingly, and Two others were call’d to their former Judgment. Of all these Ten Malefactors, Five being Repriev’d, viz, the Three Women for their Pregnancy, and Two of the Men by the QUEEN’S most gracious reprieve (which I hope they will take care to improve); 5 are now order’d for Execution.’

  Tayte’s interest in Naismith extended to the other four men who were hanged with him and he wondered if there was a connection. He continued to read, catching the opening paragraphs and skipping ahead to find the relevant material.

  ‘While they lay under this Condemnation, I constantly visited them, and had them brought up twice every day, to the Chapel of Newgate, where I pray’d with them, and read and expounded the Word of GOD to them … On the Lord’s Day the 8th instant, I preach’d to them, both in the Morning and Afternoon, upon part of the Gospel for the Day, viz. Luke 21. 27. the Words being these; And then shall they see the Son of Man coming in a Cloud with Power and great Glory…’

  Tayte sighed. The Ordinary of Newgate seemed nothing if not thorough in his piety. He reached the bottom of the page and began again at the top of the next column. Other than to provide spiritual care to the condemned it was the Ordinary’s role to solicit a confession from the accused wherever possible, such that their souls may enter Heaven. As Tayte reached the end of the second column, the text still knotted in God’s holy word, he thought he would have confessed to just about anything if he had to listen to this all day. He turned the page and slowed when he was half way down the first column, seeing that the subject matter had returned more directly to the accused.

  ‘I have here dwelt the longer upon these respective Heads or chief Points of my Sermons to the Condemn’d Persons, because I may have but little else to fill this Paper with; which (as I take it) should be excus’d from the Tax, being a Paper that (for the most part) contains Matter of Divinity a
nd Devotion, and is chiefly intended for the Instruction and Reformation of Sinners. These who are the Subject of it, and are now order’d for Execution, gave me small account of their past Lives, and present Dispositions, as follows.’

  Tayte read five names and five brief accounts, which amounted to little more than statements of innocence against the charges of supporting the Old Pretender and the Jacobite cause. They stated their loyalty to Queen Anne and to the Church of England and upheld that no evidence to support the accusations of high treason had been proved. The Ordinary noted with disdain that these five men protested their innocence all the way to the Tyburn Tree and during their pithy dying speeches.

  Tayte wished they had given the Ordinary a better account of themselves. He wrote the names in his notebook below the entry that was already there for the Reverend Charles Naismith, adding Dr Bartholomew Hutton, Lloyd Needham, Sir Stephen Henley and William Daws. Five men connected in death, hanged as Jacobite supporters. He read the last paragraph of the Ordinary’s account and began to wonder what might have connected these five men in life.

  ‘I finally commended their Souls to the Mercy of God in Christ, and retir’d from them; leaving them to their private Devotions, for which they had some time allotted them: And then the Cart drew away, and they were turned off, all the while calling on God to have Mercy upon their Souls. This is all the Account here to be given of these dying Persons, by me THOMAS LAING, Ordinary. Friday, May 4. 1708.

  Tayte closed the book and they took a break, returning to the ground floor where the café hubbub after the quiet of the reading room was as welcome as the caffeine. Jean sat in a chair by the window and Tayte sat opposite. Officers Hampshire and Hues kept their vigil by the main doors where they remained standing with their drinks and were no doubt bored to distraction.

  “So, what do you make of it?” Jean asked.

  Tayte sucked the foam from the top of his coffee. “Well, after your history lesson yesterday, I guess I don’t really see how five men who say they were loyal to Queen Anne could qualify as Jacobites. And Naismith was Church of England clergy.”