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

by Steve Robinson

  ‘I should particularly like to talk to Niall about his family history,’ Tayte said, thinking that as he was the only direct descendant of the male bloodline from Lachlan Fraser, Niall was perhaps best placed to tell him more about the captain he’d read about in Jane Hardwick’s letter.

  ‘Aye, perhaps we can arrange that,’ Sinclair said. ‘You’ll certainly have better luck with the Frasers in that area than you will with the remaining two guests coming to Drumarthen this evening. Chrissie MacIntyre’s from the same Fraser bloodline as Niall, via a common great-great-grandfather, but she hasn’t had anything worthwhile to say to anyone in years. Then there’s Ewan Blair. He’s more closely related to the Macraes than he is to the Frasers. He likes the sound of his own voice, so I’m sure he’ll have plenty to talk about this evening. I’d take it all with a good pinch of salt if I were you.’

  ‘I see,’ Tayte said, his thoughts returning to Callum Macrae. One way or another he sensed there were sure to be fireworks, and he was thankful DI Ross was going to be there to manage the proceedings. All he had to do was be polite, sit back, and listen to what everyone had to say.

  The first of the guests to arrive at Drumarthen House that evening did so fifteen minutes early, interrupting Tayte and Sinclair’s fireside whisky with a thud from the heavy front-door knocker. Murray was showing the guest into the dining room as they both went to see who it was. The man had a trilby hat in one hand and a wet raincoat over his arm, telling Tayte that the mist, which had clung to Drumarthen all day, had now turned to rain. He was smoking a roll-up cigarette, which he drew deeply on before looking around for an ashtray. Seeing nothing suitable, he handed it awkwardly to Murray to dispose of.

  ‘Mr Ewan Blair,’ Murray announced, his mouth twisted with distaste as he took the wet end of the still-smouldering cigarette.

  ‘Damian, you old bugger!’ Blair said. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

  ‘Hello, Ewan,’ Sinclair said, showing nothing to suggest the feeling was mutual. ‘I trust business is good?’

  ‘I can’t complain,’ Blair said, lifting the cuff of his pinstripe suit jacket to reveal a heavy-looking gold watch. ‘So, what’s all this about? Frankly, I’ve better things to do. Time is money, and all that.’

  ‘If Detective Ross hasn’t told you already, I’m sure he’ll do so when he arrives,’ Sinclair said. ‘Now, before I forget my manners, this is Mr Tayte. He’s staying at Drumarthen while he works on my family history.’

  ‘Got you looking for that ruby, has he?’ Blair said with a wry smile and a wink as he reached out and shook Tayte’s hand.

  Tayte looked at Sinclair, unsure whether he wanted any of the other family members to know his business.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Blair said, smiling more fully, revealing a gold incisor. ‘Mum’s the word, eh?’ he added, tapping the side of his nose.

  ‘Have a seat, won’t you?’ Sinclair said, and Blair sat down, further flattening back his black hair as he did so.

  Next to arrive was a woman Tayte thought was about sixty years old. Over a blue floral dress, she wore a clear plastic raincoat and hood that she wouldn’t let Murray take, despite the fact that she was dripping rain everywhere she walked. She only said one word as she entered the dining room.

  ‘Damian,’ she acknowledged with a slight nod of her head.

  She had a small voice that Tayte barely heard, perhaps hinting at a demure nature or otherwise nervous disposition. She made little eye contact with anyone as she crossed the room, except Tayte, whom she looked up at briefly from beneath her hood. Then she sat down, alone for now, at the opposite end of the table from Blair.

  ‘That’s Chrissie MacIntyre,’ Sinclair whispered to Tayte as the woman removed her hood, revealing short, mousy hair that bore the awkwardly chopped signs of a do-it-yourself haircut. ‘She keeps to herself most of the time. I’m surprised she came.’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the way she keeps staring at me through those thick glasses of hers,’ Tayte said.

  Sinclair laughed to himself. ‘Oh, don’t mind Chrissie. I’m sure she’s just curious to know who you are and doesn’t like to ask.’ He looked over to her and called, ‘This is my guest, Chrissie. His name’s Mr Tayte—a family historian.’

  Tayte smiled at her, but instead of smiling back she pulled an awkward face and turned away.

  ‘I very much doubt Detective Ross will get anything out of her tonight,’ Sinclair said as another thud from the heavy door knocker echoed in the main entrance hall. This time it was accompanied by a distant rumble of thunder. He checked his watch. ‘It’s almost time,’ he added, turning to find out who Murray would bring in next. ‘Perhaps that’s Alastair now.’

  ‘Niall and Mairi Fraser,’ Murray announced from the doorway.

  As Murray stepped back, Tayte saw a couple he thought were in their mid-forties enter the dining room. Unlike the previous guest, they were both full of smiles, the man sporting a full but tidy brown beard, and wearing blue jeans and a fitted ink-blue shirt, the woman looking somewhat overdressed for the occasion in a short, low-cut black dress and patent-leather high heels. Tayte wondered whether they were going somewhere fancy afterwards.

  ‘Niall,’ Sinclair said, offering no smile or warmth in his tone. ‘Mairi. Sit yourselves down. I’m sure DI Ross will be along shortly.’

  Tayte smiled politely at them, nodding his head as they passed him on the way to their seats. He wondered what had happened between them and Sinclair in the past to warrant such a cool reception. He also sensed that Ewan Blair’s appearance at Drumarthen was similarly unwelcome, and it was patently obvious to him that for one reason or another there was little love lost between Sinclair and the rest of his family. Another rumble of thunder sounded, louder and closer this time. Now that half the table was seated, Tayte began to feel awkward standing at Sinclair’s side, so he went over and pulled out a chair and sat down, drawing the attention of those already seated.

  Niall Fraser shot a hand across the table. ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘This is Mairi, my lovely wife of twenty years and counting.’

  Mairi extended a pale and slender arm towards Tayte, her hand palm down, as if expecting Tayte to kiss the back of it.

  Tayte gently shook her fingers and smiled. Then everyone sat back. ‘I’m Jefferson Tayte. I hope you don’t mind my being here. Detective Ross asked me to attend.’

  ‘He’s a genealogist,’ Blair said from one end of the table, his eyes fixed on the roll-up cigarette he was making. ‘So you’re caught up in all this nonsense, too, are you?’

  ‘If by “nonsense” you mean the Blood of Rajputana,’ Tayte said, ‘then yes, it looks that way.’

  ‘Poor you,’ Blair said, laughing to himself. ‘It’s obsessed this family for decades.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘I suppose Damian’s hired you to find it, has he?’ Niall said, pulling thoughtfully at his beard. ‘Well, good luck with that. I hope you like Scotland. You may be here for some time.’

  At that point, Murray made another announcement. ‘Detective Inspector Alastair Ross,’ he called, far too loudly for the size of the room, as if he thought he was still in the Drumarthen of old, announcing guests in a far larger space.

  Everyone turned to the doorway as Ross entered, brushing rain from the shoulders of his navy-blue suit. ‘Good evening, everyone,’ he said, straightening his tie. ‘Thanks for turning out in this foul weather. Are we all here?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Sinclair said. ‘We’re missing Callum Macrae and his mother.’

  ‘Well, let’s get started,’ Ross said. ‘I’ve other duties to attend to, and I’d like to see my wife and wee baby girl again before they forget what I look like. I don’t want to be here all night just because the Macraes can’t tell the time.’

  Ross pulled out a chair and he and Sinclair sat down.

  ‘I’ll listen out for the door,’ Murray said, making to leave.

  ‘You take a
seat, Murray,’ Ross insisted. ‘This may concern you, too. We’ll hear the door sure enough from in here.’

  Ewan Blair purposefully coughed into his hand. ‘Any whisky before we get started? My throat’s parched.’

  ‘Then it’ll be water you need,’ Sinclair said. ‘I’ve accommodated you all here at my house at the detective’s request, but I’ll be damned if I’ll share my Scotch with you as well.’

  ‘Still tight as a drum I see.’

  ‘I’m generous enough with those I care for,’ Sinclair said, at which point DI Ross stepped in.

  ‘Gentlemen, please! I should remind you why we’re all here this evening. Let us start by paying our respects to the good Dr Drummond, who I’m sure will be greatly missed.’

  There were nods of approval from everyone around the table, all except Chrissie MacIntyre. Instead of nodding and lowering her head as everyone else did, Tayte thought he heard her scoff through her nose at the suggestion that Gordon Drummond was a ‘good’ doctor. Several seconds of silence followed, which was punctuated by a bright flash of lightning at the high windows, and a crack of thunder so sharp and so booming that Tayte jumped in his seat. The lights flickered momentarily, then as he began to relax again the thump of the door knocker and the scraping of Murray’s chair legs as he went to answer it startled him further. Why did he feel so nervous this evening?

  Murray came back a few seconds later with the formidable sight that was Callum Macrae. He was an obviously overweight man, but he looked strong with it. Macrae arrived alone, and this time Murray made no announcement, nor did he need to. The man lumbered into the room, half staggering as he did so, his hair wild and wet, his long, waxed coat glistening in the lamplight as he took it off and practically threw it at Murray.

  ‘My bloody car’s broken down!’ he said, his coarse Scots accent befitting his size and surly disposition.

  Half the table immediately began to snigger to themselves.

  Tayte leaned close to Sinclair. ‘What’s so funny about a man’s car breaking down? Especially on a night like this.’

  ‘He’s a mechanic,’ Sinclair said, whispering back. ‘He owns the local garage.’

  Mairi Fraser was smiling more than most at the irony, enough to draw Macrae’s attention.

  ‘Do you find that amusing, woman?’ he said, leaning aggressively over the table. ‘I’ve just had to walk half a mile in the pissing rain, and in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s blowing a gale out there!’

  At that point, Niall stood up. ‘You leave my wife alone. Your car broke down through no one’s fault but your own. Everyone knows you’re a lousy mechanic, Callum Macrae. It’s no wonder your business is on its knees.’

  Macrae’s face began to glow red. He looked as if he were about to leap across the table at Niall.

  ‘Sit down, Callum,’ Blair said. ‘Have a drink.’ He laughed. ‘Oops, sorry. I forgot our host has locked his whisky away for the night.’

  Ross stood up, loosening his tie as he did so. ‘You look like you’ve had enough to drink already, Callum. Now calm down, the pair of you. Where’s Moira?’

  Macrae sat down at last, slumping into his seat as Niall and Murray sat back in theirs. ‘My mother sends her apologies. Her leg’s been playing her up more than usual today. Given the weather she decided to stay home, which, as it turns out, is just as well.’

  Ross plucked at his moustache. ‘I didn’t think she’d come. She’s always been one to have others come to her, hasn’t she?’

  The lightning continued to flash at the windows. The thunder continued to crackle and rumble above them. Macrae gave no answer.

  ‘Very well, I’ll call on her tomorrow,’ Ross said. ‘Now that we’re all here, I’d like to get the obvious question out of the way. Do you know of any reason why anyone should want Gordon Drummond dead?’

  A few heads began to shake. No one gave Ross an answer.

  ‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get down to business. What’s this syndicate I’ve heard about concerning Jamie Sinclair? Was Gordon involved?’

  ‘Aye, he was,’ Macrae said. ‘The good doctor was with Jamie when he came to me asking for money. He was clearly the first to sign up to Jamie’s idea.’

  There was another slight, but clearly audible scoff from Chrissie MacIntyre, and this time Ross turned to her. ‘Have you something to say, Chrissie? That’s the second time this evening I’ve heard you scoff. Is there something about Gordon you’d like to share with us?’

  Chrissie looked suddenly shocked at the idea that she might have something to say about Dr Drummond. Her face flushed as she pressed her lips together and vigorously shook her head.

  ‘Very well. So Dr Drummond was with Jamie when he came to see you about the syndicate.’

  ‘Having Drummond on board added weight to Jamie’s proposal,’ Blair said. ‘I for one was in all the way.’

  ‘Exactly what did Jamie propose to you all?’ Ross asked.

  Mairi Fraser leaned forward, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears as she did so. ‘He offered us a share in his venture. He said he knew where to find the ruby we’ve all been looking for.’

  ‘The Blood of Rajputana,’ Sinclair said. ‘I knew it.’

  Mairi nodded and began to play with the string of beads that hung around her neck. ‘He showed us several letters from India, written by a woman called Jane Hardwick.’

  Tayte and Sinclair exchanged knowing glances.

  ‘We weren’t allowed to read them,’ Mairi continued, ‘but Gordon told us he had. He vouched for Jamie when he said that the letters held a clue to the ruby’s whereabouts.’

  ‘So Jamie wanted money to go and find it?’ Ross said.

  Niall answered. ‘He didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but he did have those letters. He proposed we each give him as much as we could afford, up to a point, in return for an equivalent share of the ruby’s street value once he’d found it and sold it. His take was to be thirty per cent, leaving seventy per cent up for grabs—ten per cent to each of the seven of us.’

  ‘For those who could afford a ten per cent stake,’ Macrae scoffed. ‘I bought in, but I could barely scrape five per cent together.’

  ‘We managed to find fifteen per cent between us,’ Mairi said.

  ‘And you, Chrissie?’ Ross asked.

  Chrissie didn’t speak. Instead, and with an expressionless face, she held up both hands, fanning all her fingers and thumbs out as she did so.

  ‘My mother also bought ten per cent,’ Macrae said, sounding angry again. He thumped the table. ‘It cost the poor woman most of her savings to do so.’

  ‘And Dr Drummond?’ Ross said. ‘How much was he in for?’

  Blair put his hand up. ‘We bought the rest between us. Fifteen per cent each.’

  ‘And what kind of money are we talking about here?’ Ross asked. ‘Hundreds? Thousands?’

  ‘The total amount Jamie said he wanted from us was ten thousand pounds,’ Blair said. ‘It’s not much money these days. Personally, I’d have been happy to give him the lot for a fifty–fifty share.’

  ‘Aye, that’s because you’ve always been a greedy bastard,’ Macrae said. ‘Apart from you, and maybe Gordon, it was a lot of money to the rest of us.’

  The Frasers and Chrissie MacIntyre all nodded their heads in agreement.

  ‘And you trusted Jamie?’ Ross said with an air of disbelief.

  ‘No,’ Blair said, almost laughing at the idea. ‘But we trusted Gordon, who was to go to India with him.’

  Ross sat back in his chair and shook his head. ‘I’ve got to ask why none of you came to me and told me about any of this when Jamie Sinclair died. Did it not occur to any one of you that it might have had some bearing?’

  ‘The report said it was an accident,’ Mairi said. ‘Why would any of us think otherwise?’

  ‘More likely you didn’t want to get involved,’ Ross said. ‘You were too busy counting your losses. In case you haven’t already worked it out, I can te
ll you now that you were all duped. When Damian told me what he suspected this syndicate was about, I had Jamie’s movements prior to his death checked out. He made no such journey to India. As far as I can tell, he never left Scotland. He rented himself a nice penthouse apartment in Glasgow instead, presumably with your money, given that you just told me he didn’t have two pennies to rub together prior to forming this syndicate with you.’

  Everyone fell silent. Several seconds later, Sinclair turned to Ross and said, ‘So, where does this leave your murder investigation?’

  Before Ross could answer, there were several more flashes of lightning at the high windows, strobe-lighting the room with an intense white glare. It was closely followed by a thunder clap above them that shook the room. The lamps flickered several times, and then Drumarthen was thrust into darkness.

  ‘I half expected that,’ Sinclair said, as one by one the guests around the dining table took out their mobile phones, lighting the room with a harsh blue-white light. ‘Murray, I think you’d better go and fire up the generator. The power’s sure to be out for a while.’ Sinclair stood up. ‘I’ll go and fetch some candles.’

  Rising from the table with him, Murray made for the door, but Ross stopped him. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You’ll need a torch.’

  ‘Keep it,’ Murray said. ‘I’d know my way around this old place blindfolded. There’s a torch in the generator room.’

  With that, Murray left the dining room, his way lit by another flash of lightning.

  ‘He doesn’t like to depend on others for anything,’ Sinclair said to Ross. ‘It’s been his way for many a year now.’

  At one end of the table, Blair flicked at his cigarette lighter. ‘Do you mind if I have a smoke while we’re waiting?’

  ‘Aye, I do.’

  ‘I figured you’d say that. In which case I’m going outside. Storm or no storm, I’m positively gagging.’