The Last Queen of England

by Steve Robinson

“Tell them we’re close,” Tayte said.

  “How close? Give me a number.”

  “Another hour. Maybe two.”

  “Okay. Well, you call me as soon as you can. I won’t be in that meeting a second longer than I need to be, believe me. I just hope to Christ we get there first this time.”

  “We have to,” Tayte said. “It’s our last chance.”

  The call ended with the words, last chance, spinning through Tayte’s mind. He knew they could rest no hope on finding the abducted Peter Harper alive and of the six current descendants of the Royal Society Fellows only one remained to be identified: the one person who might be able to shed some light on the killer’s motive. Tayte was also painfully aware that it was probably his last chance to understand why his friend was dead. He needed that closure and he had no doubt that this killer already knew who his last victim was and that he would waste no time paying them a visit now that he was so close to his goal.

  Tayte turned to the 1911 census that was still on his screen. A name stood out that he’d seen before. It was a family name, handed down since it had been adopted after the English Civil war in 1645. The name was Naseby. It had been given to Sir Stephen Henley and despite a change or two in surnames through marriage over the years it had also been given to John Cornell and to his sons, Robert and Joseph. That unusual name, if its usage had been continued by the descendants of Joseph Cornell, would make the remainder of their work at Kew all the easier. He went to the whiteboard and wrote it down, hoping that it was the right name, knowing that they could ill afford the delay if it was not.

  Sitting on a low wall outside The National Archives, Michel Levant snapped the collar up on his beige designer mac and re-crossed his legs as he continued to watch the main entrance, waiting for Jefferson Tayte to emerge. He rarely diverted his gaze, having done so once to assess the weather as high white clouds came and went in the blue, and another time to watch a pretty teenage girl go by, unable as he was to resist what he considered to be such a simple pleasure.

  The number of visitors to The Archives surprised him that morning as they arrived and were turned away again. Clearly they had neither seen the news last night nor read the morning papers, or they too would have known about the American genealogist and his team, whose work for the police had forced The Archives to close. It was of no consequence to Michel Levant. If anything the volume of people coming and going just helped to mask his presence. And he would sit there all day if he had to.

  Chapter Thirteen

  It was late morning by the time Jefferson Tayte left The National Archives. Despite feeling drained from having worked through the night with the rest of the team, he sprinted to the taxi that was waiting for him, hoping again that the hunch DI Fable had suggested he run with was right and that this time they wouldn’t be too late.

  The taxi smelled of pine forest air fresheners from all the little paper trees that were hanging up. It made Tayte cough as he got in and gave the driver an address somewhere in Clapton where he hoped Fable was going to meet him. He’d called the detective but he’d picked up his voicemail, which he supposed was because of the Security Service meeting Fable had told him about. He’d given Fable another name and address from the latest census, telling him he was going there to warn the man that his life was in danger. He’d tried to get a phone number but it was ex-directory.

  As the taxi joined the traffic and Tayte settled back with his thoughts, he considered how useful the census had been. Over the decades that followed the Great War years, he and the team had tracked the Cornell family from Joseph Cornell through his firstborn son, who appeared on the 1951 census living in Kent with three children of his own. Then on the 1981 census they had tracked the family to London where the latest census showed that the target of their research still lived. Like Peter Harper, he lived alone with no dependants.

  The unusual middle name of Naseby had helped. It had remained in the family to the present day, hinting at their longstanding sense of tradition. And history had repeated itself. The man he was on his way to see was called Robert Cornell, which was the same name that had been given to the firstborn ancestor who had died in the Battle of the Somme in 1916: his subject’s great uncle. Robert even had a brother called Joseph and Tayte didn’t think it uncommon. He saw the recurrence of given names on the genealogy charts he compiled for his clients all the time. Maybe their father knew their ancestors’ Great War stories and wanted to remember them by giving their names to his own children.

  “How long will it take?” Tayte asked the driver. “I’m in a hurry.”

  The taxi sped up briefly and then slowed for the lights.

  “About another half hour or so. Forty minutes at most unless the traffic’s snarled up.”

  Tayte screwed his face up and slumped back in his seat. He wanted to be there half an hour ago but knew that Murphy’s Law dictated the traffic today would be heavier than ever. He felt trapped but there was nothing he could do about it - not that he knew quite what he was going to say to Robert Cornell when he got there. It wasn’t like he had a police badge to add any weight to his visit.

  “Do you have a cell phone I could borrow?” He wanted to try Fable again.

  The driver seemed to ignore him.

  “It’s an emergency,” he added. “I’ll pay double fare.”

  The driver slowed down, leant around and dropped his mobile into the change bucket in the partition. Tayte grabbed it and from his wallet he found Fable’s card and dialled the number. The call went straight to voicemail again and he didn’t bother to leave a message this time, hoping that Fable would pick up his earlier message soon and that he would be there in Clapton when the taxi arrived.

  He was about to hand the phone back when he thought about calling Jean, remembering that she’d written her phone number on his copy of Marcus Brown’s book. He quickly found it and his call rang for what seemed like an age before she picked up. Her voice sounded small - like she was further away than he wanted her to be. He was smiling as he spoke without really knowing why.

  “Jean, hi. It’s JT. I hope you slept well.”

  “Not really,” Jean said, reminding Tayte of the situation with her son. She sounded upbeat enough though, despite everything.

  “No news about Elliot?”

  “Nothing yet, no.”

  Tayte didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t amount to putting his foot in it so he redirected the conversation with that most common of all mobile phone questions.

  “Where are you? Still at the hotel?”

  “No, I’ve been in Nottinghamshire since around half eight. I set off early on my bike.”

  Tayte hadn’t expected to hear that. “Did you just say Nottinghamshire?”

  “I couldn’t just sit around,” Jean said. “I’ve been looking into the Jacobite society Detective Fable told us about - Quo Veritas. Actually, I’m on my way back now. I was making a fuel stop when you rang.”

  Tayte was impressed. “Did you find anything?”

  “I think I might have. I’ve been looking through the local newspaper archives - the Nottingham Post. As well as reporting on the Sherwood Forest murders twenty years ago the journalist who covered them, Ewan Stockwell, also ran an exposé piece on the society. They were a very serious bunch.”

  “You think that’s why he went missing?”

  “Maybe. His research ran pretty deep but it’s left me confused.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I’ve also been looking into several other Jacobite societies such as Na Fir Dileas, meaning The Loyal Men, and another called A Circle of Gentlemen. They still exist and they’ve survived to this day because of their beliefs and because most of their members are angry at the injustice as they see it. They all stand for the divine right of kings and the Stuart bloodline in a very traditional Jacobite sense. They support the cause through James II’s son, the Old Pretender and the Young Pretender, Bonny Prince Charlie. In other words through the Catholic bloodline.
I couldn’t find a single society whose beliefs differed from that and there are plenty of them.”

  “Apart from Quo Veritas?” Tayte offered.

  “Apart from Quo Veritas,” Jean repeated. “They’re very clearly against the Catholic Stuart Bloodline. Instead of the white cockade as a symbol of support, their emblem depicts a self-consuming dragon called Ouroboros, forming a ring around a fleur-de-lis.”

  “Why a fleur-de-lis? Isn’t that French?”

  “It was part of the Royal Coat of Arms between the fifteenth and nineteenth centuries, asserting England’s claim to the French throne. It’s strongly associated with Queen Anne, not least because she considered herself Queen of France. Quo Veritas held a strong belief that Queen Anne’s bloodline represented the true line. Do you see the problem with that?”

  Tayte wasn’t sure he did.

  “The problem is that up until twenty years ago Quo Veritas still believed it. They supported a bloodline that’s supposed to have died out three hundred years ago. How could that be?”

  Only one thought crossed Tayte’s mind. “They had to believe it still existed.”

  “Exactly. So what if it still does?”

  Neither spoke for several seconds.

  “I need to get my head around it some more,” Jean said. “But I can’t see any other explanation.”

  “Are you suggesting that Queen Anne had a legitimate heir to the throne of England?”

  “It was Anne of Great Britain by the end of her reign, but yes, why not? Quo Veritas had to believe she did.”

  “A secret heir?” Tayte said. “All these years?” The possibility made his head spin, but if there was any truth to it he could see now why Michel Levant was so interested. It would be the ultimate heir hunt.

  “We can discuss it more later,” Jean said. “How did you get on at The Archives?”

  Tayte was still considering the connotations of what Jean had just said. He took a moment to answer. “It went well.” He paused again. He didn’t want to tell her that one of the descendants they had traced had gone missing. He’d spare her that detail for now in light of the situation with Elliot.

  “Did you manage to identify the descendants?” Jean asked.

  “We did. I’m on my way to meet one of them now. Someone called Robert Cornell.” Tayte looked out the window. They were crawling along. “Look, why don’t you meet me there. We need to talk this through face-to-face and maybe we can get some answers from Mr Cornell. If I’m not mistaken, either he or his father would have been a member of Quo Veritas. Do you have a pen handy?”

  Tayte gave her the address.

  “I’m an hour or so from Clapton,” Jean said. “The traffic won’t be a problem on the bike.”

  The way his journey was going Tayte thought she would probably get there ahead of him. The taxi was stuck in a queue at a set of lights and all around him the traffic was either at a standstill or crawling along. A tap on the partition brought his focus back inside the taxi. The driver wanted his phone back.

  “Look, I’ve gotta go,” Tayte said. “Have a safe trip back. We’ll talk more then.”

  As the taxi pulled away from the lights all Tayte could think about was the seemingly impossible idea that Queen Anne - a queen who had supposedly died without issue after as many as eighteen attempts - had somehow left an heir. His mind raced. He thought about the Royal Society Fellows and William Daws in particular, whose research had focused on proving parent and child relationships. As incredible as it seemed to him right now, things were beginning to make sense. If there had been a secret heir to the throne and these five Fellows were somehow involved, they would need a bona fide way to prove it. And how better than through science?

  Tayte was suddenly in a greater hurry to get where he was going and he didn’t care how much it cost as long as he reached Robert Cornell in time. He called through to the driver.

  “Do you know any shortcuts? I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Despite the taxi driver’s best efforts the journey to Clapton still took close to an hour, although to Jefferson Tayte who was counting every second it felt more like two. He was left standing on the pavement with his briefcase, looking up at a small, mid-terraced house that was nothing like he’d expected. He’d supposed the descendant of such a prominent man as Sir Stephen Henley would have lived somewhere more prestigious, but here was a good example of how a family’s fortune could change over time.

  The address was one of a hundred or so similar houses that together with the parked cars lined the narrow Victorian street. The sash windows had all but been replaced with double-glazing and the tiny, low-walled gardens that fronted the houses were now paved over with grey slabs, the general appearance being further destroyed by an army of plastic wheelie-bins and a regimented line of satellite dishes.

  Tayte waited on the pavement longer than he meant to, partly because he still hadn’t worked out what to say to Robert Cornell and partly because he hoped that if he waited long enough DI Fable would arrive. When he decided that that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon he took a deep breath, opened the small ironwork gate and walked the path to the front door, wondering if there would be anyone home. The man was in his forties. It was Tuesday lunchtime. As he knocked and stepped back, for all his haste that morning he began to question the likelihood.

  It took several seconds to find out. Then he heard the door-catch and a man with a shaved head wearing a white shirt and navy-blue trousers opened the door. He was thin lipped, with a muscular jaw and a stocky build. Tayte didn’t know if this was the man he’d been so anxious to see, or whether Robert Cornell was the right man at all come to that, but he gave him a cheesy smile that must have looked like he was there to sell something.

  “Hi there,” he said.

  “No thanks. I’m not interested.”

  Tayte stepped closer and the door slammed shut in his face. He rapped his knuckles on the glass panel. “Mr Cornell?” he called. “Robert Naseby Cornell?” He could see the man’s shadow through the glass. After a lengthy pause the door opened again.

  “Who are you?” the man asked. “What do you want?”

  “You are Robert Cornell?”

  “Yes, I’m Cornell.”

  Tayte extended a hand and when the man ignored it he withdrew it again. “My name’s Jefferson Tayte,” he said. “I’m a genealogist.”

  “A genie-what?”

  “Family history. I’m assisting the police with a murder investigation and I believe you’re in danger. Can we go inside?”

  Cornell looked up at Tayte and then he looked out into the street. “Where are the police?”

  “They’re on their way,” Tayte said, hoping it was true.

  “And you say I’m in danger?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “From what? What kind of danger?”

  “The worst kind, believe me,” Tayte said. “Look, we might not have much time.”

  “There’s enough time for you to tell me what this is about.”

  “Quo Veritas,” Tayte said. “You know about Quo Veritas.” It wasn’t a question.

  Cornell said nothing.

  “You have something that someone else wants - a family heirloom of some kind.”

  Cornell seemed to measure Tayte then. “How do I know you’re not the one I’m in danger from?”

  “If I was,” Tayte said, “it would be too late already. Now can we get off the street?”

  The man paused again, studying Tayte closely. Then he stepped back and invited him in.

  The hallway was tight: two doors to the left and a staircase straight ahead. Tayte followed Cornell through the first door into a lounge that was stuck in the seventies, with peeling box-patterned wallpaper and abstract brown carpet. The furniture was older still but cheap looking rather than antique.

  Tayte sat down. He was too tired to wait for an invitation. “I’m glad I caught you home,” he said. “I thought you might be at work.”

  “I ju
st finished,” Cornell said. “Another half-hour and I’d have been in bed.”

  “Night-worker?” Tayte said. “I can relate to that.”

  “You work nights, too?”

  “I did last night.”

  “Well, don’t get too comfortable,” Cornell said. He was across the room by the window, looking out through the faded net curtains. He turned and picked up his jacket. “If someone wants to kill me this is the first place they’ll look. You found me easily enough.”

  Tayte thought it had been anything but easy. “I could use a coffee,” he said, standing up. “I saw a place out on the main road.”

  “No, I’ll drive us to the police station,” Cornell said. “My car’s outside.”

  As Cornell passed Tayte he wondered again whether the research had led him to the right man - if the hunch had been correct. “Was anything passed on to you from your father?” he asked. “Something that’s been in the family a long time?” He thought about Fable’s interview recording and about the Royal Society. “Was it a scientific instrument?”

  Cornell paused at the door and turned back. “I don’t want to talk about it here. Not until we’re at the police station and I’ve confirmed you are who you say you are.”

  They went back out into the hall and Cornell put his jacket on as he walked. It was a close-fitting jacket, short and boxy.

  “You’re a security guard?” Tayte said.

  “So what?”

  “Nothing. The jacket’s a giveaway, that’s all. I was wondering what kind of job you had.”

  Cornell picked up a mobile phone and a set of keys off the shelf. “Well now you know.”

  “Looks like you cut yourself shaving there,” Tayte said, indicating his shirt. “You’ve got blood on your collar.”

  Cornell gave a small laugh. “I’m always doing that.”

  He rattled his keys and seeing the mobile phone again made Tayte think of Jean.

  “I just remembered,” he said. “I’m expecting someone to meet me here. If we’re going to the police station she won’t know where to find me.” He indicated the mobile. “You mind if I give her a quick call?”