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

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Then it is both practical and beautiful,’ Sir John said, ‘although I’m not sure how I will ever bring myself to use it as such.’

  ‘But you must, and every day you will remember our meeting.’

  Sir John smiled at the maharaja, bowing his head towards him. ‘If it is your wish.’

  They continued talking together, largely about India and the politics of the Honourable East India Company, and Jane noted that the maharaja spoke good, if accented, English. On the other hand, the prince said very little, perhaps because by his own admission he did not, which surprised Jane given his status and the wealth of learning that was clearly at his disposal. She thought perhaps that Bharat Singh was more for adventure at his young age than scholarly pursuits. At twenty-eight years old, the maharaja was around ten years older than the prince. By the time the prince was that age, Jane had no doubt that his English would be just as good, especially now that it appeared he had good reason to learn, in the form of the young woman sitting beside her.

  Every now and then the ladies would be drawn into the conversation, although even Jane had to confess that after thirty minutes of such talk, she began to tire of it. She imagined Arabella must be bored to distraction, or might have been had the young sowar-prince not been sitting opposite her. After several minutes more, Jane coughed into her hand.

  ‘Would anyone mind if I took a stroll around the garden before lunch?’ she said, not waiting for permission before slowly getting to her feet.

  ‘That’s a splendid idea,’ Sir John said. He turned to Elspeth. ‘Perhaps an amble would suit you, my dear?’

  ‘Actually, I’m rather tired,’ Elspeth said. She, too, stood up. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and lie down for an hour. I find the heat so tiring and I’m sure you have much to discuss with the maharaja.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sir John said. ‘I’ll send someone for you in time for lunch.’

  Arabella was next to stand up. ‘I should like to go,’ she said, ‘and perhaps the prince would care to join us.’

  ‘Yes, very much,’ Bharat Singh said, smiling as he rose.

  They left Sir John and the maharaja to continue their discourse beneath the shade of the pergola, stepping out into the sunshine as one of the servants approached with a parasol for each of them.

  ‘You’re certainly full of surprises,’ Arabella said to the prince as soon as they were out of earshot.

  ‘Did I not say I would find a way to see you?’

  Arabella laughed to herself. ‘Yes, and I’m glad you did, Crown Prince of Kishangarh.’

  They both laughed together as they walked, and Jane held back a little as they reached the courtyard border with its colourful flowering shrubs.

  ‘I have gift for you,’ Bharat Singh said, his broken English becoming quite endearing. He unbuttoned his sherwani, reached inside and produced a fold of crimson material, which he unwrapped to reveal a posy of small mauve flowers that were white at the centre. He handed them to Arabella and added, ‘Nilakantha.’

  ‘After your horse,’ Arabella said. ‘Sky Flower.’

  Bharat Singh nodded. ‘I wish for you to see them.’

  The flowers had wilted, but Arabella didn’t seem to mind. She held them to her nose, drawing in what remained of their fragrance, smiling as if to suggest she thought it a lovely gesture all the same.

  As Bharat Singh withdrew his hand, one of his rings sparkled in the sunlight, drawing Jane’s attention. ‘What a beautiful ring,’ she said, noticing a familiar symbol that was set into the face of the ring with numerous small diamonds—. ‘That’s the ancient Sanskrit Aum symbol, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aum, yes,’ Bharat Singh said, holding the ring up so that Jane and Arabella could better see it. In Hindi he added, ‘It represents the most sacred sound, from which all creation was born. My father had two identical rings made: one for me, and one for my brother, His Highness the Maharaja. I wear it always, but I am afraid I will someday lose it in battle.’

  Jane translated everything Bharat Singh had said. Then, continuing the conversation in Hindi, she asked him, ‘How is it that you, a crown prince, are also a sowar in the Bengal Army?’

  ‘It was my wish,’ Bharat Singh replied, also in Hindi. ‘I desire to fight as my great ancestors fought. My brother, however, indulges me only so far. Because I am young, he believes the experience will build my character and make me strong, but I have guards at my side always—guards who will give their lives to save mine should the need arise. That day on the Tonk road when you first arrived is the closest I have come to battle. I am charged mainly with the delivery of dispatches, to keep me from harm.’

  Jane continued to translate their words for Arabella as they ambled beside the flower border. ‘But you came alone to the stream when you were delivering your dispatches to the resident,’ she continued. ‘Where were your guards then?’

  ‘Nilakantha is a very fast horse,’ Bharat Singh said. ‘And although strong men, my guards are very slow and fat.’ He laughed to himself. ‘She outran them easily so that I could come to the stream alone. The two who were with me that afternoon were not far behind.’

  ‘I see. And the bazaar? Didn’t your company miss you?’

  ‘As I have said, I am indulged. I am not bound to the life of a regular sowar. I am allowed certain dispensations and am free to take my leave whenever I choose. I wear the uniform, but because of my position as crown prince, I cannot be a real soldier. I do not suffer their hardships. Because of this, I will never be accepted as one of them.’

  Jane noted the sadness in Bharat Singh’s voice as he finished speaking. When she translated his words, Arabella stood close to him and held his hand briefly, making sure no one could see them. His spirit seemed to lift instantly as they looked into each other’s eyes, and in that moment Jane suspected that Arabella and the young sowar-prince might come to see a lot of each other over the coming months. But while Naresh Bharat Singh had proved to be most resourceful when it came to devising ways to be with Arabella, Jane knew there were great barriers ahead for the young couple if the spark of love she had just witnessed between them was to blossom.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Present day

  When Jefferson Tayte awoke on the morning after the family gathering at Drumarthen, it was not to the booming report of Murray’s shotgun, but to the equally unwelcome sound of car doors being slammed shut beneath his bedroom window. He checked the time on the retro digital watch Jean had bought for him. The glowing red LEDs told him it was just before eight. Thanks to last night’s whisky, he’d gone out like a light as soon as his head had touched his pillow, and he’d slept like the dead.

  His first conscious thought was to wonder who was there, so to satisfy his curiosity he swung his legs out of bed, went to one of the curtains and pulled it aside. The unexpected glare of bright sunshine after last night’s storm made him blink several times as he tried to focus. Once he had, he saw a police car on the drive, which prompted his second thought of the day: what were the police doing at Drumarthen so soon after DI Ross’s visit the evening before? The only way Tayte could answer that question was to get dressed and go down to see for himself.

  As Tayte descended the stairs five minutes later, he was surprised to see DI Ross standing in the main hallway. He wondered why he’d come in a regular police car this time instead of his own unmarked car, which he’d arrived in previously. That, and the uniformed officer standing by the door, suggested a far more official visit, further arousing Tayte’s curiosity. Ross’s moustache was twitching excitedly as he spoke to Sinclair, and Tayte could only imagine that there had been a further development in his murder investigation.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Tayte,’ Sinclair said as soon as he noticed him on the stairs. His face was lined with concern. ‘You’ve arrived just in time to hear the terrible news.’

  ‘Good morning,’ Tayte replied, nodding to Ross and the uniformed policeman. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Another
murder, I’m afraid,’ Ross said. ‘Two more, in fact.’

  ‘Two more?’

  ‘Aye. Niall and Mairi Fraser were stabbed to death in their car a few miles from here.’

  Tayte took a long, slow breath to calm himself. ‘What happened?’

  ‘It appears that someone ran their car off the road after they left here last night,’ Ross said. ‘It was found earlier this morning on the road to Carroglen.’

  ‘That’s just dreadful. Why? I mean, I’m still here, trying to find the Blood of Rajputana, just as whoever appears to be doing this wants me to. Why has this person killed again?’

  ‘I wish I knew, Mr Tayte. I really do. We’re trying our best to figure it out, believe me. Maybe their killer didn’t leave those letters for you. Or maybe he did and he has another agenda I’ve yet to figure out. Whatever the reason, as soon as you find out what became of that ruby the better, in my opinion—before someone else dies.’

  Tayte thought that was just great. Now, not only did Sinclair want him to find the Blood of Rajputana, in the hope that doing so might help to bring his brother’s killer to justice, as he saw it, but so did the police. It seemed that because of this gemstone, people were now being murdered left, right and centre. If he’d had any prior inclination to walk away, how could he do so now?

  He wished his sense of right and wrong wasn’t always so strong, but it was an integral part of who he was. He couldn’t change it. He thought back over some of the unexciting, everyday assignments he’d taken since moving to London, and considered that the humdrum that made up so much of his work perhaps wasn’t so bad. But how could he have known? What he did know was that he had to help stop this if he could.

  Ross looked up at the high ceiling, scanning the area from left to right. ‘I’ve been thinking it would be a good idea to install a couple of wireless security cameras here at Drumarthen. Maybe next time we’ll get some footage of whoever’s leaving these letters—if that’s agreeable to you, Damian.’

  Sinclair nodded. ‘It’s a pity we didn’t think to do it sooner. If the letters are being left by the same person who’s behind these killings, it appears that whoever murdered the Frasers was also here at Drumarthen last night.’

  ‘That’s partly why I called on you this morning,’ Ross said. ‘I was the first to leave here, with Callum Macrae. It’s possible that whoever left after the Frasers followed them from here, or their killer could just as well have been waiting nearby for them to leave. Did anything unusual happen after I’d gone?’

  ‘Their car wouldn’t start,’ Tayte said.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ Sinclair added. ‘I had Murray see everyone out. One of the engine leads on the Frasers’ car had come loose.’

  ‘So they were last to leave?’ Ross said.

  ‘Aye, maybe fifteen minutes or so after you and everyone else.’

  A quizzical expression washed over Ross’s face. ‘I have to question the odds of their car having arrived here perfectly fine, only to develop a fault while it was sitting out there on your drive. I mean, how does a lead come loose all by itself? Such a thing seems far more likely to happen while the car’s bumping along the roads.’

  ‘You think someone tampered with it?’ Tayte said.

  ‘It seems the more likely scenario to me. Maybe someone wanted to make sure they were the last to leave. With myself and the others gone, the roads around here would be empty on a night like that.’

  ‘Callum Macrae,’ Sinclair said. ‘He’s a mechanic. He’d know just what lead to tamper with, and he had plenty of opportunity when he went out to help Murray with the generator. It would also account for why he said he never found the hatch. Maybe he never intended to look for it.’

  ‘I took Callum home, remember?’ Ross said. He scratched at his head. ‘That’s not to say he couldn’t have used another car from his garage and gone straight back out again. He could have tampered with the Frasers’ car to buy himself time to get back out here.’

  ‘He specifically asked you to take him home, too,’ Sinclair said. ‘What better alibi could he hope for?’

  ‘Aye,’ Ross said. ‘I think it’s time I had a word with Callum Macrae in a more official capacity.’

  ‘What about Ewan Blair?’ Tayte said. ‘He went out for a cigarette.’

  ‘Aye, and Blair too,’ Ross said. ‘Is Murray about?’

  ‘Murray?’ Sinclair said. ‘What do you want with him?’

  ‘He also left the gathering last night. You said he got the Frasers’ car running again, and by all accounts it didn’t take him long to do so. Maybe he already knew exactly what was wrong with it. Can you account for his whereabouts after the Frasers left?’

  ‘He brought that letter in to us,’ Tayte said.

  ‘Then he went to his bed,’ Sinclair added. ‘He wanted an early night because of the storm. He was out early this morning checking the estate. We’ve a couple of trees down. No doubt you’ll have heard his chainsaw buzzing in the distance when you got out of your car.’

  ‘Aye, I heard it. Did you see him go to his room?’

  Sinclair shook his head.

  ‘Then if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to come back later and have a word with him.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sinclair said, quickly adding, ‘You know there could just as well have been someone else outside, watching the house, waiting for the opportunity to tamper with the Frasers’ car and slip that letter on to the lamp table in the hallway while we were all talking in the dining room, especially when the lights went out.’

  ‘By someone, I suppose you mean these Rajputs you keep telling me about?’

  ‘Aye, maybe.’

  Ross smiled wryly. ‘I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, although I’d sooner focus my investigation on more tangible suspects. I’m just heading over to Moira Macrae’s house to see what she has to say for herself. I’m sure she already knows about the poor Frasers. She knows most things that happen in Comrie long before they’re announced in the papers.’

  As Ross headed for the door, Sinclair said, ‘I was going to call and ask Moira whether I could take Mr Tayte to see her today. Maybe he could go along with you instead. She could hardly refuse to talk to him with you there, especially after what’s happened.’

  Ross turned back. ‘I’ve got to drop by the station and pick up my car, but if you’d care to join me, Mr Tayte, that’s fine by me.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Tayte said, at the same time getting the feeling that Sinclair couldn’t have palmed his visit off on DI Ross quickly enough. ‘I’ll just grab my briefcase.’

  Tayte wasn’t quite sure what to expect from his visit with Moira Macrae, whose name alone had begun to fill him with dread. If Sinclair and Ross’s poor opinions of the woman were anything to go by, he imagined he was in for an uncomfortable morning. On meeting Moira, however, apart from carrying a thick, knotted walking cane at her side, he didn’t think she looked so intimidating. She was a full-figured woman with a round face and wiry grey hair that complemented her lilac velour loungewear.

  When they arrived at her modest semi-detached bungalow in Dalginross, an extension of Comrie to the south, her hospitality and softly spoken Scottish tones also helped put Tayte at ease. As Ross had called ahead, she had a fresh pot of tea waiting for them, and any remaining concerns Tayte might have had were immediately dispelled at the sight of her fluffy slippers and tan support tights. They were seated in the lounge on a worn, paisley-print three-piece suite. Tayte and Ross were on the sofa in front of a low teak and smoked-glass table, while Moira sat opposite them in one of the armchairs.

  ‘Would you like a shortbread biscuit, Mr Tayte?’ Moira asked. ‘They’re particularly fine—made in the village to an old Scottish recipe.’

  Tayte leaned forward, smiling politely as he took one. ‘It’s very kind of you to have laid on cookies for us,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It’s nae bother,’ Moira said, smiling back at him. ‘Cookies,’ she repeated to herself,
still smiling, clearly amused by Tayte’s Americanism.

  Tayte took a bite and tried to catch the crumbs without spilling his tea.

  ‘I’ve heard about you, Mr Tayte,’ Moira said, sipping her tea as she continued to take him in through her wide, cat-eye glasses.

  ‘From your son, Callum?’

  ‘Aye, he likes to visit his old mum. I think it must be my Scotch pies he comes for, but I don’t mind. He helps keep me up to date with what’s going on in Comrie when I can’t get out myself.’

  Ross sat forward and helped himself to a biscuit. ‘Then you’ll no doubt have heard what happened to Niall and Mairi Fraser. I take it Callum’s been to see you this morning?’

  ‘Aye, I’ve heard, but not from my boy. He’s not been over to see me yet.’ Moira turned to Tayte. ‘You don’t much care for my tea, do you, Mr Tayte?’

  Tayte hadn’t been aware that it was so obvious. He’d only taken a few sips, but he supposed it must have been written all over his face. ‘It’s fine tea,’ he said, feeling awkward, not wishing to offend.

  ‘Come now, Mr Tayte. I’m sixty-eight, not ninety-eight. You can’t pull the wool over my eyes that easily. Too strong for you? Is that it?’

  ‘I’m just not particularly partial to tea. I prefer coffee.’

  ‘Ah, well, I can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’

  Ross settled back again. He crunched into his biscuit and the crumbs cascaded down over his suit. ‘Mr Tayte would like to ask you some questions about your family history,’ he said, his mouth still half-full. ‘There’s a chance his work may be important to my investigation, so it’s equally important you answer him as best you can. I don’t need to remind you how serious this is.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Moira said, her expression darkening. ‘As far as my side of the family goes, Mr Tayte, you’ve come to the right person. When it comes to our ancestry, I believe I know more than most. I’ve been an enthusiast for many years—more even than the good Dr Drummond, Lord rest his soul.’