But where was Arabella?
Jane placed her arm around Elspeth’s shoulders as they watched the troopers return. Their horses drew closer, then one turned sideways and a smile spread across Jane’s face.
‘Look!’ she said to Elspeth, pointing. ‘There she is. There’s Arabella!’
She was sitting on a dappled grey horse behind its rider, clutching him so tightly she seemed afraid to let go. The troopers with him soon left to rejoin the rest of their company as the other continued towards the carriage.
‘Merciful God,’ Elspeth said under her breath.
She clasped her hands to her mouth, and Jane could see they were trembling. When Elspeth reached for the little black purse around her neck again, Jane felt it her duty to caution her. She held her hand over her friend’s as she tried to open it, and it only took a concerned shake of Jane’s head to wake Elspeth from the spell her opium pills seemed to have over her. Elspeth nodded back, lowering her arms as the rider and her daughter drew close to the carriage.
‘Namaste,’ Jane said to the young sowar in greeting, bowing her head slightly as she pressed her palms together in front of her chest, her fingers pointing skywards.
‘Namaste,’ the sowar said in reply. Then he turned his horse to the carriage so that Arabella could climb off. He smiled and, in Hindi, said, ‘I believe the young memsaab belongs with you.’
As Elspeth and Faraday helped Arabella back into the carriage, Jane studied the young sowar, curious to understand how such courage could manifest itself so readily in one so young; he looked little older than Arabella and cut a fine figure in his tunic and breeches. His dark features were sharp, his eyes a piercing green, and there was no sign of the beard and twirling moustache that were so prevalent among the older sepoys and sowars she had seen. She concluded that he was both a courageous and handsome young man.
Still speaking in Hindi, Jane asked, ‘What is your name? How is it that you happened upon us at such a fortuitous time?’
When the young sowar answered, his eyes were not on Jane as he spoke, but on Arabella, who did nothing to avert her own gaze from his obvious attentions. ‘I am Naresh Bharat Singh of Kishangarh. I carry important papers to Muhammad Amir Khan, the Nawab of Tonk.’
‘Tell him my husband will hear of his bravery,’ Elspeth said.
Jane conveyed the message, adding, ‘You have rescued the daughter of the Resident at Jaipur.’
Naresh Singh bowed his head towards Arabella, and in reply he said, ‘It was my great honour to do so.’
With that, he tugged at his reins, turning his horse away from the carriage before he galloped off to join his company in fending off what remained of the dacoit attack. Everyone watched him leave, but none so intently as Arabella, who was smiling to herself, moon-eyed, despite her ordeal. Then, as if her wish had just come true, the gallant young sowar turned his head back to her, and in that instant Jane had the feeling that this was not the last they would see of him.
Chapter Seven
Present day
Jefferson Tayte spent the morning of his first full day at Drumarthen House poring over Damian Sinclair’s extensive research. He had become so engrossed that when he hadn’t gone down for lunch, Murray had kindly brought it to him. The meal was a lighter offering than he or any man of his size might have liked, consisting of a bruised apple and a sparingly filled boiled ham sandwich, but he supposed that at this rate, once his assignment was over, he would at least go home to his family a few pounds lighter than when he’d left. All the same, as his appetite was never more healthy than when he was trying to break through a genealogical brick wall, his stomach was soon groaning in protest.
Tayte couldn’t fault the work Sinclair had carried out on his family tree. The records he’d seen were as thorough and impeccably organised as if he’d carried out the research himself. Nothing he’d seen came close to shedding any light on who Sinclair’s four-times-great-grandfather was, but Tayte was experienced enough to know that such brick walls were rarely, if ever, broken down by looking at the obvious. He had to think his way around this particular problem, hoping to arrive at the answer via alternative, perhaps obscure, means, which was exactly what happened. Yes, Sinclair’s research was extensive, but he hadn’t thought of everything.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Tayte left his room and headed for the stairs, eager to tell Sinclair about the discovery he’d made. He had one of Sinclair’s records in his hand. If he was right, he knew he could have this assignment wrapped up in no time. Jefferson Tayte, the genealogist who cracked a family history mystery no one in the family had been able to solve in years.
‘If you’re right, JT,’ he told himself as he reached the top of the stairs. He was as keen to prove he’d still got what it takes to himself as much as his client.
He was about to head down, keeping to the right as Murray had warned him, when an angry, raised voice coming from the hallway below stopped him in his tracks. The voice was deep and difficult for Tayte to understand at first, on account of the man’s heavy Scots accent and the speed at which he spoke.
‘He was your brother,’ the man said. ‘As far as I’m concerned, his debt is now your debt. I’ll give you a week to pay or I’ll take it out on your hide!’
Tayte wondered whether he should go back to his room. He wasn’t one to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, but the visitor’s threatening tone told him to wait where he was in case Sinclair needed any assistance. Sinclair, however, did not seem afraid of the man.
‘Your bully-boy tactics don’t frighten me, Callum Macrae,’ he said. ‘Jamie’s business was his own and nothing to do with me, so you can take your threats elsewhere. If he owed you money, he took that debt to his grave with him, and may God rest his soul.’
‘I’m not the only one Jamie borrowed from,’ Macrae said. ‘The rest of the family will want their money back, too. You can be sure of that.’
‘The rest of the family?’
‘Aye, and don’t stand there and tell me you know nothing about it.’
‘About what?’ Sinclair said. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’
‘The syndicate, and the fanciful story your brother had us all believing. Perhaps it’s a good thing he is in his grave.’
‘Get out of my house, Callum Macrae!’ Sinclair said, clearly angered by the other’s words; rightly so, as far as Tayte was concerned.
He began to descend the stairs, thinking that a fight might break out at any minute, but then he heard what he thought was the front door being opened.
‘I’ll go, right enough,’ Macrae said. ‘But I want my money. You’ve been warned!’
With that, Tayte heard the door close with a thud.
‘Mr Sinclair?’ he called, concern in his voice. ‘Is everything all right?’
Sinclair turned away from the front door, and as Tayte reached the bottom of the stairs, Sinclair’s eyes met his. ‘Mr Tayte,’ he said, ‘I assume you heard all that?’
‘Some of it. Where’s Murray? It sounded like you could have used his help.’
Sinclair waved a dismissive hand. ‘I don’t need any help where my cousin Callum Macrae is concerned. He’s a bully, nothing more. He was always picking on my Jamie when they were at school, but he knows better than to try it on with me. Murray’s out on the estate replacing some old post-and-rail fencing, which is just as well. Those two would have come to blows.’
Sinclair put a hand on Tayte’s shoulder and led him to the front door. Opening it, he added, ‘It’s another fine afternoon. Take a walk with me, won’t you? I’ve not been entirely honest with you and I think it’s time I gave you an explanation.’
Tayte was in his shirtsleeves, so he folded the piece of paper he’d brought down to show Sinclair and slipped it into his trouser pocket for now. There was clearly more to this assignment than he knew. Did Sinclair’s true motive have something to do with his brother—his late brother—and perhaps the syndicate he’d heard Macrae speak of? As he f
ollowed Sinclair outside, he was eager to hear what the man had to say.
‘My brother, Jamie, died just two weeks ago,’ Sinclair said as he and Tayte began to stroll along the flagstones to their left, in Drumarthen’s cool shadow. ‘There was a fatal accident inquiry, which has delayed his burial.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Tayte offered, thinking it helped to explain Sinclair’s drawn appearance.
‘Aye, well, Jamie was never bound for old age, that’s for sure, although no one expected him to die the way he did. He was something of an adrenaline junkie, you see—an extreme-sports fanatic. Everyone in the family believed it would get the better of him sooner rather than later, but as it turns out, he fell to his death from the top floor of an apartment block in Glasgow, drunk to his eyeballs by all accounts. I had to deal with the nasty business of helping to identify his body, which wasn’t easy given the circumstances.’
‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t.’
‘The police told me he’d taken a short-term lease on the apartment barely a month before he died. Apparently, he’d been drinking heavily all that night and into the early morning, which was when he died. There had been complaints about his loud music from some of the other tenants. He wasn’t having a party as such. He was all by himself. When the police went in, the French doors that led on to the balcony were wide open. They believe my brother somehow became caught up in the billowing net curtains, which caused him to panic and trip over the railings. The nets were still partially wrapped around his body when he hit the ground.’
‘That’s just dreadful,’ Tayte said, wondering why he detected a degree of doubt in Sinclair’s voice. ‘So it was an accidental death? Misadventure?’
‘So the police say. Jamie’s door was deadlocked and bolted. Given he was alone, how could it have been anything but an accident?’
‘But you have your doubts? You think he was murdered somehow?’
‘Aye,’ Sinclair said with a nod, his tone firm and grave. ‘For all his faults, Jamie was no drinker for starters. That’s not to say he couldn’t have taken to the bottle recently. The toxicology report showed an excessive amount of alcohol in his bloodstream, and the apartment was littered with cheap whisky bottles.’ Sinclair paused and reached into his trouser pocket. He withdrew his wallet, and from it he produced a small photograph, which he handed to Tayte. ‘That’s my wee brother, Jamie. I’ve carried his picture since he died. It was taken around five years ago, soon after Jamie turned forty. As you can see, he was never one to act his age, but I felt this picture best summed up what he was like.’
Tayte studied the photograph. It showed a dark-haired man of good physique, smiling for the camera in nothing more than a pair of skimpy swimming trunks and what appeared to be skiing goggles pushed high up over his forehead. He was covered in brightly coloured paint and there were several large red welts on his skin. He was posing for the camera with his chest stuck out and one hand on his hip. In his other hand was a large paintball gun.
Tayte had to smile at the image. ‘That certainly looks like an extreme way to play paintball. He must have been covered in bruises afterwards.’
‘Aye, well, that was Jamie for you—always looking for ways to make life more intense.’
‘So why do you think he was murdered?’
‘For the letters I told you about—the letters written by Jane Hardwick that I believe came into my family’s possession via my four-times-great-grandfather. I’d seen them as a child, although I had little interest in them at the time. I never read them, but I knew they were here at Drumarthen. Then, one day, they were gone. As we grew up my brother became something of a wastrel, blowing every penny he could scrape together on surfing and skiing and the like. He bummed his way through life believing, I’m sure, that he’d someday inherit an equal share of this house, but our father saw Jamie for what he was, and he rejected him for it. Murray was more of a father figure to Jamie than his real father ever was. When it came to Drumarthen, our father knew Jamie would sell his share as soon as he could lay his hands on it, and I was inclined to agree with him. So, Drumarthen and all its chattels were left to me alone—minus those letters, of course, which had disappeared by then.’
‘Surely you can only speculate that your brother took them.’
‘It was speculation, aye, for a very long time. But close to a year ago now, Jamie told me to my face. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. We quarrelled and I said some hateful things, and that was that. We’ve not spoken since, which, of course, I fully regret now. They were just letters, or so I thought, but he believed they were more than that. He was of the opinion they were going to lead him to the ruby—to the Blood of Rajputana. That’s why I believe someone killed him for them, and somehow made his death appear to be an accident to stop the police asking questions.’
‘Have you told the police all this?’
‘Of course, but even I can see it for the wild story it appears to be. As far as the police were concerned, my brother’s death was an accident. Given the circumstances I can’t rightly blame them.’
They came to the corner of the house and passed through a gate into bright sunshine, arriving in a walled parterre garden that showed the same degree of neglect as the rest of the house. It was overgrown with weeds and unkempt climbers, with fallen iron obelisks scattered here and there, quietly rusting away.
Sinclair paused as they entered, turning to Tayte with apologetic eyes. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all this in London, Mr Tayte. In truth, my brother’s death is the real reason I hired you. After hearing what Callum Macrae had to say just now, I’m all the more certain that Jamie was up to something that ultimately got him killed.’
‘Macrae mentioned a syndicate,’ Tayte said. ‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘No. As I said, my brother and I hadn’t spoken in a while. It seems he needed money, though, and by all accounts he went to the rest of the family to raise it.’
‘To go and look for the ruby?’ Tayte offered. ‘Just like Cornelius Dredger planned to do when he wrote to your four-times-great-grandfather?’
‘Aye, perhaps. It would take the promise of something as valuable as the Blood of Rajputana to get my family to part with their money.’
Sinclair stopped beside a grey oak bench and they both sat down. They were facing the overgrown garden, looking along a weed-ridden pathway that led the eye to the glens and mountains of the Southern Highlands.
‘If I’d told you all this when we first met at the East India Club,’ Sinclair said, ‘I’ll wager you’d have run a mile, wouldn’t you?’
‘Probably,’ Tayte said, nodding as he thought about Jean and his son, and how much his life had changed in recent years. Not so long ago, he knew he wouldn’t have been put off by the potential risks involved in such an assignment, but that was back when he was living alone in his one-bedroom apartment in DC, with nothing to lose and no one to care if he never came home again.
‘Mr Tayte, I was telling you the truth when I said I wanted you to identify my four-times-great-grandfather. As I’ve said, because of the letters I believe this man called Robert is the key to locating the Blood of Rajputana. It’s my hope that if it can be found it will draw my brother’s killer out so that he or she can be brought to justice for what they’ve done. That’s my real motive for hiring you.’
‘I see,’ Tayte said, wondering how he felt about continuing in light of what Sinclair had just told him. If a man had been murdered because of the ruby Sinclair wanted him to find, there was every chance that he would be in harm’s way, too.
He drew a long, thoughtful breath before answering. Sinclair had told him that he and the rest of his family had been looking for the gemstone for some considerable time, especially Sinclair, judging from all the records he’d gathered together, yet no harm had come to him or to the rest of his family. The police remained convinced that Jamie Sinclair’s death was accidental, and nothing Tayte had just heard gave him reason to
believe otherwise. For now at least, that was good enough for him. He thought about the piece of paper in his pocket that he’d brought down to show Sinclair. He was excited about the discovery he’d made. He wanted to continue.
‘I don’t know whether your brother was murdered or not,’ he said, ‘but if it’ll give you peace of mind over the matter, I’ll do my best to help you find out what became of this ruby you’ve all been looking for.’
‘Splendid!’ Sinclair said, smiling broadly. ‘Now tell me, what have you made of my research so far? You’ve been in your room all day. I trust you’ve found it interesting.’
Tayte reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew the piece of paper he’d brought down. He was smiling now, too, as he unfolded it. ‘I came across this newspaper clipping from The Times. It’s dated April 1823.’ He handed it to Sinclair who studied it briefly.
‘I recall it, yes,’ Sinclair said. ‘It was written by a journalist called Albert Faraday.’ He looked back at Tayte, his expression confused. ‘He writes about Jane Hardwick, but it’s little more than a glowing account of her accomplishments—the many languages and dialects she speaks and how fine a travelling companion she was. What of it?’
‘In itself I’d have to agree that it’s of little interest to us,’ Tayte said. ‘The date caught my attention, though. Given the time it took to send a letter home, or a newspaper report in this case, Faraday’s article would have been written around the same time Jane wrote the letter you showed me last night. We know Jane was travelling as companion to a friend and her daughter, and I’ve been racking my brain trying to think how I might find out who they were. I think it’s important, because when Cornelius Dredger wrote to Robert, the man we’re trying to identify, he must have done so knowing that Robert was in some way connected with Jane’s story, or how would he have known who Robert was in the first place?’
‘Aye, that makes sense. Go on.’
Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7) Page 5
