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

by Steve Robinson

  ‘It wasn’t India’s fault. I suppose if I were looking to apportion blame for my mother’s death, I would blame my father for bringing her here. I’d say he should have left her in England with my brother, who was attending boarding school at the time. But it wasn’t my father’s fault, either. How was he to know what the future held?’

  ‘Your English mother?’ Arabella said, seeking clarification.

  ‘Yes, she was my birth mother, of course, but I was raised by a native woman called Sumana, whom I regarded as my Indian mother. She and my father never married, but I do know that they came to love each other very much indeed. My father died when I was about your age, and although I was no longer in India when Sumana died, I know from her letters that she continued to love his memory to her dying breath.’

  ‘That sounds very romantic,’ Arabella said, her faith in love seemingly restored. ‘I wish my father loved my mother, even just a wee bit. I really don’t know why he wanted us here.’

  Since meeting Captain Donnan Fraser, Jane thought she knew well enough, but she didn’t go into it. ‘Perhaps things will soon settle down,’ she said. ‘Your father has become too accustomed to his own company, and your mother needs time to adjust to her new life in India. It’s been a terrible wrench for both of you.’

  ‘I’m not taking pills.’

  ‘No, but you’re young,’ Jane said. ‘And something else has lifted your spirits, I’m sure of it.’ She smiled at Arabella. ‘I had thought it was on account of the young sowar, Bharat Singh. Now I can’t decide whether your continued good nature is because of him or Captain Fraser.’

  Arabella’s face broke into a smile. Then she rocked her shoulders self-consciously and turned away. ‘I should like to buy something to remember our day out by,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘Perhaps some beads.’

  They moved on, quickly coming to a food stall, where Arabella paused. She turned to their servants and said, ‘Rashmi, Pranil, whatever is this odd-looking dish?’

  Rashmi, a tall, middle-aged Rajput with a twirled moustache and a long grey beard that was tied at the back of his head, stepped closer to see what Arabella was pointing to. ‘It is called Eri Polu, young memsaab,’ he said, his accented English very good. ‘It is a delicacy from Assam, made from the pupa of the Eri silkworm.’

  Arabella pulled a sour face at the thought of eating such a thing. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and quickly moved on. To Jane, she whispered, ‘I thought they were sausages,’ and they both laughed.

  ‘Beads!’ Arabella said a moment later, and Jane followed her excited steps to a colourful stall full of dangling beads and trays of bangles.

  ‘If you’re going to buy some,’ Jane said, ‘let me do the haggling.’

  Arabella gazed up at the vast array of beads on offer, full of smiles and wonder. ‘I should very much like to, but it’s overwhelming. Which to choose?’

  ‘How about these?’ Jane said, indicating a string of blue-green stones. ‘They match your eyes perfectly.’

  At that point, a brightly dressed girl, no older than Arabella, rose up from behind the stall, her midriff exposed between her red gagra skirt and the cropped hem of her yellow choli blouse. As with so many Hindu women, she had a red bindi mark between her eyebrows, although Jane was drawn more to the long branch in her hand, which she used to lift the blue-green beads down for Arabella to try on.

  ‘Sundar!’ the girl said, smiling broadly as soon as they were around Arabella’s neck.

  Arabella looked to Jane for translation.

  ‘She says they’re beautiful.’

  Arabella nodded and smiled back at the girl.

  ‘How much?’ Jane asked in Hindi.

  ‘Only seven rupees,’ the girl answered in her native tongue.

  ‘I’ll give you four.’

  The girl’s head began to wander from side to side. ‘I can accept five, and not one rupee less or my mother will beat me.’

  Jane reached into her reticule and handed five rupees to the girl.

  ‘Bahut dhanyavaad,’ the girl said, thanking Jane very much.

  They were about to leave when a man in dusty, tattered apparel stopped at the bead stall beside Arabella. Jane took him for a beggar at first, but when he turned to them she saw his bright young eyes and recognised him at once. It was the young sowar, Naresh Bharat Singh. He smiled at them, his teeth bright against his dark skin, which was as dirty as his dust-covered sandals.

  Arabella gasped at seeing him. Then she returned his smile, scrunching her brow in confusion as she said, ‘It is you. But however did you find me? Surely you’re not here by coincidence.’

  Bharat Singh answered in words Arabella could not understand. Then he reached a hand towards her and between his slender fingers was a folded piece of paper. Arabella took it, just as her servant, Pranil, a younger, stockier man than Rashmi, similarly moustachioed with a full dark beard that tapered to a point on his chin, placed his hands on Bharat Singh’s shoulders and turned him away. Clearly he had taken the sowar for a beggar as Jane initially had. Bharat Singh was still smiling at Arabella as he left, despite Pranil’s angry face and the threatening tone of his voice.

  ‘I should have liked him to stay long enough to thank him for rescuing me,’ Arabella said to Jane as Bharat Singh became lost to the crowd. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He simply said that you are the resident’s daughter.’

  ‘Of course. He therefore knew I’d be staying with my father at the residency?’

  Jane nodded. ‘He must have followed us when we left this morning, which is no doubt why he’s disguised as a beggar.’

  Arabella unfolded the note in her hand. ‘Here,’ she said, whispering as she handed it to Jane. ‘What does it say?’

  The note was written in Hindi. Jane had no trouble reading it. ‘He’d like very much to see you again.’

  ‘Where?’ Arabella asked, sounding more than a little excited.

  ‘He says to look for him by the stream outside the main gate of the residency tomorrow evening at five o’clock. He’ll be looking for you.’

  Arabella clasped her hands together and drew them to her chest. ‘I can thank him then,’ she said. ‘You’ll come with me, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Jane said, as if there were no question about it. ‘I could hardly let you go without a chaperone, and however would you hold a conversation together otherwise? But aren’t you going to ask your father’s permission first?’ she added, smiling playfully, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Heavens no!’ Arabella said. ‘I’ll take your advice and seek his forgiveness afterwards if I have to.’

  Jane laughed, and as they made their way out of the bazaar, she continued to smile to herself. Arabella’s obvious excitement at seeing Naresh Bharat Singh again had fully satisfied her that it was the young sowar, not Captain Fraser, who was the cause of her improved mood of late. But how were they to meet Bharat Singh the following evening without the presence of their personal servants? Rashmi and Pranil had barely left their sides for a moment since their arrival in Jaipur.

  Jane put that little problem to one side for now as she began to wonder what repercussions Arabella’s interest in the young sowar might have, especially in light of the arrangement Arabella’s father seemed to have with Captain Fraser over his daughter. Jane would do nothing to help decide Arabella’s affections for her—as far as she was concerned they were Arabella’s alone to make—but she sensed that the path ahead, should Arabella choose to take it, would not be an easy one.

  Chapter Twelve

  Jaipur, September 1822

  It was several minutes after five in the afternoon when Jane and Arabella slipped out through the residency’s main gate, which meant that Arabella was already a few minutes late for her meeting with the young sowar, Naresh Bharat Singh.

  ‘I hope he hasn’t already left,’ Arabella said as they headed towards the stream that ran its course a hundred yards or so to the front of the residency, where several p
eople could be seen coming and going.

  They were both peering ahead, beneath shawls that were draped over their heads and shoulders, trying to single Bharat Singh out. But how would he appear today? Jane found herself wondering whether he would be in disguise again.

  ‘My dear Bella,’ she said. ‘I have little doubt that he would wait here all night before giving up on the chance to see you again. If you really want something to worry yourself about, spare a thought for poor Pranil, who is diligently waiting outside your bedroom, where you have apparently retired for the evening having taken too much sun. Worry instead at how your father will react should it be discovered that you are no longer there.’

  ‘I’m not worried about my father,’ Arabella said as they drew closer to the water—close enough to hear its gentle course as it babbled over the rocks.

  ‘Really?’

  Arabella paused before answering. ‘Well, perhaps just a little.’

  Jane smiled at her. ‘Exciting, though, isn’t it?’

  Arabella giggled. ‘Aye, very.’

  It was just over an hour before sunset, the orange sun sinking inexorably over the plain, lending its golden aura to everything it touched. There were a number of dhobi wallahs at the edge of the stream, tirelessly washing clothes. On the other side an old man with a long stick was leading his goats to a suitable place to drink from. There appeared to be no sign of Bharat Singh.

  ‘You see. He’s not here,’ Arabella said, sounding dejected.

  ‘Well, even if he isn’t, it’s a lovely evening for a stroll beside the stream. Perhaps his duties have kept him away.’

  ‘Or he’s changed his mind.’

  Jane shook her head. ‘I doubt that very much.’

  They watched the washerwomen as they waited, then they began to amble along the bank, which was dotted here and there with lemon trees and firebush shrubs with their clusters of scarlet-orange tubular flowers. Arabella noted movement among the flowers, and as they came closer her face lit up.

  ‘They’re sunbirds,’ Jane told her as they looked on at the colourful display.

  ‘They’re tiny.’

  Jane nodded. ‘They’re the only birds in the region small enough to drink the firebush nectar.’

  At length they turned back towards the residency. The sun dipped lower and their shadows grew longer. Jane was about to suggest they return home, when on the other side of the stream she saw a cloud of dust rising. She thought at first that it was a small dust devil whirling on the plain, but a moment later she heard the unmistakable sound of galloping hooves. She pointed, drawing Arabella’s attention to what was now clearly a lone rider on a fine dappled grey horse.

  It was Naresh Bharat Singh.

  When he reached the stream, his horse did not stop. It leapt clean over it, whinnying as it came to an abrupt stop on the near side, not ten feet from Jane and the now palpitating Arabella. Its rider was quick to dismount, and he was on his knees before them in seconds.

  ‘Humble apologies, memsaab,’ he said to Arabella, bowing his head.

  ‘Namaste, Naresh Bharat Singh,’ Arabella replied, having picked up a few Hindi words from Jane. ‘I had no idea you spoke English?’

  Bharat Singh got to his feet, standing tall and handsome in his blue trooper’s uniform. He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm. ‘Only little and very poor,’ he said. ‘But for you, I try.’

  ‘That’s very sweet,’ Arabella said. ‘But you spoke Hindi at the bazaar yesterday, and your note—that was also written in Hindi.’

  ‘I was too—’ Bharat Singh paused, as if searching for the right word. Then, seemingly unable to recollect it, he said, ‘Sharminda.’

  ‘Ashamed,’ Jane said, helping him out.

  ‘Yes. I was too ashamed.’

  ‘There’s really no need to be,’ Arabella said. ‘Your English is far better than my Hindi. I hardly speak a word. Perhaps we could teach one another.’

  Bharat Singh looked to Jane for translation.

  ‘You must speak more slowly, Bella,’ she said. Then she translated Arabella’s words.

  Bharat Singh was smiling broadly by the time Jane had finished. ‘Very much would I like that,’ he said, ‘for I have much to learn.’

  At that point, Bharat Singh lurched forward until he was almost touching Arabella. He paused momentarily, gazing into her eyes. Then, as the shock of what had just happened registered on his face, he backed awkwardly away again, stooping to pick up his hat, which had been knocked to the ground by the muzzle of his horse as it nudged him.

  ‘Humble apologies once more,’ he said, turning to his horse, taking it firmly by the reins. ‘Nilakantha is very bad horse. She will have no supper.’

  ‘I think she’s a lovely horse,’ Arabella said, stepping closer to stroke her mane. ‘She just wanted to be introduced, that’s all.’

  ‘It is you who are lovely,’ Bharat Singh said. ‘Sundar.’

  Arabella had learned what sundar meant from the bazaar the day before. To hear Bharat Singh say that she was beautiful caused her cheeks to glow. She averted her gaze from his, using the horse as a screen until the young sowar’s eyes found hers again.

  Jane came to her rescue, although she wasn’t convinced that Arabella wanted to be rescued from Bharat Singh’s attentions. ‘Nilakantha means sky flower, if I’m not mistaken.’

  Bharat Singh turned to her. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She is called Sky Flower, after jhaadee.’

  ‘After the shrub,’ Jane said, translating the word for Arabella’s benefit.

  Arabella came around to the horse’s muzzle again. She held her hand close to its nostrils, allowing it to draw in her scent. ‘Sky Flower,’ she said, smiling at the horse as she nestled her head into the soft hair of her neck. ‘I like that name very much.’

  ‘Miss Arabella! Mrs Hardwick!’

  Startled at hearing their names, both turned away from the stream in unison towards the call that had come from the direction of the residency. Three men were marching with purpose towards them. There were two guards. At their head was Captain Fraser.

  ‘It is you,’ Fraser said as he and the guards approached. ‘Thank heavens. The whole household was worried for your safety. Didn’t Sir John explicitly tell you not to leave the residency without a guard or escort, and certainly not without telling anyone?’ He paused, studying the young sowar and his horse. ‘Who’s this you’re with?’

  ‘Respectfully, sir, I am Naresh Bharat Singh of Kishangarh.’

  ‘Bharat Singh?’ Fraser said as he seemed to recall the name. They continued to converse in Hindi. ‘Well, what are you doing here, man? Shouldn’t you be with your company?’

  ‘I am on very important business.’

  ‘What business sees you loitering here at the stream, bothering these fine ladies?’

  Jane wanted to correct Fraser’s assumption that they were being bothered by the sowar, but she bit her tongue.

  ‘I am delivering dispatches to the Resident at Jaipur from the Governor-General of Rajputana himself. My horse has ridden long and hard and was in need of water.’

  Fraser gave a low harrumph. ‘Well, get about your business, man, or I shall have words with your commanding officer.’ He turned to Arabella. ‘Now, if you’d care to follow me, Miss Arabella, I’ll see you safely back to your father.’

  Arabella was about to comply when Jane spoke. ‘We’re in no danger here, captain. We’ll come back when we’re good and ready.’

  Fraser’s eyes bored into hers. ‘I don’t believe I was addressing you, madam. You can do whatever pleases you, but I have my orders to take the resident’s daughter back to her father where she belongs.’

  Arabella put a hand on Jane’s arm, as if to tell her it was all right—that she would return with the captain as he had commanded. Before she did, however, she turned to Bharat Singh and whispered, ‘When shall I see you again? How?’

  To know that Arabella wanted to see him again must have filled the sowar’s heart with joy, b
ecause his eyes were smiling more than ever as he replied, ‘Do not worry, memsaab. I will find a way.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Present day

  Jefferson Tayte awoke to the sound of a shotgun being fired. The first loud boom caused him to twitch in his bed as he stirred. The second woke him more fully. He’d had such a fitful night, dreaming of India, of being chased by unseen figures, and of murder, that at first he was unsure whether or not he was still in the dream. As he took in his surroundings, however, he quickly realised that the shotgun was not being fired at him, but was coming from somewhere in the near distance outside. He imagined Murray must be out on the estate trying to bag something for their dinner.

  Tayte wondered what he would serve today, and whether he’d still be around to find out. When he’d called Jean the night before, she’d told him she was worried about him—of course she was—but sensing his desire to continue, she’d said it was up to him, that he should do whatever felt right. A part of Tayte had wanted her to tell him to come home. It would have removed the burden of having to make the decision for himself. Now it was all on him. Was he overreacting to the situation? He told himself again that Jamie Sinclair’s death could well have been an accident, and Dr Drummond’s murder could be completely unrelated to his assignment. And yet, given the way in which another of Jane Hardwick’s letters had turned up at Drumarthen the night before, he wasn’t so sure. One way or another, there was certainly more going on here than he could as yet see.

  As far as the letter was concerned, Tayte could only conclude that someone was trying to help him. Why else leave one of Jane’s letters in the sideboard for Sinclair to find? If that was the case, then Tayte perceived no immediate threat to himself from whoever had put it there. He was, however, curious about their motive. In the letter, he’d read of a blossoming romance between Arabella Christie and a young Indian boy, and he’d been able to add another name to his list of people to look into: Captain Donnan Fraser.

  Was he in some way significant? The Fraser name was hard to ignore. It connected generations of Damian Sinclair’s family. After reading the letter the night before, Sinclair had told him he’d never heard of Donnan Fraser, which was perhaps not surprising as his research had been more concerned with his biological bloodline. Was Donnan Fraser related to Sinclair’s step-four-times-great-grandfather, Lachlan Fraser? Perhaps that was the connection someone wanted Tayte to draw from reading the letter.