Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7)

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Well, I figured that connection had to come from Jane’s letters, which wound up with her great-nephew, Cornelius, and then with your family via Robert—still assuming for now that Robert was your four-times-great-grandfather. If that’s true, there has to be a family connection, possibly with the family Jane was travelling with and staying with in Jaipur. At least, that’s the idea I’m running with for now.’

  Sinclair’s forehead began to crease. ‘But this newspaper article gives no other names. I can’t see how you could possibly learn anything more from it.’

  A slow smile spread across Tayte’s face. ‘I already have. You probably didn’t see it because you were so focused on Jane Hardwick at the time.’

  Sinclair studied the article again. ‘Technically speaking, this is not my research.’

  ‘It’s not?’

  ‘No. I have it in my records, but it wasn’t my discovery. I wasn’t really focused on it at all.’

  ‘Whose was it?’

  ‘I’ve previously collaborated on our family history research with another cousin of mine—Gordon Drummond. Like Callum Macrae, he’s a descendant of one of Lachlan and Aileen Fraser’s legitimate sons. He’s also the doctor in the family. As such he had the similarly unfortunate job of identifying Jamie’s body, and, in his case, dealing with the procurator fiscal—that’s the Scottish equivalent of a coroner.’

  ‘Does he have research of his own?’

  ‘Aye, quite a collection, I’m sure. Although you’ll no doubt find it similar to my own.’

  ‘Similar perhaps, but I’d like to take a look at it. Maybe there’s something in his collection that’s not in yours.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can arrange it,’ Sinclair said. ‘He lives in the village, along with most of my family. I’ll give him a call. Maybe I can introduce you to him this evening.’

  ‘That would be great.’

  Sinclair’s eyes returned to the article. He began to shake his head. ‘Go on then, Mr Tayte. Tell me what I’m not seeing here.’

  ‘It’s going to seem obvious when I tell you,’ Tayte said. Then he reached across and tapped the name at the top of the article.

  ‘Albert Faraday?’

  Tayte nodded. ‘Faraday wrote this article for his travel column about Jane Hardwick, but only Jane Hardwick. He goes on and on about her merits for so long that he’s filled the entire article writing just about her. There’s no room for anyone else. That set me wondering whether he’d written about his other travelling companions in another article—written about the people who would also have been travelling with Jane at the time.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sinclair said. ‘And I take it he did just that?’

  ‘Yes, he did,’ Tayte said. ‘Jane Hardwick was travelling with her good friend, Lady Elspeth Christie, and her daughter, Arabella. They were on their way to meet Elspeth’s husband, Sir John Christie of Glentrave.’

  ‘Christie,’ Sinclair repeated. ‘So it’s possible that my four-times-great-grandfather was called Robert Christie. My God, man, I’d heard you were good, but that’s quite something. You only arrived yesterday!’

  Tayte laughed. ‘I brought twenty-plus years of experience with me,’ he said, ‘and let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ve not looked for Robert Christie in the archives yet, let alone proved his relationship.’

  ‘Just the same, it’s a fine start.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Tayte agreed, still smiling to himself as he sat back, and began to wonder who the members of this Christie family were. Given their titles he imagined he would easily be able to find out more about them in Burke’s Peerage. Then he would dig deeper into their family history, building a picture of their lives in the hope that it might help to unravel the past and reveal the location of the Blood of Rajputana.

  Chapter Eight

  Jaipur, September 1822

  The Rajmahal Palace had originally been built in 1729 by Maharaja Sawai Jai Singh II on the outskirts of the city, as a private garden-retreat for his beloved wife, Maharani Chandra Kunwar Ranawatji. In 1821, following an alliance between the East India Company and Jaipur State, the palace had become a British residency, home to the Resident at Jaipur, who was the Company’s political agent for the area. One morning soon after their arrival at the residency, Jane Hardwick and the young Arabella were enjoying the palace gardens, taking a stroll in the grounds beneath their parasols. Following eagerly after them were the personal servants that had been appointed to them. They were Rajputs, each wearing the red turban that was common to their people.

  Arabella’s mother was not with them, having made her excuses immediately after breakfast and taken to her bed with some new malady that she would have everyone believe India was entirely responsible for. Having seen Elspeth with her husband on a number of occasions by now, however, it was apparent to Jane that it was he, rather than the country in which Elspeth now resided, that was to blame. Jane did not yet know why the air in this hot climate seemed so cold between them, but she imagined that, given the close company they all shared, it was inevitable that the cause would reveal itself soon enough. She recalled their reunion vividly.

  ‘Arabella!’ Sir John had bellowed, a lively spring in his step as he came out to the main gate to meet their carriage.

  Sir John had swiftly helped Arabella down, full of smiles as he embraced her. Then, never once letting go of her hand, he blatantly ignored Elspeth’s when she offered it to him. Instead, he gave her only the slightest nod to acknowledge her presence as he gestured to the rotund Rajput standing behind him, and said, ‘Your servant, Kamala, will take you to your room, madam.’ And that was that. As far as Jane was concerned, it was no reward at all for the many months of hardship and toil her friend had endured to get there.

  As she and Arabella made their way across the well-tended lawn to the pergola tent that had been erected for them, their arrival at the residency still playing on her mind, Jane asked, ‘Before we came to India, how many years was it since you last saw your father?’

  Arabella pulled a face as she thought on her answer. Several seconds later she shook her head, and in her gentle Scots accent said, ‘I don’t exactly know.’

  ‘You mean you were too young to remember?’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so. Why do you ask?’

  Jane smiled. ‘I was just curious,’ she said, although it was the root of her curiosity that had led her to ask the question. Given the obvious lack of affection she had witnessed between Arabella’s mother and father, it had occurred to Jane that Arabella was entirely the reason her father had sent for them, rather than his desire to be with his wife again after what was evidently a lengthy absence of several years.

  They came to the pergola and sat down beside one another, facing the white-painted palace, with its colonnaded verandas and walkways. Cool drinks were brought to them by another of the many household servants.

  ‘Dhanyavaad,’ Jane said, thanking the man in his native tongue. Then to Arabella she said, ‘You seem so much happier now the journey’s over and you’re here in Jaipur. Didn’t I say you would?’ She squinted at her. ‘Or is there some other, more romantic reason?’

  Arabella fidgeted. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Is that so? Then why are you blushing from ear to ear? You’ve been thinking about the young sowar who came so gallantly to your rescue, haven’t you?’

  Arabella’s cheeks continued to flush, and Jane laughed. She knew she was teasing Arabella.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  At that moment, voices drew Jane’s attention and she turned around to see Arabella’s father, Sir John Christie, walking towards them. There was another man with him, a soldier whom she had not seen before. How Sir John could bear to be wrapped so snugly in so many layers of dark clothing on such a hot morning was beyond her. She imagined he must either have become accustomed to it, or was simply too strict in his standards of dress for his own good. He wore knee-length boot
s over his trousers, a silver-grey waistcoat over his shirt, and a heavily woven forest-green tailcoat over that. At his neck, flowing from his tall shirt collar, was a bright purple cravat. He was a short, stout man, made to appear shorter still by the height of the man standing beside him, despite his top hat. As they approached, Jane and Arabella set their drinks down and stood up.

  ‘Good morning, ladies,’ Sir John said, smiling warmly as both men removed their hats. His broad Scots accent and quick manner of speech was at times difficult for the untrained ear to understand. ‘I was sorry to have missed you at breakfast this morning, but duty first, eh?’ He leaned in and kissed Arabella’s cheek. Then he stepped back and gestured to the man standing beside him. ‘Arabella, Mrs Hardwick, this fine gentleman is Captain Donnan Fraser. We’ve been talking about Company affairs all morning and now I’m bored to distraction.’ He paused and laughed to himself. ‘I told him your company would be just the tonic, so here we are.’

  ‘Good morning to you both,’ Fraser said with a bow, his eyes set on Arabella. His accent, although still Scots, was far more pleasing to the ear. ‘You’ve timed your arrival in Jaipur quite well, having missed both the hottest and the wettest months.’

  ‘I can assure you we’ve had more than our share of both since we arrived in Bombay,’ Jane said, drawing his attention from Arabella at last. ‘With the monsoon season almost past, we must now bear the humidity that follows.’

  Here was another dashing young soldier with eyes for the resident’s daughter, she thought, although he was not as young as the gallant sowar they had met on the Tonk road. Jane put Captain Fraser in his early to mid-twenties, several years older than Naresh Bharat Singh. He was dark-haired, tall and slim, with full elongated sideburns framing his angular face. He did indeed cut a fine figure in his red-and-gold braided tunic and his predominantly green tartan trews.

  ‘Have you been long in India, Captain Fraser?’

  ‘A wee while, for sure, Mrs Hardwick. I’ve found it both a savage country in parts and quite beautiful in others.’

  Jane couldn’t help but notice the captain’s eyes drift back to Arabella again as he finished speaking. ‘I fear that’s because you must often see a side to India that others do not.’

  ‘Very true,’ Fraser said, ‘although I hear you’ve recently witnessed such savagery yourselves. The dacoits are proving to be quite a bother in the area. All the more so, the further north one travels.’ He turned to Arabella. ‘I hear the blackguards tried to kidnap you. It must have been a terrifying ordeal.’

  ‘Aye, Captain Fraser, it was,’ Arabella said. ‘I thought I would never see my family again.’

  Sir John picked up on the tremor in Arabella’s voice as she finished speaking. He placed an arm on her shoulder for comfort. ‘Come now, child. That’s all in the past. You’re here in Jaipur with your family now, under the protection of the Honourable East India Company and this fine house. I’ll see you safe, don’t worry your pretty little head a moment longer.’

  ‘As shall I,’ Fraser said. ‘I only wish I’d been there to dispatch those cowardly devils myself. They’d have felt the sharp end of my sword, I can tell you.’

  Sir John gave a hearty laugh. ‘That’s the spirit, captain. You do your regiment proud.’

  ‘Thank you, Captain Fraser,’ Arabella said. ‘I’m sure you would have been every bit as courageous as the man who did save me.’

  ‘I should like to meet the fellow and shake his hand.’

  ‘He was a young sowar,’ Jane said, expecting the information to dampen Fraser’s enthusiasm. She wasn’t wrong.

  ‘Was he indeed?’ Fraser said. ‘Well, I suppose they have their uses. Although in my experience the majority of sowars and sepoys in the Company’s pay need a solid lesson in hard work and good manners.’

  Jane could have laughed at his prejudiced appraisal of the Company’s native regiments, who would clearly never measure up to the far superior British in his eyes.

  Fraser quickly moved the conversation on, turning his attention back to Arabella. ‘Miss Christie,’ he said, brightly. ‘May I ask how you intend to spend your time in Jaipur now that you’ve arrived?’

  ‘I really hadn’t given much thought to the matter, captain.’

  Fraser inched closer to her. ‘You would do me a great honour if you would call me Donnan.’

  Arabella’s blush returned to her cheeks. ‘I hardly know you well enough.’

  Fraser smiled, playfully. ‘Maybe not yet, but it is my hope to rectify that disadvantage as my duties allow. Perhaps you would permit me to escort you on a tour of the city.’

  ‘That’s a splendid idea,’ Sir John said. ‘You must arrange it at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘I shall be most glad to,’ Fraser said, without waiting to hear whether Arabella wished to accept his offer.

  Noting her father’s enthusiasm, Jane had the feeling it was not an offer Arabella was at liberty to refuse. She was about to say that it would be good for both Arabella and herself to become better acquainted with the area, letting the captain know that she fully intended to join any such excursion, when out of the corner of her eye she saw three lizards scurrying towards them. They reminded her of an Indian superstition she’d heard as a child: three lizards for marriage. Was this the cause of Sir John’s enthusiasm, and the real reason for this journey to India? Did an understanding exist between him and Captain Fraser over his daughter’s hand that Arabella was as yet unaware of?

  The thought had no sooner crossed Jane’s mind than she saw something that made her shiver, despite the heat of the morning. A fourth lizard had joined the others, and all were now scurrying towards the pergola. According to the superstition this was another matter altogether, but then it was just a superstition, wasn’t it?

  Four lizards, Jane thought. Four lizards for an upcoming death.

  But whose?

  Chapter Nine

  Present day

  ‘You’re visiting a lovely part of Scotland,’ Sinclair said as he drove Tayte along a narrow, stone-walled road that was bordered by trees to their left and the River Earn to their right. The car windows were wound all the way down, which amplified the unhealthy clatter of the old car’s engine as the sound reverberated between the stonework. ‘Comrie’s an historic conservation village,’ he continued. ‘It’s won many awards for its outstanding natural beauty.’

  ‘It’s like stepping back in time,’ Tayte said, marvelling at the lack of people and motorised vehicles. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see a horse and cart coming their way, or a coal barge heading along the river.

  ‘Aye, I suppose it is. It’s always nice to come home, and all too easy to take for granted. You might be surprised to hear that we experience more than our fair share of earth tremors here in Comrie.’

  ‘Earthquakes?’ Tayte said, associating such things more with places like California and the Pacific Northwest. ‘Are we sitting on a fault line?’

  ‘We are indeed. The Highland Boundary Fault to be specific. Comrie’s not nicknamed the “shaky toun” for nothing.’

  They came to the village and Tayte’s eyes immediately fell on a white building with a slate-tiled roof and steeple, glowing in the early-evening sunshine. ‘Is that the parish church up ahead?’ he asked, pointing towards it.

  ‘It’s the Comrie Community Centre these days,’ Sinclair said. ‘The parish church is further along the road. A wee bit further still and you’ll come to St Margaret’s Catholic Church.’ Sinclair pointed out of the window to his left. ‘The mountain you can see directly behind the village there to the north is called Ben Chonzie. It forms part of the Grampian mountain range, which you’ve no doubt heard of.’

  Tayte hadn’t, but he didn’t want to disappoint Sinclair, so he just smiled as they turned off the main road to their right, crossing the river. ‘I saw the main road back there was called Drummond Street,’ he said, ‘and here we are on our way to see Dr Drummond. Any connection?’

  ‘Qu
ite possibly,’ Sinclair said. ‘The Drummond bloodline in this area goes back a fair way.’

  The car slowed down and Sinclair pulled over outside a stone townhouse. It had four mullioned windows set close together on two levels, and a central front door that was no more than a few feet from the road on the other side of a narrow pavement.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sinclair said. ‘When I spoke to Gordon earlier, he sounded keen to make your acquaintance.’

  Tayte had brought his briefcase with him, in which he now had printouts of the further records he’d spoken to Sinclair about, written by Mr Albert Faraday of The Times. He’d made a note to look into what else Faraday had written, but for now he intended to focus on trying to find out if there was anyone called Robert in the Christie family. Perhaps the doctor had come across the name during his research, even if he hadn’t been able to connect it at the time. He picked up his briefcase and followed Sinclair out of the car, joining him at the front door as he knocked.

  ‘A cup of tea would go down well about now,’ Sinclair said. ‘Or perhaps something a wee bit stronger, eh?’

  ‘A hot drink sounds good,’ Tayte said, not wishing to cloud his head while he was on the job.

  Sinclair checked his watch and knocked again. ‘It’s six o’clock sharp. We’re bang on time. I do hope he hasn’t had to go out on a house call.’

  Not waiting for an answer, Sinclair left Tayte on the doorstep and went to one of the windows to look inside.

  ‘No lights on. No sign of activity. It doesn’t look good. Give that knocker another bang, would you.’

  Tayte knocked again, loud enough for anyone inside to have heard. Sinclair checked the other window.

  ‘Same this side,’ Sinclair said. Then he came back to Tayte, opened the letterbox and called, ‘Gordon! Are you in there?’

  Tayte thought he heard Sinclair’s voice falter as he finished the sentence. As Sinclair stood up again and turned to Tayte, his expression had darkened, as if he’d seen something as he looked through the letterbox and couldn’t quite believe his eyes.