‘I had the photograph made on Charlotte’s first birthday,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you’ll adore her, and I know Chester would love to talk about all the ships you’ve served on. Henry tries to indulge his interest in the sea, but I’m afraid his grandfather has spoilt him.’
Archie laughed. ‘Few men can live up to your father’s tales of life on the ocean wave,’ he said, ‘but I’ll certainly do my best.’
Alice found herself smiling again, and she was thankful. ‘You’re so sweet, Archie. You always have been.’
‘I don’t know about that,’ Archie said, giving another small laugh as though he were embarrassed by the suggestion. ‘I’m sure Henry must be far sweeter. You do love him, don’t you?’ He rushed the words out as though he’d been waiting to do so for some time.
‘Yes, of course. I love him very much.’
‘And does he return your love? I mean, is he kind to you?’
Alice gave no answer. Her earlier discomfort rekindled inside her.
‘And what your father said just now,’ Archie continued. ‘About you and Henry quarrelling . . .’ He paused. ‘There’s no truth to it?’
Alice could not believe that Archie could be so insensitive as to save her from her father’s interrogation one minute, only to continue it himself the next. But he had done just that, and the reason was clear: Archie wasn’t over her marriage to Henry any more than her father was. She stood up and Archie stood with her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he offered. ‘Always putting my foot in it, aren’t I?’
But it was too late. Alice turned away and gazed into the distance, across a lawn that was like a shimmering ocean in the moonlight, the grass shifting this way and that in the breeze, like the rolling of the sea.
‘I’d like to be alone now if you don’t mind.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Archie repeated.
Out of the corner of her eye, Alice saw him move away, heading back to the house, and a part of her felt deeply sorry for him, this man who had been promised her love and clearly could not get over its denial. She heard the door open and close again as Archie went back inside, and she sighed to herself as she walked to the steps and slowly began to descend them, wondering why they couldn’t just be friends as they used to be, yet knowing now that the time for that had passed.
She sat halfway down the steps, out of sight of the lower windows of the house, and wondered whether her life was destined to ever be simple and happy again. She sank her head into her hands and closed her eyes, not wanting to go back inside, but knowing she must. When she sat up and opened her eyes again, her breath caught in her chest. Sitting cross-legged on the grass below her was a man she immediately recognised. His fair hair shone bright beneath the moon, and even sitting down he appeared as tall as some men.
It was the Dutchman, Raskin.
Chapter Five
Present day.
Described by the press as a state-of-the-art flagship police station when it was officially opened in 2007, the North Kent and Medway Division police headquarters was located close to the River Medway, where once a busy dockyard stood. Two hours after someone ran Tayte off the road, he was standing inside the police station in the front counter area, talking to one of the duty officers, having waited his turn for close to an hour. The officer was a heavily set, grey-haired man in his early fifties, who spoke in tones that conveyed little emotion.
‘Were you injured, sir?’
‘No, but it was a close call,’ Tayte said over the general hubbub that he imagined was a perennial attribute of the police station’s front counter area.
‘Were you able to drive your car after you came to a stop?’
‘Yes, it’s outside now. I was mad enough to try and give chase, but by the time I managed to get the car back onto the road, the other car was long gone.’
‘Did anyone stop? Any witnesses?’
‘A car pulled up to check that I was okay. The driver said he saw me sliding across the verge. I was heading for a streetlamp, but I managed to get the car sideways, which slowed it down enough to limit the damage.’
‘But the man who stopped didn’t see who caused the incident?’
‘No, he was too far back when it happened.’
‘Can you tell me where you were going at the time of the incident?’
‘I was travelling to see a Mr Lionel Scanlon at his business premises in a place called Rainham.’
Tayte was aware then that another man was standing beside the duty officer—a plainclothes detective, judging from the fitted grey suit he was wearing, which accentuated his lean physique. He didn’t say anything. He just looked at Tayte and listened.
‘And you say you believe it was deliberate, sir?’ The duty officer continued. ‘A hit-and-run?’
‘Yes, I do,’ Tayte said, ‘and I’m pretty sure I know who it was. If you’re quick, you might find the car that hit me on his premises.’
‘What type of car was it, sir?’
‘A silver one.’
‘Make and model?’
‘I don’t know. It was just a regular sedan, I guess.’
‘Registration?’
‘No, I didn’t get that either. I was too busy trying to stay alive. Look, if you send a unit over to—’
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ the other man cut in. ‘You say you were on your way to see someone called Lionel Scanlon?’
Tayte sighed. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’
The man in the suit turned to the duty officer. ‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said. Then to Tayte, he added, ‘Would you mind coming with me, Mr . . .?’
‘Tayte. Jefferson Tayte.’
In a sparsely furnished private room adjacent to the front counter area, the man who had led Tayte there closed the door behind him and introduced himself as Detective Inspector Bishop. Tayte put him in his late thirties. He was clean-shaven, with a pale, freckled complexion and short auburn hair that carried enough red as to appear slightly ginger.
‘Have a seat,’ Bishop said.
Tayte’s eyes wandered with distraction to the crime-prevention posters on the walls, his mind busy with thoughts about the man he had been on his way to see and why the man sitting opposite him had become interested as soon as Tayte had mentioned Lionel Scanlon’s name. Bishop gave Tayte a half smile as he settled into the chair opposite him.
‘I’d like to ask you a few basic questions to begin with and take a few notes, if you don’t mind, Mr Tayte.’
‘Not at all—go right ahead.’
Bishop readied his pencil, and then he addressed Tayte again. ‘Are you currently residing in the UK?’
Tayte shook his head. ‘No, I live in Washington, DC.’
‘Is your visit one of business or pleasure?’
‘Business,’ Tayte said, thinking that the latter would be a welcome change after all the trouble his various UK assignments had caused him over the years.
‘And what line of business are you in?’
‘I’m a genealogist.’
‘Can you expand on that?’
‘Sure,’ Tayte said. ‘Using various means and records available to me, I typically look back through time to build my client’s family history. Sometimes you’re thrown a curve ball, and things don’t add up, which is why I’m here in England.’
Tayte then briefly explained the enigma that was his client’s grandmother, and how he was in the UK to try to prove she was really Alice Stilwell, née Metcalfe, and to find out all he could about her life before the Empress of Ireland sank in 1914.
‘And as my first line of enquiry with the Metcalfe family failed so miserably,’ Tayte continued, ‘I was on my way to Mr Scanlon’s business address in the hope of seeing him. I wasn’t able to get an answer when I tried to call before. I guess someone didn’t want me to do that.’
‘So you believe
someone deliberately ran your car off the road?’
‘I know they did, and I believe that person was Raife Metcalfe. As soon as I told him who I was and why I was there, his behaviour became very threatening.’
‘I know Raife Metcalfe,’ Bishop said. ‘And I know he’s got a temper, but from what I gather it’s all just hot air. Did he know you were on your way to Mr Scanlon’s business premises? Did anyone else know?’
‘No, I had no cause to say where I was heading next, and I only arrived in England this morning. The Hamberley estate is the only place I’ve been to in relation to my assignment, and Raife Metcalfe is the only person I’ve spoken to. I believe that he, or someone acting on his behalf, must have followed me after I left.’
Tayte thought about the car that had pulled out onto the busy main road behind him, not long after he’d left Hamberley. He hadn’t really paid much attention to it, but on reflection he thought now that it was also a silver car—probably the same car—and the driver had seemed very keen to stay with him as he turned out onto the main road.
‘It had to have been someone from the Hamberley Estate,’ Tayte added. ‘Who else could it have been?’
Bishop gave no answer. Instead, he came back with another question. ‘What were you hoping to ask Lionel Scanlon?’
Tayte sat back and let out a sigh as he thought about it. ‘I was just going to ask the usual questions for now, I guess. Like whether he’d heard of Alice Stilwell, or if he had any old photos from the time period I’m interested in. You can often make other family connections through old photos, particularly wedding photos. If he didn’t know anything about Alice, I’d have tried to make another connection through him to someone else in the family who might.’
‘I see,’ Bishop said. ‘So just routine stuff?’
Tayte nodded. ‘Just routine.’
They both seemed to pause for thought then, until Tayte asked the question that had been on his mind since he’d met DI Bishop.
‘Do you mind if I ask what your interest in Lionel Scanlon is?’
Bishop pressed his fingers together and rolled his head back, staring at the ceiling momentarily. When he looked down again, he said, ‘Lionel Scanlon was murdered a few weeks ago, at the very premises you were travelling to.’
‘Murdered? What happened?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss the details.’
‘No, of course not,’ Tayte said, thinking it little wonder he’d received no answer when he tried to contact Mr Scanlon, and understanding now why his calls hadn’t been returned. ‘Do you think there might be a connection between the murder and my assignment?’
‘Who knows at this point?’ Bishop said. ‘But when a man is murdered, and a few weeks later there’s a hit-and-run against someone trying to visit that man, you’ve got to question the odds, haven’t you?’
Tayte agreed. ‘Although, if someone wanted to stop me from seeing Mr Scanlon, surely that person can’t have known he was dead.’
‘That’s a good observation, Mr Tayte. So, assuming for now that your traffic incident wasn’t random, whoever was driving the other car either wanted to stop you from visiting Scanlon’s premises, or simply wanted to stop you, period. Do you get that much in your line of work?’
Tayte thought back over some of his more adventurous assignments. ‘It certainly wouldn’t be the first time,’ he said. ‘Folks don’t always appreciate me digging up the past.’
‘Do you know why anyone might want to stop you on this occasion?’
Tayte thought about it. Then he shook his head. ‘No, not yet. My best guess is that it has something to do with the reason Alice Stilwell felt she had to abandon her old life and start over, but with all my contacts dried up, I’m a long way from knowing why anyone would want to stop me from finding out.’
Thinking about past assignments gave Tayte an idea. He wasn’t convinced it was a good idea, but he now had so little to go on with his current assignment that he thought it was worth a shot. ‘If there’s any chance there could be a connection between my assignment and Mr Scanlon’s murder, maybe I can help.’
Bishop didn’t say as much, but Tayte could see from his slightly amused expression that he was sceptical. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve assisted the British authorities with a murder investigation,’ Tayte added. ‘I can give you references from your Devon and Cornwall police, and from the Metropolitan Police in London.’
Bishop’s expression changed at hearing that. He began tapping his pencil on his notepad, as if he were now giving the proposal consideration. A moment later, he said, ‘And how exactly do you believe you can help?’
Tayte didn’t need to think about that. He would do what he always did. ‘I’ll keep digging,’ he said. ‘Someone’s already tried to stop me. If there is a connection and I keep going, my own experience tells me that sooner or later we’ll find out what that connection is. Then maybe you’ll find your killer.’
Bishop sat back and drew a long breath, his eyes fixed on Tayte’s. ‘We do employ specialists for all kinds of reasons,’ he said, thoughtfully.
‘I’d keep out of your way,’ Tayte added. ‘Most of the time I’d just be getting along with my research.’ Now that the idea had taken hold of him, Tayte was all the more keen to gain Bishop’s approval. He knew their collaboration could open doors—doors which were currently closed to him.
Bishop sat forward on his elbows. ‘Okay, why not?’ he said. ‘It’s uncertain whether there’s a connection between Mr Scanlon’s murder and your hit-and-run incident this afternoon, and in all truth I’m not entirely convinced that your assignment really can help solve my case, but I’m prepared to keep an open mind for now. I’d like to see where your research leads.’
‘Great,’ Tayte said. ‘Can you help with the people I need to see? Can you get the Metcalfe family to talk to me?’
‘I can’t make anyone talk to you, Mr Tayte, least of all a family like the Metcalfes. But yes, we can go and see them. Anyway, I didn’t have them in mind just yet. I was thinking about Mrs Scanlon, the deceased’s wife. I’m sure she’d be only too happy to talk to you if she thought it could help to find her husband’s killer.’ He paused and flashed his eyebrows at Tayte. ‘If you do, you might even earn a little extra on the side for your trouble. Mrs Scanlon’s offered a reward for information leading to a conviction. I’ll call to see whether it’s okay to pop round for a chat. She might not be up to it, of course.’
‘No,’ Tayte said, thinking that it hadn’t been long since she’d buried her husband.
Tayte’s naturally inquisitive nature got the better of him then, and he asked Bishop about the case details again. This time the chief inspector was both open and very matter-of-fact with his answer.
‘At face value it looks like a random burglary attempt gone wrong. A chancer trying his luck finds an unsecured window. He enters the premises to see if there’s anything worth stealing, but instead he finds Mr Scanlon, working late.’
‘Do you have any suspects?’ If so, Tayte thought it would be good to ask them what they were doing earlier that afternoon when his hire car was run off the road.
‘None,’ Bishop said, nipping that idea in the bud. ‘Human vomit was found outside the premises, but we’ve been unable to match the DNA with anyone on our records. A supermarket-branded kitchen knife was found at the scene, but there were no prints on it, so it’s unlikely to have belonged to Mr Scanlon. I suspect the killer was carrying it, although it wasn’t the murder weapon.’
‘What was?’
‘An antique sword. Mrs Scanlon identified it as her husband’s, stating that he kept it at his workshop for protection because he often worked late—much good that did him.’
‘Was anything stolen?’
If there was a connection between Lionel Scanlon’s murder and Tayte’s desire to speak to him, then past experience
told him that the perpetrator of the crime was usually looking for something.
‘Nothing that we’re aware of. Mrs Scanlon runs the business side of things, working to source antiques for private clients most of the time. She says she keeps a tight inventory and that everything’s accounted for.’
Bishop stood up. ‘Do you mind waiting in the front counter area? Or I can meet you outside if you’d prefer. I’ve just got a couple of things to do—shouldn’t take a minute. Then hopefully we can go and see Mrs Scanlon.’
Tayte got up as Bishop went for the door. ‘You don’t think it would be better to go to Hamberley and talk to Raife Metcalfe first? The car that hit me might be on the premises. You can check for damage—match the paint marks. Tomorrow could be too late.’
‘Believe me, Mr Tayte. Even if Raife Metcalfe was behind your accident this afternoon, we wouldn’t find the other vehicle at Hamberley. He’s not the kind of man to make an error like that. I’d like to ascertain why you were run off the road in the first place.’
Davina Scanlon lived in a detached house near Foxburrow Wood, just a few miles southwest from the workshop where her husband had been murdered. She met Tayte and DI Bishop at the front door, and she had opened it before either of them had the chance to knock. Her sombre smile as she greeted them reminded Tayte that more than a modicum of sensitivity and tact was required. Talking about a past ancestor was one thing; a past husband whose grave had barely settled was entirely another.
‘Good evening, Mrs Scanlon,’ Bishop said as they were invited in. ‘I hope we’re not putting you out. This is the gentleman I spoke to you about on the phone.’
Tayte offered his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Scanlon. I’m Jefferson Tayte.’
‘Yes, the genealogist. I’m intrigued to know how your profession relates to my husband’s murder.’
Bishop answered. ‘I think at this stage we all are, Mrs Scanlon. That’s if it’s related at all.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Mrs Scanlon said, ‘and please call me Davina.’
The Lost Empress Page 5
