‘What is it?’ Tayte asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
Sinclair’s mouth was agape, his features suddenly lined with confusion. ‘I think it’s Gordon,’ he said. ‘I think he’s dead.’
A short while later, the immediate area around Gordon Drummond’s house had been cordoned off by the police. Tayte and Sinclair were standing in the street outside, waiting to speak with the senior officer, Detective Inspector Alastair Ross, who Sinclair appeared to know. Behind them, the crime scene examiners in their white overalls were recording the scene and gathering potential forensic evidence, leaving little doubt in the minds of the onlookers watching from beyond the police cordon tape that they were dealing with a murder.
‘Thanks for your patience, Damian,’ DI Ross said to Sinclair as he joined them. ‘Who’s this you have with you?’
‘I’m Jefferson Tayte,’ Tayte said, introducing himself with a firm handshake that was well met.
‘Mr Tayte’s a family historian,’ Sinclair added. ‘I’ve hired him to try to identify my four-times-great-grandfather.’
‘Have you indeed?’ Ross said, running a thumb and forefinger slowly out and down over his 1970s walrus moustache as he took Tayte in. ‘From what I’ve heard you’ll have your work cut out for you there, Mr Tayte.’
‘Detective Inspector Ross is an old friend of the family,’ Sinclair told Tayte, as if to explain how the detective knew about Sinclair’s family history brick wall.
‘I see,’ Tayte said. ‘I take it the man we saw through the letterbox when we arrived earlier was murdered?’ No one had formally told them and he wanted clarification.
‘He was,’ Ross said. ‘The good doctor was stabbed in the chest with what appears to be one of his own kitchen knives.’
‘I knew it as soon as I saw him lying there at the foot of the stairs,’ Sinclair said. ‘Will you listen to me now, Alastair? Gordon was closer to my brother than most. Now they’re both dead. There has to be a connection.’
‘Aye, and you’ll no doubt want me to believe it’s connected to this fabled ruby you’re all after. I’ve told you many times before—Jamie’s death was an accident. He was alone when he died. His apartment door was locked and bolted. The only way in or out was via the balcony your brother fell from.’
‘What about the balconies to either side of his?’ Sinclair protested. ‘Surely someone could have left via one of those.’
Ross shook his head. ‘You know full well we checked with every occupant on your brother’s floor—the only balconied floor of the building, I might remind you. No one saw or heard a thing, and there was no way down from there other than to go through someone else’s apartment. Your brother had his problems. He was drunk to his hind teeth that night, and he met with a fatal accident as a result. It’s time to let it go.’
‘I can’t let it go,’ Sinclair said. ‘Especially now Gordon’s been murdered. Just why do you think that is, inspector? He was a well-liked and respected man. Who would want to do such a thing? Why?’
Ross drew a deep breath and sighed. ‘I can see you’re upset, Damian, and rightly so. Your brother’s death was a tragedy, and now this. You want answers and I promise I’ll do my best to get them for you. I’ll even keep an open mind about Jamie, although heaven knows I’ve already lost more hair than I can afford to over the matter. Right now, though, I’ve no reason to challenge the procurator fiscal’s verdict.’
‘An open mind is all I ask for,’ Sinclair said, his tone softening. He turned away, looking back along the street momentarily. ‘I only spoke to Gordon a few hours ago. I can’t believe he’s gone from us so soon after my brother.’
‘It’s a terrible business,’ Ross said. ‘What did you and Mr Tayte come to see Gordon about?’
Tayte answered. ‘I wanted to talk to him about his family history research. I thought the records he’d gathered over the years could be useful to me.’
‘Did anyone else know you were coming here?’
‘Only Murray,’ Sinclair said. ‘Why do you ask?’
Ross took out a small notebook from the inside pocket of his navy-blue suit jacket. ‘It just strikes me as odd that he should be murdered just as you’re on your way to see him. There are no signs of forced entry. Nothing appears to have been disturbed. I’ve little doubt Gordon knew his killer, but that doesn’t help us too much on this occasion. As the village doctor it’s fair to say that Gordon Drummond knew just about everyone.’
Sinclair scoffed. ‘Surely you don’t think Murray had anything to do with this?’
‘It’s just a name to write in my wee book,’ Ross said. ‘That’s all it is for now.’
Tayte began to wonder at the timing, too. Perhaps the detective was right. Perhaps Tayte’s visit had triggered Drummond’s murder. ‘You might want to check that the doctor’s research hasn’t been stolen,’ he said, supposing it could be the reason Drummond was now dead. ‘Maybe someone didn’t want me to see it.’
‘Aye, we’ll do that,’ Ross said, and before he could continue, Sinclair cut in.
‘If you’re looking for suspects to write in your notebook,’ he said, ‘you should know that Callum Macrae came to Drumarthen to see me this afternoon.’
‘Callum knew you were coming here, too?’
‘Perhaps. Maybe he parked alongside the burn after he left and came back. If he did, he might well have overheard my telephone conversation with Gordon. I was out on the drive at the time.’
‘There are plenty of ifs, buts and maybes in there,’ Ross said. ‘What did Callum want to see you about?’
‘He wanted money. He said something about a family syndicate my brother was tied up in, and that he died owing him and the other syndicate members money. He came to Drumarthen insisting I was now responsible for Jamie’s debts. I told him where to go, despite his threatening behaviour.’
‘That sounds just like Callum Macrae,’ Ross said. ‘Did he say why Jamie owed money to him and the rest of this syndicate?’
‘No, but knowing Jamie and the family as I do, I have a pretty good idea. They certainly wouldn’t lend him money to go off kite-surfing. It had to be something with a payout at the end of it, and the only thing that springs to mind is the ruby. I told you Jamie had those old letters from India. He must have seen something that made him believe he knew where the ruby was, and he borrowed money to go off and find it. Maybe he did. Maybe that’s why he’s dead.’
‘Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he took his own life because he came back empty-handed and couldn’t face the music, owing money to the wrong kind of people. As much as I hate to say it about your family, Damian, I wouldn’t choose to borrow money from the majority of them, especially if I knew there was a risk I wouldn’t be able to pay it back.’
‘And that’s coming from a policeman,’ Tayte interjected, although his comment seemed to fall on deaf ears. It made him feel that his opinion where this particular family was concerned was unwelcome. He knew that if he was to continue with the assignment he would have to tread carefully.
If he was to continue.
That Jamie Sinclair had been murdered because of the ruby that was bound up in his assignment was pure speculation at this point. The doctor, however, had most certainly been murdered, and whether his death was because of the assignment or not, it cast a whole new light on the matter. He had some serious thinking to do.
Ross stepped back towards the house. ‘I want to know who these syndicate members are,’ he said as he went. ‘I’ll speak to Callum. Maybe we can get everyone together at Drumarthen tomorrow evening. It’ll save me visiting them individually and I don’t think I want to bring them all into the station just now.’
‘It’s been a long while since we’ve had a family gathering at Drumarthen,’ Sinclair said, sounding none too keen. Then he began to nod as he seemed to come around to the idea. ‘But perhaps it’s high time we did.’
‘Very good then,’ Ross said. ‘I’ll be in touch.’
Chapter Ten
Aft
er dinner that evening, Tayte and Sinclair retired to the drawing room for a glass of whisky, which Tayte was coming to believe was something of a ritual with Sinclair. On this day in particular Tayte wasn’t about to turn his offer down. Neither had shown much of an appetite during dinner, despite Murray’s considerable efforts in the kitchen, having prepared a tasty dish of haggis and mashed swede, served with steamed cabbage.
‘I thought you might appreciate some traditional Scottish fare,’ Murray had said as he’d set Tayte’s plate down in front of him.
On any other day Tayte would have devoured it, but not today.
They sat facing the fire, as they had the night before. Tayte noticed that Sinclair was studying him more than usual. ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Did I get haggis on my shirt?’
Sinclair gave a small laugh. ‘No, I’ve just been thinking you were very quiet during dinner, and with good reason. Gordon’s death is going to shock the entire community.’
‘I take it he lived alone?’
‘Aye, his wife died around five years ago now. They were happily married for close to thirty. It’s a blessing she didn’t have to endure this.’
‘Did they have any children?’
‘Just the one. A girl. She married and moved south to England some time ago. Birmingham, I believe. The news will devastate her, as it will all the family. I expect most of them will have heard by now.’
Sinclair picked up the whisky bottle, eyeing the level as he did so. ‘We’re going to need another one of these in a wee while,’ he said as he measured out what was left into their glasses. He sat back and began to study Tayte again. ‘You’re wondering whether or not you want to continue with this, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am,’ Tayte said. There was no use being coy about it. ‘What if Dr Drummond really was murdered because of what I’m looking into here, or because of what he might have been able to tell me? If that’s the case, who’s to say I won’t also be in danger if I carry on?’
‘But it’s not necessarily the case now, is it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, if it were, why kill Gordon now? He’s been looking into our family history longer than I have. And I’ve spoken to him a great many times about it during my own research. No one has wanted to kill him over it before, and no one has tried to kill me, either, for that matter. I have to remind you that most of my family have conducted such research at one time or another. So why kill the doctor over it? And why now? I can’t believe it’s because his killer thought he knew who my four-times-great-grandfather was, or that he might tell you something that would lead you to the Blood of Rajputana. Gordon didn’t know. I’m sure whoever killed him did so for another reason, although it’s possible that our going to see him today may have triggered it.’
‘But why?’ Tayte said, thinking aloud.
‘At this point, who can say? What I’m getting at here is that Gordon’s death could be entirely unrelated to your assignment. If his records aren’t missing, will you at least consider that while making your decision as to whether or not you want to continue?’
Tayte thought about it. If the doctor’s records were still at his house, then it seemed logical that Sinclair was right—going to see the doctor to talk about his records wasn’t the reason he was dead. A big part of him still wanted to continue, and he concluded that until they heard more from DI Ross about the matter, he had no idea whether the doctor’s murder was connected to his assignment or not.
‘I’m going to have to sleep on it,’ he said. ‘Before I do I want to talk to my wife about it, too. See what she thinks.’
‘Of course you must. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.’ Sinclair picked up his glass and added, ‘Slàinte!’
‘Slàinte!’ Tayte repeated, and they both drained their glasses.
‘I’ll fetch that other bottle,’ Sinclair said. ‘That wee drop barely touched the sides.’
Sinclair stood up, and Tayte’s eyes followed him to an old oak sideboard that was set against the wall beneath a threadbare tapestry behind them. As Sinclair opened one of the cupboards, Tayte thought he heard him catch his breath. When he returned, he seemed to have forgotten all about the whisky. Instead, in his hand were several pieces of paper—old paper by the look of it.
‘I found this at the back of the shelf,’ Sinclair said, sounding bewildered. He unfolded the sheets of paper and glanced over them. ‘It’s one of Jane Hardwick’s letters.’
‘You didn’t know it was there?’ Tayte said with a sense of creeping scepticism.
‘No, it’s an old sideboard. The letter could have been there for some time. I go to it regularly for my whisky, though. I’m sure I’d have noticed it before now.’
‘Yes, I’m sure you would,’ Tayte said, suddenly wondering whether Sinclair had conveniently produced the letter at this opportune moment simply to draw him further into Jane’s story—a hook to help sway his decision in favour of carrying on with the assignment.
‘You don’t think I put it there, do you?’ Sinclair said, clearly reading Tayte’s body language. ‘Why on earth would I do that?’
‘So how did it get there? Murray?’
Sinclair shook his head. ‘No, but I’ll be sure to ask him whether he knows anything about it just the same.’
Another explanation occurred to Tayte then, and he was reminded of the figure he’d seen by the burn the evening he’d arrived. It sent a shiver through him. ‘This morning you told me you thought your brother may have been murdered for these letters, which you said he told you he had.’
‘That’s right,’ Sinclair said, clearly understanding what Tayte was thinking. ‘So maybe whoever took the letters from him put this one in there, knowing I’d find it as soon as I went for another bottle of whisky, which wouldn’t have been long given the other bottle was sitting there almost empty.’
‘What if your brother gave them to someone else before he died?’ Tayte offered. It was another possibility he thought Sinclair might have overlooked given his determination to prove his brother had been murdered.
‘Aye, it’s possible,’ Sinclair said, a little tentatively. ‘The bigger question for now, however, is why put it there at all? Someone clearly wants us, or rather wants you, to read it.’
‘But why only one letter? I mean, if whoever put it in your sideboard wants us to know Jane Hardwick’s story, why not put them all in there?’
‘That’s another very good question,’ Sinclair said, ‘and one to which I’m afraid I have no answer. Here,’ he added, passing the letter to Tayte. ‘Perhaps you’d better read it.’
Tayte took the letter and noted it was dated September 1822, the same month in which Jane and her companions, whom he now knew to be Lady Elspeth Christie and her daughter Arabella, arrived in Jaipur. As he began to read, he became so caught up in Jane’s story again that he soon forgot about the letter itself, and the implications of how it had suddenly turned up at Drumarthen House.
Chapter Eleven
Jaipur, September 1822
‘There really is nowhere better to discover India than through the sensory delights of the bazaar,’ Jane said to Arabella as they ambled towards the tents and stalls of the city’s largest street market, their white, high-waisted dresses gently flapping in the light breeze.
‘It smells awful,’ Arabella said, raising a scented handkerchief to her nose.
Jane threw her head back and drew a deep breath, taking it all in as they entered the bazaar’s bustling periphery. ‘It smells of India,’ she said. ‘The livestock and the honest sweat of the traders, the spices and the hot dust at our feet combined. I’ve always thought it a homely smell.’
‘There you have the advantage of growing up in India, Jane. I’m sure I shall never become accustomed to it.’
‘Give it time, Bella. India is full of surprises.’
The bazaar was a bright and colourful place, with swathes of silk, cotton and other textiles in all colours of the rainbow, flapping in the
breeze in every direction Jane looked. Their vibrancy was matched only by the spices of the food stalls, and the prolific Indian beads—a string or two of which a young Indian boy would every now and then try to sell to them until he was chased away by one or the other of their personal servants, who were never more than two steps behind them. Beggars, young and old, were a permanent presence in such places, and Jane had come well prepared for them, handing out a few rupees here and there as if gradually buying their way into the heart of the bazaar. The air buzzed, not only with flies, but with the cacophony of ages boiled down into one steaming pot of ordered chaos.
‘I do hope my father won’t be upset at our having come here today,’ Arabella said as they paused at one of the textile stalls. ‘Perhaps I should have waited to ask him.’
‘Your father is a very busy man,’ Jane said, brushing the back of her hand over a piece of cloth she was admiring. ‘We might have waited all day.’ She turned to Arabella. ‘Don’t worry yourself. Sometimes it’s better to seek forgiveness than to ask permission. Besides, your mother said it was all right, didn’t she?’
Arabella frowned. ‘My mother would have agreed to just about anything. I do wish she would stop taking those pills. She hasn’t been herself since Bombay.’
‘No,’ Jane said, concern in her tone. ‘I’ll make a point of talking to her about it. I’d hoped she would give them up once the journey was over, but now we’re here I see she has another need for them.’
‘My father?’
Jane wasn’t surprised by Arabella’s reply. She thought the entire household must have observed the bitterness between Sir John and Lady Elspeth by now.
‘I heard them quarrelling again this morning,’ Arabella continued. ‘Did your parents love one another? Please tell me they did. I have to believe it possible.’
Jane gave a small sigh. ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t say. I never really knew my English mother. India took her soon after I was born.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Arabella offered. ‘So why is it you still love this country so much?’
Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7) Page 7
