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

by Robinson, Steve

  They arrived at St Paul’s Church in Shadwell ahead of a school field trip that consisted of two female teachers and thirty or so ten-year-olds from the local primary school. Tayte watched the procession of pupils file past in pairs like a blue centipede that quickly disappeared beneath the shade of mature trees in the churchyard. He couldn’t feel much of the breeze, but he could hear it rustling the treetops above as it tried to shake free the early autumn leaves.

  He stood there a moment, briefcase in hand, like an estate agent assessing a new property listing. He was looking at the north-facing side of the church, which was constructed of brown brick with plain stucco dressings. He would have thought it unremarkable were it not for the impressive spire that sat above the pediment, rising in ornate, pillared tiers like a tall wedding cake whose crowning glory was a high stone obelisk.

  “I don’t know how much time we have,” he said to Jean as they made their way through black ironwork gates towards the church.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean, I don’t think it’s going to be long before they catch up with us again. They knew we were at St Paul’s, Covent Garden. They probably knew we were in Hammersmith given that they tried to kill us on the way back. I wouldn’t be surprised if they knew we were at the cathedral, too.”

  Jean agreed. “You don’t need to be a Fellow of the Royal Society to work out the pattern, do you?”

  “No, you don’t,” Tayte said. “And given they know we were on a boat heading east - a boat that terminated at St Katherine’s, not far from this St Paul’s…”

  He left his words hanging as the headstones and sarcophagi he could see to either side of the path distracted him. These were old memorials judging from their worn and crooked appearance. The walled churchyard, though relatively small, clearly predated the present building, which Tayte knew from Jean’s research on the BlackBerry, was built around 1820.

  The path led them to the entrance where a few stone steps led up to a bright red door that was set between tall white niches and iron railings. The Greek revival facade was topped with a plain stone tympanum that ran the full width of the pediment. Tayte stopped and looked back towards the road, thinking that they were probably okay for now. He figured they had maybe thirty minutes to check the place out. Any longer than that was pushing their luck. He stepped ahead of Jean and opened the door.

  “Shall we?” he said.

  Inside, they caught up with the school trip. The children were already neatly ordered in the pews and Tayte could see that they had been equipped with tracing paper and crayons. He thought they all looked impatient to get outside again to begin their rubbings, but it appeared they had to take in a little church history first.

  The lesson today was being given by someone who looked too young to be anyone other than a very junior member of the church. He wore a dog collar with a black shirt and jeans, and Tayte thought his fair, windswept hairstyle suited a guitar and microphone better than a pulpit and bible, but what did he know.

  “St Paul’s Church, Shadwell is known as the Church of the Sea Captains,” the young clergyman said.

  Tayte wasn’t there for the lesson. He turned away, taking the place in. It was a predominantly white interior with gilded detail and galleried wooden balconies. His eyes strayed to the stained glass windows then back to the walls, looking for pertinent inscriptions. In the background the clergyman continued his lesson.

  “More than seventy sea captains have been buried in our churchyard over the years,” he said. “And although not buried here, one important parishioner I’m sure you’ve all heard of is Captain Cook.”

  Jean sidled up next to Tayte and studied the wall with him. “Maybe we can talk to one of the churchwardens.”

  Tayte looked around. “If we can find one.”

  The clergyman giving the history lesson was the only member of the church he’d seen and he seemed settled for the time being.

  “Does anyone know where our church got its name?” the clergyman said.

  Tayte saw a hand shoot up from the pews.

  “Because of St Paul,” one of the children said.

  “That’s right. But more specifically, it was named after a very famous St Paul’s in Central London. Can anyone tell me which?”

  St Paul’s Cathedral, Tayte thought, not really registering his answer as he moved around the church and continued to study the inscriptions with Jean. There were relatively few and nothing he saw came close to the dates they were looking for.

  “It was dedicated to St Paul in honour of the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral,” the clergyman said, confirming Tayte’s answer when none of the children did.

  The words caught up with Tayte then. He suddenly found himself very interested. He turned to listen more attentively and saw that Jean was already ahead of him. He sat beside her in the pews.

  “In 1669,” the clergyman continued, “Dean William Sancroft - who later became Archbishop of Canterbury - owned the land this church was built on. It was because of his granting of the lease to build our community church that we are here today.”

  Jean turned to Tayte. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  Tayte was thinking a number of things and chief among them was the self-consuming dragon, Ouroboros. “It goes full circle,” he said. “Ethelred to St Paul’s Cathedral. St Paul to this St Paul’s church, which connects us back to the cathedral and Ethelred.”

  “Ad infinitum,” Jean said.

  It was a good connection but Tayte needed more. He stood up, not wanting to waste another second. “Excuse me,” he called, raising his hand as he spoke as if that made the interruption okay. “Do you keep your own parish registers here?”

  The sudden intrusion seemed to take the clergyman aback. “No,” he said, his brow firmly scrunched. “None.”

  “Do you know where the burial registers are kept? Maybe the local record office?”

  The clergyman nodded. “Since the war years, yes.”

  “And prior to that?”

  “Everything was destroyed during the blitz. Now, would you mind waiting until we’ve finished? I can answer your questions then.”

  “Everything?” Tayte said, more to himself than to the clergyman. He knew the centralisation of England’s parish registers hadn’t begun in earnest until after the war and he supposed such losses had prompted it. “There were no copies?” he added, unconvinced. He thought about the Harleian Society publication he’d looked through at the church in Covent Garden. “Weren’t the registers published anywhere?”

  “No,” the clergyman said. “Everything was lost. Now I must -”

  Tayte put his hand up again, this time in surrender. “There’s no need,” he said. It was clear that he was testing the young man’s patience. A quick glance at the teachers sitting in the pews confirmed that he was testing theirs, too. He gave an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” he added and sat down again.

  He turned to Jean, who looked mildly embarrassed for him or perhaps because of him. “No records,” he said. “No copies, either.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “Headstones and memorials. That’s about it.”

  Jean stood up. “Let’s go outside and take a look at the graveyard. Before we’re thrown out.”

  They took a clockwise route around the church from the gate they had entered by, checking every memorial they came to for a date that matched one of Queen Anne’s failed attempts to provide an heir - a grave that should not be there. They walked side by side, like crime scene officers looking for the smallest piece of evidence. Typically, they found that many of the inscriptions were worn and difficult to read.

  “This is going to take a while,” Tayte said.

  They had cleared ten or twelve graves and he was anxiously aware that the clock was ticking.

  “We can’t afford to cut corners,” Jean said.

  Tayte knew she was right but he had a feeling it was going to take more time than the
y had. He began to wonder when their expected company would arrive, thinking that if he had to run anywhere else today, the heart attack he’d feigned on the boat would hit him for real. That’s if running was an option. The churchyard was all but empty. He’d only seen one other person: a groundskeeper tending the border by the far wall they were heading towards. They would be easy targets.

  They continued in silence, focusing on the dates, quickly ruling out every memorial they came to. Then as Murphy’s Law would have it, the silence was shattered by thirty school children as they ran out into the churchyard armed with their tracing paper. Tayte just wanted to get this done and get out of there. Now an army of ten-year-olds was running riot, covering the headstones they needed to see with tracing paper.

  Tayte pushed a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s just great.”

  “Maybe you could recruit them,” Jean said, smiling to herself.

  Tayte thought about it. “That’s not a bad idea. Better to have the horde with you than against you, right?”

  “I was joking,” Jean said. “Anyway, you’d never get past the teachers.”

  Tayte was going to try anyway, but just as he was about to find a teacher to ask, a white-haired man in a green shirt and tan corduroy trousers came over and spoke to them. He was the groundskeeper Tayte had seen, although he looked several years past retirement age.

  “Sightseeing, are you?”

  Tayte thought it a reasonable assumption given that the man had probably seen them musing over every inscription they came to. “No, not really.”

  “Looking for family, then?”

  Tayte shook his head. “I’m a genealogist looking for a date.”

  The man laughed to himself. “Then you’re looking in the wrong place. Everyone’s dating online these days.”

  Jean laughed with him. Tayte just smirked.

  “I’m sorry,” the man said. “I couldn’t resist. What name are you looking for?”

  “We don’t have a name,” Jean said.

  “No name?” the man repeated. “Pity. I might have been able to help.”

  “We’re looking for a headstone dated somewhere between 1697 and 1700,” Tayte said.

  The groundskeeper drew a long breath. “Then you’re still looking in the wrong place. You won’t find anything that old out here.”

  “Why’s that?” Jean asked. She didn’t seem ready to believe him. “This graveyard’s been here since the mid 1600s, hasn’t it?”

  “That might be so,” the man said. “But there’s not so much of it now as there used to be. Back in the 1840s it was twice the size, but the London Dock Company compulsory purchased the land for development. All the older graves went. Then in the 1920s much of what was left was cleared for a nature study area.”

  Jean chewed her lip. “What about a crypt?”

  The man scratched behind his ear, shaking his head. “Times change,” he said. “Space is a precious commodity in London, as in any big city. The church crypt was turned into a community centre in the 1980s. I’d not long started working here then.”

  Tayte and Jean exchanged glances, saying nothing. Then Jean turned away and Tayte thanked the man. He caught up with her and they walked a few paces in silence, passing puddles of children who had settled onto the grass in pairs: one holding the tracing paper, the other rubbing the crayon.

  “I guess that saved us some time,” Tayte said, trying to focus on the positives.

  Jean stopped abruptly and turned to him. She gave a cheerless laugh. “Time for what?” she said. “Don’t you see? It’s over.” She crossed her arms and locked eyes with him. “This is the last church on our list,” she added, drumming the reality home. “We’ve got a connection back to St Paul’s Cathedral, which leaves me thinking that this is probably the right church, but where does it leave us? All the old graves are gone and the only records were destroyed during the Blitz.”

  Tayte knew she was really worrying about where that left her son and it was easy to understand why. How would things turn out for Elliot if they had nothing to exchange for him? He’d already considered the ramifications but now was not the time to stand around discussing it. He grabbed Jean’s hand.

  “You may think it’s over but it’s not,” he said as they walked. “There are people who still want us dead. They don’t know it’s over, so we need to leave this place.”

  They reached the street and Tayte looked for a taxi. It was late afternoon and the traffic was building. He was about to start walking again, if only to get away from the church, when he heard something that sent a shiver through him. He turned towards the sound, back to the churchyard. One of the schoolgirls was turning in slow circles between the headstones, singing his name.

  “Jefferson Tayte… Jefferson Tayte…”

  Tayte sprinted back through the gate and stopped several feet from her. In her hand she had a letter and a toy rabbit.

  “Are you Jefferson Tayte?” she asked.

  Tayte stepped closer. “Yes, I am.” He indicated the letter. “Is that for me?”

  The girl gave a quick nod and held the letter out.

  “Thank you,” Tayte said as he took it. Then he turned away and ripped it open as Jean caught up.

  “What is it?” she said.

  Tayte showed her. “Further instructions. There’s a number to call when we’ve identified the heir.”

  Jean knelt in front of the girl. “Who gave you this?”

  The girl pointed towards the road - to the iron railings and the path that ran alongside them. “The lady.”

  There was a woman dressed in black, heading off to their right. Tayte dropped his briefcase and ran across the graveyard.

  “Hey!”

  The woman turned and Tayte saw that it was a girl who looked like she was in her late teens. She had gum in her mouth, a silver stud through her lip, and she wore dark makeup, Goth style.

  Tayte showed her the letter through the railings, side-stepping to keep up with her. She eyed it briefly and turned away again, unfazed by the fact that he knew she’d delivered it. Clearly, this was not her note.

  “Who gave this to you?” Tayte asked.

  The girl turned back to him. “Man in a van,” she said. “Gave me twenty quid and a cuddly-toy for the girl.”

  Tayte looked along the street. There was no van there now. “Did you see this man? What did he look like?”

  “Fat,” the girl said, snapping her gum in Tayte’s face.

  “What kind of van was it?”

  “A white one, stupid.”

  The railings ran out. The girl kept walking. Tayte gave a frustrated sigh and turned back. He figured it was no use pursuing the matter. The girl clearly wasn’t interested and the man in the van was probably a couple of miles away by now. Tayte supposed he’d probably been paid for his services, too, but by whom? And how did they know where to find him? He was sure no one could have followed them from Covent Garden. He returned to Jean who was waiting by the gate with his briefcase. He didn’t have to say anything. His expression said it all.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said, and they started walking with the flow of the traffic.

  They hadn’t long cleared the church when Tayte saw a taxi and stuck his arm out. Then as it pulled over, he froze. A blue Ford he recognised was heading towards them.

  “They’re here.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  As soon as Tayte saw the blue Ford approaching St Paul’s, he crouched beside the taxi he’d just hailed and pulled Jean down with him. As she got in, Tayte watched the Ford arrive in a hurry and pull up onto the pavement outside the church. Two men he recognised got out and he didn’t wait around to find out whether they had seen them. He threw his briefcase into the taxi and jumped in after it.

  “Thames House,” he said to the driver.

  Jean was looking out the rear window and Tayte looked with her. One of the men, the gaunt-looking scarecrow of a man, was heading into the churchyard. His blonde associate
remained by the car, watching the street.

  “They can’t have seen us,” Tayte said as the taxi pulled away. He faced the front and slid lower. “Better keep down until we’re clear, though.”

  Jean turned back into the taxi and sank down beside him. She eyed him questioningly. “Thames House?”

  Tayte nodded. “We’re going in. It’s the only way to stop this. The people at the top of the chain need to know it’s over. Maybe then they’ll leave us alone.”

  “You think?” Jean said. She sounded doubtful.

  Tayte settled back for the ride. “I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “The way I see it though is that if the heir can’t be found - if this thing can’t be proved one way or the other - why kill us? And that goes for Elliot, too. Why harm him if there’s nothing to gain from it? I don’t see why anyone would.”

  “I wish I shared your faith in humanity.”

  Tayte reached into his pocket, pulled out the pieces of the BlackBerry and reassembled it. He read the note again, the last part aloud.

  “Once the heir is confirmed, Elliot will be released.”

  “Only, the heir can’t be found,” Jean said. “War and redevelopment have seen to that over the years.”

  Tayte stared at the phone, hesitating.

  Am I doing the right thing?

  When it came to it he couldn’t see any other way through this. He began punching numbers into the phone. “And that’s the message I’m going to deliver,” he said. “The heir is lost. It’s over.”

  Jean began to protest but Tayte stopped her.

  “You need to trust me.”

  He pressed the phone to his ear and the call picked up on the second ring without greeting. He’d expected an answering machine but he got a real voice: a young and clearly perturbed, male voice.

  “Speak your information clearly,” he said, like he was reading from a cue card. “Once it has been confirmed, I will be released.”

  “Elliot?”

  The colour drained from Jean’s face. She grabbed the phone. “Baby? Is that you?” She had tears in her eyes.

  “Mum!”

  Tayte heard the plea. He took the phone back and put the call on speaker. “Whoever’s listening to this,” he said. “The trail ends at St Paul’s, Shadwell.” He paused. Silence. “It’s over,” he said. Then he explained why, laying out the trail they had followed from the ahnentafel to St Paul’s Cathedral. Then to the St Paul’s churches, ending at Shadwell. “You can confirm it easily enough,” he added. “The heir is lost, you hear me?”