‘Don’t worry,’ Bishop had said. ‘You and Davina played your parts well.’
Bishop had then taken Tayte into another room, where he’d played back the recordings from the wire Tayte had been wearing. It had filled in the blanks in his memory caused by the Rohypnol, and all Tayte had to do then was confirm that he had gone aboard Davina’s boat that afternoon and that it was his voice on the recording.
‘What’s going to happen about those Swiss bank accounts?’ Tayte asked, having been reminded of the war-fund gold Frank Saxby and Oscar Scanlon had reportedly secreted away.
‘Who knows?’ Bishop said. ‘They’ll be checked out, of course. If there is anything there after all this time, one thing’s for sure. Neither Davina Scanlon nor Raife Metcalfe will see a penny of it.’
‘Where are they?’
‘Safely locked away for now. Raife Metcalfe still hasn’t said a word, but Mrs Scanlon made a full confession during the night.’
Tayte didn’t see how she could have done otherwise. The charges ran the entire gamut of murder-related crimes, including planning and sanctioning Lionel Scanlon’s murder, attempted murder in Tayte’s case, and actual murder in the case of the young restaurant manager, Luca. With everything that was said on the recordings, and with Luca’s dead body found in one of the cabins, the evidence against them was undeniable.
Bishop had also apologised to Tayte for not intervening sooner than he had. ‘Once the Osprey left the marina,’ he’d said. ‘I had to hold the team back so as not to be seen. It put a few minutes distance between us. Then when the Osprey stopped, you were in the water before we could get close enough to prevent it.’
Tayte had learned that he hadn’t actually been in the water anything like as long as he felt he had. The helicopter had moved in as soon as Davina had pushed him overboard. Raife had then started the Osprey up again in an attempt to make an escape, which, along with the current and the sea swell, was why Tayte quickly lost sight of the boat.
‘All’s well that ends well,’ Tayte had said, and then he’d turned his thoughts back to Alice Stilwell and the further business he felt he had to conclude before his assignment was over.
The letter Davina had shown Tayte—the letter Alice had sent to her father soon after arriving in Canada off the RMS Laurentic—had been found alongside the notebook in Davina’s handbag. Tayte had read it in Bishop’s car on the way to Hamberley. He felt he had a duty to set things straight for the Metcalfe family, as Lady Vivienne Metcalfe had previously asked him to when she’d brought the photograph of Alice to him. So the letter had finally arrived at Hamberley, albeit a hundred years late, but Tayte felt that in this case it really was better late than never.
With the entire household still in shock over the murder and attempted murder charges brought against Raife Metcalfe, Tayte had read Alice’s letter to Lord Metcalfe in the hope that it would offer him some degree of reconciliation with the memory of his grandmother. The letter contained Alice’s full account of what had happened in the spring of 1914, from that fateful day in Holland to her arrival in Quebec, and the hopes she carried with her of seeing Henry again, of returning to England and to her children, not as a criminal, but as a mother who had been forced to act as she had for the safety of her family. Tayte had also felt it his duty to remind Reginald that had Alice not done the things she had done, he might never have been born.
Tayte and Bishop left Reginald Metcalfe in his chair by the window, to ponder over the contents of the letter in silence and to draw whatever conclusions he wished to from it. Another record had been set straight as far as Tayte was concerned—the past repaired. The Metcalfe family now knew the truth, and Tayte could do no more than that. It was just after midday when Lady Metcalfe showed them out, offering her thanks as they walked—thanks for what she believed would now bring peace to her husband’s mind over the former black sheep of the family, if not over his grandson’s arrest.
‘Only too happy to help,’ Tayte said with a smile. Then as the doors to Hamberley closed, he ambled back to the car with Bishop beneath a blanket of low grey cloud that looked settled in for the day. It was time to leave the past to memory again and move on.
‘I found out what that phone call was all about,’ Bishop said. ‘The call Dean Saxby said he’d overheard at Lionel Scanlon’s workshop.’
‘You did?’
Bishop nodded. ‘Lionel was talking to Raife Metcalfe’s wife, Miranda, about the items of antique furniture the Scanlons were trying to acquire for them. Apparently, the conversation became heated when Lionel said he was having trouble finding one of the pieces and wanted more money for his trouble. Miranda Metcalfe said she remembered the conversation clearly.’
‘What about that receipt for electrical work? Did you find out why Dean Saxby never mentioned it?’
‘Yes I did,’ Bishop said. ‘I’m paraphrasing here, but he told me he spent an afternoon doing some re-wiring work for Mr Scanlon shortly after he went to sell him that cigar case. He told me he didn’t mention it because he thought it would strengthen their association and implicate him in the break-in at Mr Scanlon’s workshop before he was killed. He knew I’d find his arrest record and his history of violence, and with the poverty-line lifestyle he was leading, he thought I’d try to pin the break-in and subsequent murder on him. The newspapers reported that Mr Scanlon’s murder was suspected at the time to be the result of a burglary attempt gone wrong. Dean Saxby must have read that and panicked.’
‘Well, you got your case solved in the end,’ Tayte said.
‘Yes, and I want to thank you, Mr Tayte. Your assignment played a key role after all. I really wasn’t expecting anything to come of it.’
Tayte offered the Inspector a smile. ‘Team effort,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done it without you.’
‘Why do you do it?’ Bishop asked. ‘I mean, what motivates you to keep delving into the past lives of people you’ve no relation to?’
‘We all need to make a living.’
Bishop scoffed. ‘Don’t give me that. It’s not about the money with you, I can tell. You wouldn’t have offered to put yourself in harm’s way like you did if it was just about earning a crust.’
‘No, perhaps not,’ Tayte said, thinking over the question again and finding no single answer. He wanted to say that he had to delve into the lives of other people’s families because he didn’t have one of his own to delve into, but thanks to Marcus Brown and the contents of the safety deposit box he’d left him, that was no longer true. They reached the car, and Tayte followed his briefcase into the passenger seat.
‘Well, whatever drives you,’ Bishop said, ‘you’ve got quite a story to take back to your client. I’m sure she’ll be chuffed to bits.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she will,’ Tayte said, ‘And I can let her know about her extended family, too. Being connected to British aristocracy always goes down well. I don’t know whether either side will want to get in touch, but I’ll certainly offer to open the door for them.’
‘That’s a nice gift to be able to give to people.’
Tayte smiled. ‘Maybe that answers your question. Maybe that’s why I do what I do.’
Bishop started the engine and the car began to move off, gravel crunching beneath the tires. ‘I suppose you’ll be heading home now.’
Home . . .
Tayte thought about Jean and reminded himself that home was where the heart is. ‘No, not just yet,’ he said, knowing she would be back in England in a few hours. When he’d thought he was going to die in the sea off the Medway estuary, all he could think about was Professor Jean Summer. He’d known then that she’d already had a profound impact on his life. When he’d been in life-threatening situations before, it had always been the need to find his family that had made him want to survive. Now it was Jean.
‘I’m hoping to spend a few days in London,’ Tayte said as he gazed thou
ghtfully out of his window at Hamberley for the last time.
He had decided not to wait for Jean’s phone call. He was going to meet her at the airport. He had to see her again, if only to say goodbye. If it was over between them, he didn’t want to find out down a phone line. He recalled one of Marcus Brown’s many pearls of wisdom then. It was a line his old friend had been fond of telling him.
‘The past is already written, Jefferson. The future, on the other hand, is a story yet to be told. So write it well.’
‘And then,’ Tayte continued, smiling to himself as he began to dream about that possible future, ‘who knows?’
Epilogue
‘That’s good coffee,’ Tayte said over the rim of his cup as he took the first sip. He knew it was useless small talk, meaningless words to fill the space between all the important things he wanted to say, but now that he was with Jean again, he simply didn’t know how to get to them.
Tayte had been waiting for her at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport when she came through. He had flowers in his hand, and because of the cellophane wrapping they came in his palms were clammier than they usually were whenever he was nervous about something. He’d been glad to see that Jean was alone—no Nigel on her arm—and just seeing her again reminded him of what a fool he’d been. There had been smiles between them as they greeted one another and Tayte took her bag, but no kisses.
‘That call I told you about—the lead I’ve been waiting on,’ Tayte said as he set his coffee cup down again. ‘It came through about an hour ago.’
‘That’s great,’ Jean said. ‘I’m pleased things are working out for you.’
Reading between the lines, Tayte couldn’t help but think that she meant even if things aren’t working out for us. ‘It means I won’t be heading back to America just yet,’ he added, and his heart sank when he heard Jean sigh from behind her coffee. She looked far more serious than he wanted her to.
‘Look, JT,’ she said. ‘I told you I had some thinking to do—’
‘Just don’t say anything hasty,’ Tayte cut in, afraid she was about to deliver the punchline to their all too brief relationship.
‘I’ve been thinking about it all week, JT. I’d hardly call that hasty.’
‘No, of course not,’ Tayte said. He paused and took another sip of his coffee. ‘So, what do you think?’
‘I think you’re about to bury your head in your research again, and I know how important it is to you, but I don’t think there’s room in your life for both of us.’
Tayte felt his shoulders slump with his hopes. A part of him knew she was right.
‘It has to be all or nothing,’ Jean added. ‘It’s the only way I can see our relationship working, because if there is to be any future for us, I can’t be shut out of your life again like that.’
Tayte let go of the breath he was holding.
‘I’ve decided I want to help you find your family.’
‘You do? Are you sure?’
‘For better or for worse, but you have to let me into your life, absolutely, or you have to let me go. Do you think you can do that?’
‘Absolutely,’ Tayte said, and he couldn’t have held his smile back if he’d tried.
‘Good.’ The corners of Jean’s mouth began to lift at last. ‘Now come here and give me a kiss, you great lummox!’
As Tayte leaned across the table and kissed Jean full on the lips, he only hoped she hadn’t let herself in for more than she’d bargained for. Wherever his own family history was going to take them, his mother’s parting words forty years ago told him it was into a past she had wished to protect him from. Whether for better or for worse, he expected it was going to be a bumpy ride.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Emilie Marneur and the Amazon Publishing team; to my editors, Katie Green and Jill Pellarin, and everyone else who has been involved in the publication of this book; and as always to my wife, Karen, for so much more than I can put into words.
About the Author
Photo © Karen Robinson
Steve Robinson drew upon his own family history for inspiration when he imagined the life and quest of his genealogist-hero, Jefferson Tayte. The talented London-based crime writer, who was first published at age 16, always wondered about his own maternal grandfather—‘He was an American GI billeted in England during the Second World War,’ Robinson says. ‘A few years after the war ended he went back to America, leaving a young family behind and, to my knowledge, no further contact was made. I traced him to Los Angeles through his 1943 enlistment record and discovered that he was born in Arkansas . . .’
Robinson cites crime writing and genealogy as ardent hobbies—a passion that is readily apparent in his work.
He can be contacted via his website www.steve-robinson.me or his blog at www.ancestryauthor.blogspot.com.
The Lost Empress Page 31
