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

by Robinson, Steve

  “Yeah, that must have been it,” Fable said. “I’ll see you both shortly. Oh, and tell her to bring her jacket.”

  When he saw Jean again, Tayte didn’t go into the details of Fable’s call - not that he really had much information to share. What he did have was enough to worry him though and he thought he’d spare her that for now. After all, Fable hadn’t really said anything about Elliot. It was just his concerns over the probability that it now appeared Cornell had kidnapped her son, not Michel Levant. He knew the kind of man Robert Cornell had been and he didn’t suppose his brother was any different.

  “Why does he want me to bring my jacket?” Jean asked as they walked to the lift.

  “I guess you’re going somewhere,” Tayte said, praying it wasn’t to the city morgue. “Let’s just wait and see what he has to say.”

  Fable was sitting at a table in the Churchill Bar when they entered. It was quiet. A young couple were sitting on stools at the bar. A few other tables were taken. Background conversation was barely audible. Fable stood up as they approached and they all sat down together as a waiter came to take their drinks order. Tayte ordered a Jack Daniels to continue where he’d left off an hour ago and Jean had the same. Fable declined.

  “This is becoming a habit,” Fable said to Tayte. He reached down beside his chair and lifted Tayte’s briefcase up. “What is it with you and London taxis?”

  Tayte smiled as he reacquainted himself with it for the second time in as many days. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll try not to let it happen again, believe me.”

  Fable held something else out. It was a black plastic box the size of a slim matchbox. “They found this taped inside.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a GPS transmitter.”

  “A tracking device?” Tayte said. He scoffed. “Good place to put it. My case goes everywhere with me.”

  Jean sat forward and took a closer look. “So that’s how they knew we were at St Paul’s Church in Shadwell.”

  “I guess it is,” Tayte said, wondering who had access to his briefcase recently. A second later, he said, “Michel Levant. He could have put it there when I left it in the taxi the first time around. He followed us to the construction site where Robert Cornell worked.”

  “And whoever put it there wrote the notes,” Jean said. “And they kidnapped my son.”

  “What notes?”

  Tayte felt his cheeks flush. “I wanted to tell you, detective. I just needed room to think.”

  Jean explained everything and Fable looked disappointed. “You damn well should have told me,” he said. He paused, letting it go. “Look, before you go jumping to conclusions about who put this in your briefcase, there are things you need to know.” He cut right to it. “Joseph Cornell is dead. His body was discovered at a flat in Islington earlier this evening.”

  “Dead?” Tayte said, considering the ramifications. “How? When?”

  “Someone reported hearing a gunshot earlier this evening, or what sounded like a gunshot. Turned out they were right.”

  “Who was it,” Tayte asked. “A neighbour?”

  “Anonymous call from a payphone. Local. People don’t always like to get involved.”

  “What happened?” Jean asked.

  “Joseph Cornell was found sitting in an armchair with a hole in his head. A handgun was found on the carpet beside him. Time of death coincides with the call we received. Suicide seems the probable cause but it’s yet to be confirmed.”

  Their drinks arrived, suspending the conversation. When the waiter left again, Jean knocked half her drink back, eyes on Fable the whole time. “Why did you want me to bring my jacket?”

  Fable leant towards her and gave a reassuring smile. “It’s good news, Ms Summer. Your son was at the flat.”

  Tayte waited for Jean to say something but she didn’t. Instead, she continued to look at Fable until her eyes welled with tears. Then she stood up, sniffed and put her jacket on.

  Fable rose with her but he beckoned her to sit down again. “Finish your drink,” he said. “He’s in safe hands.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Guy’s Hospital, but he’s okay. He’s being checked over, that’s all. Just routine.”

  “They didn’t hurt him?”

  “He has a few bruises. A possible cracked rib. Nothing more. He probably struggled at first.”

  Tayte thought about the phone message he’d left for Elliot’s kidnapper. It was over. That’s what he’d said. The heir could not be found. He thought Cornell must have seen no other way out.

  But what about Levant?

  Tayte couldn’t get past the fact that the Cornells needed a genealogist. And he couldn’t see how Joseph Cornell could have planted that tracking device in his briefcase. Apart from when he’d left it in the back of the taxi at the gasworks it had been by his side every step of the way. If Joseph Cornell had been there, surely he would have intervened when Levant showed up.

  Jean stood up again. Her cheeks glistened beneath the ceiling lights and her hands were shaking as she downed the rest of her drink. “I want to see my son,” she said. “I want to see him now.”

  “Okay,” Fable said as he rose. “Let’s go see him.”

  As they walked, Tayte asked how officers Jackson and Stubbs were.

  “They’re going to make it,” Fable said without elaborating.

  “What about the man who shot them? Did they pick him up?”

  Fable shook his head. “The manhunt continues. He probably made it to the river and my guess is that he’s one highly resourceful son-of-a-bitch. I doubt we’ll see him again.”

  They reached the lobby. In her haste, Jean had pushed ahead.

  “Any idea who he was working for?” Tayte said.

  Fable sighed. “Does it matter?” He sounded beat. “It’s over, Tayte. The people at Thames House bought your story, even if I didn’t.”

  Tayte said nothing. He just looked at his shoes as they headed across the lobby.

  Fable stopped halfway to the door. “Someone didn’t want you to find what you were looking for,” he added. “I’m sure Joseph Cornell was a marked man, too. Maybe he killed himself. Maybe he didn’t. There are powerful people out there who’d rather let sleeping dogs lie, if you know what I mean. My advice to you is to do the same and move on.”

  “And what about you?” Tayte said. “Are you moving on?”

  “There seem to be a few loose ends still, don’t there?”

  Tayte nodded, thinking about Michel Levant again as they caught up with Jean. He gave her a smile and changed the subject.

  “Well, I’ll let you take it from here,” he said. “I’m sure you’d like some time alone with your son.”

  “Thank you,” Jean said. “And don’t wait up. I don’t think I’ll be coming back to the hotel tonight. Elliot’s dad will want to spend some time with him, too, so I guess we’ll go there.”

  “Oh, okay,” Tayte said. “Well, I’m glad things turned out.”

  Jean nodded. She turned away, then she quickly turned back again. “How about lunch tomorrow?”

  Tayte’s face lit up. “That’d be great. Where?”

  “The National Portrait Gallery. I’ll meet you there around midday?”

  Jean leant in and kissed Tayte’s cheek for the second time that evening and Tayte suddenly felt light on his toes. She glanced back as she followed Fable to the car and Tayte thought that was a good sign. He was still smiling to himself when he reached the lift, thinking that all he needed now was an early night. If he was going to continue this royal heir hunt and finish Marcus Brown’s research in time for lunch with Jean he needed a good start on the day.

  Chapter Thirty

  Tayte left the hotel the following morning with purpose in his stride. He stepped out onto the pavement between a row of stone pillars that tried in vain to lend a sense of grandeur to the hotel’s otherwise uninspiring facade. He looked at the park across the street in Portland Square then up into the cha
ngeable sky before turning right, making his way alongside the taxi rank further down.

  It was thirty-seven minutes past eight precisely, according to Michel Levant’s bejewelled Cartier watch. He’d been studying the hotel entrance from a bench in the park for the last hour, having chosen his location carefully so as to avoid being picked up by any of the street surveillance cameras in the area. He was watching intently through a pair of antique, mother-of-pearl opera glasses, which he now slipped into the pocket of his coat. He got up to follow Tayte, but he was pressed into his seat again by a firm hand, the arrival of which was accompanied by a dense plume of cigarette smoke.

  “Inspector Fable,” Levant said, smiling thinly to disguise the consternation he felt at seeing the black-suited detective standing like some contemporary Grim Reaper beside him.

  Fable sat down and nodded towards the hotel where Tayte had now passed the taxi rank, still walking. “He must be taking the Tube from Marble Arch this morning,” he said. He took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke across Levant’s line of sight. When the air cleared, Tayte was gone.

  Levant’s lips remained tight, his smile wavering.

  “I thought I’d find you around here,” Fable said. He held out his hand. In his palm was a small black box. “Know what this is?”

  Levant shook his head. “Should I?”

  “It’s a GPS transmitter.”

  “Really?” Levant said. “But I’m afraid technology and Michel Levant do not mix well.”

  Fable looked sceptical. “I doubt that,” he said, putting the device back in his pocket. “It’s not active any more,” he added. “But I’m sure you already know that. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? So you can follow Tayte the old-school way.”

  Levant crossed his legs and turned to face Fable more fully. “Is it a crime, Inspector?”

  “That all depends,” Fable said. “But it’s not why I’m here.”

  Levant fidgeted. “Then why are you here?”

  “I’m here because I knew this is where I’d find you, and because murder most definitely is a crime.”

  Levant laughed - a small laugh that belonged to a child.

  “As is being an accomplice to murder,” Fable added. “Like finding a man and passing his name and address to someone you know intends to kill him.”

  Levant was suddenly wide-eyed at the suggestion. “Inspector, I hope you’re not suggesting that -”

  “What I’m suggesting,” Fable cut in, “is that you were hired by Robert and or Joseph Cornell to find the descendants of certain long dead Fellows of the Royal Society. I’m suggesting that you started with Julian Davenport and ended with Peter Harper.”

  “But that is absurd!”

  Levant tried to stand up for a second time, but Fable forced the Frenchman down again.

  “Is it?” Fable said. “So there’s no point in checking the records Marcus Brown requested at The National Archives and at the General Register Office when he researched Davenport’s family history? There’s no point checking to see who else requested those documents recently?”

  Levant gave no reply. He pulled a gold enamel cigarette case from his inside coat pocket and offered one of the thin cigarettes to Fable.

  “French?” Fable said.

  “Mais oui. Of course.”

  “No thanks.” Fable lit another of his own. “I’ve got news for you, Levant,” he added, getting back to the conversation. “I already checked those records.”

  “And what did you find, Inspector?”

  “I found what was possibly your only mistake in all this. I found you.” Fable smiled to himself. “You must have really kicked yourself for using your own name when you realised what was going on with the Cornell brothers. If you’d stopped at Davenport you might have been okay. How were you to know what they intended to do with the information you gave them?” He paused and took another long drag on his cigarette. “But you didn’t stop, did you? You became someone called Alan Smith. Not a very imaginative nom de plume as you might call it, was it?”

  Levant laughed the suggestion off. “But I am not this Alan Smith,” he protested. “What if I told you I did stop when I heard of Monsieur Davenport’s murder?”

  “Then I’d say you’re a liar.”

  Levant gave a sickly grin. “But surely, it is not a matter of what you believe, Inspector, but what you can prove.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Fable said. “And The National Archives CCTV footage will prove that you were there prior to each and every one of Alan Smith’s record requests.”

  “It’s a little weak, Inspector. Don’t you think?”

  “I think it’s a good place to start,” Fable said. “Whoever requested those records was an accomplice to murder. And I can put you at the scene, so to speak. By the time all the footage has been checked and all the records correlated, I’ll have enough to get you in front of a jury.”

  Levant laughed again, but only to hide his growing discomfort. Win or lose, such a trial would do nothing for his reputation. He had found Julian Davenport, after all. That record trail alone would incriminate him.

  “And you worked all this out by yourself?” Levant said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  Fable eyed him sourly. “It only takes one good copper to nail a scumbag like you.”

  After a pause, Levant sighed and said, “You always get your man, eh, Inspector? However smart he may be?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, Levant. As soon as Mr Tayte got me thinking about that record trail it was easy.”

  “Ah, Monsieur Tayte,” Levant said. “He has been quite an adversary, I think.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the arm of the bench and let it fall to the ground. Then he sat up and slapped Fable’s thigh. “Bravo, Inspector!”

  Fable shifted uneasily. He brushed his leg where Levant had touched him as though his hand had left a dirty mark. “Do that again and I’ll break your nose.”

  “Tut-tut, Inspector. But you should thank me.”

  “What the hell for?”

  Levant settled back again. “The Cornells were fanatics like their father. They came to me with the idea that together we could resurrect the Royal House of Stuart. They told me the fantastic tale of Queen Anne’s heir and promised me great wealth and reputation - both of which I adore, of course. But their plan was quite ridiculous.”

  “Don’t tell me,” Fable said. “Once you’d found Queen Anne’s living descendant, Joseph Cornell would use his position in Royalty Protection to assassinate the royal top table? We already had that figured out.”

  “I’m sure you did. They believed it would pave the way for a new heir to come forward, and in the confusion, who knows? Maybe the Stuart bloodline would reign again or perhaps the monarchy of Great Britain would end altogether. Either way, they didn’t mind.”

  “Better no monarch than the wrong monarch?”

  “Oui, Inspector. That is exactly how they felt.”

  “And if it had all worked out you would have received a huge finder’s fee for your trouble.”

  Levant gave a small clap with the tips of his fingers. “Bravo again, Inspector. But as I’ve said, their plan was quite ridiculous. I tried to talk them around to a more realistic proposal but they would hear none of it. Alas for them I had already seen another, more realistic way to make the game worthwhile.”

  Fable coughed into his hand. “How’s that?”

  “I simply went from two desperate men to another - a politician of no consequence. I offered him ammunition for his republican campaign and it was easy to convince such a vulnerable man that he needed the information I wished to sell him.”

  Fable scoffed. “And when Jefferson Tayte identified Robert Cornell, the man became too high a risk, is that it?”

  “He had to go, Inspector. In many ways, Monsieur Tayte did me a great service. I wanted to stop him at first but I saw a way to use them both. Such was Professor Summer’s rage that she saved me the trouble of killing Robert Cor
nell myself as I effected my rescue.” Levant’s face suddenly lit up. “Imagine my delight.”

  “What about his brother?”

  Levant pursed his lips. “Let’s just say for now that I’m not surprised you couldn’t find him.” He took out his cigarette case again and offered one to Fable as he had before.

  Fable ignored him.

  “Of course,” Levant said. “Silly me. You don’t like French cigarettes.” He lit one for himself and drew slowly on it, savouring it as if it were his last. “I thought I framed poor Joseph very well. The mobile phone I planted at his home must have excited you, no? Then when you found him dead and Elliot Summer alive…”

  He paused, reflecting on how Elliot Summer had served his purpose in the end.

  “Michel Levant is no barbarian, Inspector. I thought that if Jefferson Tayte wanted to play games, I would play also. I love a good game, don’t you? With Monsieur Tayte believing he had duped us all into thinking that Queen Anne’s heir could no longer be identified, he is off his guard, no? The rest would have been easy, but alas…”

  Levant toyed with the Sun King ring on his left index finger, admiring it briefly before checking the time. He watched several seconds tick slowly by.

  “Do you know, Inspector, it took three strong men to hold Joseph Cornell so that he couldn’t struggle. It had to look as though he took his own life, but it was Michel Levant who pulled the trigger.”

  That last confession seemed to strike Fable dumb.

  “Of course, you were right,” Levant added. “I had no knowledge of the Cornells’ plans until it was too late. I suppose they tested me at first - as if they needed to test Michel Levant!” He took on an indignant air. “They came to me with a name - the Reverend Charles Naismith. They hired me to find his living descendant - his heir - and that is what I did when I gave them Julian Davenport. It was only after I read of his murder that I was truly aware of what I had done.”

  Levant let out a long sigh. “Do not get me wrong, Inspector. If I had known my research would lead to murder I would still have done it given the prize. Only, I would have been more careful, of course.”