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

by Steve Robinson

  ‘I have to leave here,’ Arabella said as they sat against a low stone wall by one of the courtyard entrances.

  ‘Leave?’ Jane said, unsure whether she’d heard Arabella correctly.

  Arabella nodded. ‘I met with Naresh yesterday while you were out with Mother.’

  ‘You went to meet him alone?’

  ‘No, Pranil accompanied me. I’ve had his trust for some time now. Naresh has told his family he wishes to marry me.’

  Jane picked up on Arabella’s downhearted tone as she finished speaking. She turned to her with a sympathetic smile. ‘You can’t be too surprised by their answer, Bella. Naresh is a crown prince after all, and—’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Arabella cut in. ‘I’m just disappointed, that’s all. We’re in love. Why can’t that be enough?’

  Jane drew a deep breath. She could find no reasonable answer.

  ‘That’s why I have to leave,’ Arabella continued. ‘Naresh and I are eloping.’

  Jane had feared it would come to this, and as much as she wished otherwise, she doubted any previous attempt to intervene could have prevented it. Such things had to run their course. ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ she said. ‘You’re both young, and although Naresh has proved himself very capable, despite his age, he is after all a sowar in the Bengal Army. He could face a court martial for desertion.’

  ‘He’s a crown prince. His duties are not like those of other sowars. He’s already made that clear.’

  ‘Then if not that, his family would surely disown him the instant they found out that he’s run away with you. What of his status then? Have you thought all this through?’

  ‘Of course. Naresh said none of that mattered. Only our love matters. If it’s our will, no one has the right to keep us apart.’

  As right as that arguably was, it was a naive view as far as Jane was concerned, but she had to consider her stance carefully. To try to dissuade Arabella was to risk being shut out of her life. Arabella would leave just the same, and Jane would never know what had become of her.

  ‘What do you plan to do?’

  ‘Naresh said he would come for me at sunset, two days from now.’

  ‘Two days,’ Jane mused. ‘If you really must go, promise me you’ll write to let me know how you are, as often as you’re able to.’

  Arabella smiled at last. ‘I promise. Perhaps someday you’ll come and visit us.’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ Jane said. She crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders. ‘It’s getting chilly. We should go back inside.’

  No sooner had they turned their backs to the courtyard than they saw Captain Fraser standing in the shadows beyond the doorway.

  ‘I was just coming to find you both,’ he said. ‘Lady Elspeth has retired to her bed for the evening and Sir John and I were looking to play a hand of whist. Would you care to join us?’

  Jane and Arabella gave each other a quizzical look that was not to ask whether the other wished to play cards, but how long Captain Fraser had been standing there. How much, if anything, of their conversation had he overheard? Jane couldn’t know. The captain’s charming smile gave nothing away.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said as she took the now somewhat confused-looking Arabella by the arm and led her back inside, having quickly decided that compliance would arouse the least suspicion.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Present day

  After showing the latest of Jane Hardwick’s letters to Damian Sinclair and discussing its contents, Tayte fixed himself some lunch and returned to his room, keen to get stuck into some more research.

  ‘Where next, JT?’ he asked himself.

  More and more he felt that Captain Donnan Fraser was somehow important in all this, but how? For the time being he had no clear idea what to look for. He wasn’t interested so much in the man’s birth, marriage or death records; he’d already heard from Moira Macrae that Donnan Fraser never married, and that he’d died sometime during the 1830s. He hadn’t yet confirmed what Moira had told him, but as far as Fraser’s vital records were concerned, nothing seemed important enough just now to warrant the time it would take to do so. The same was true of Fraser’s military records. There would be Officer Cadet Registers and Entry Papers, Honourable East India Company army service records, military pension-fund contributions and more, but until he knew what he was looking for and why, he’d just be chasing his tail.

  He stared down at the browning apple core on his lunch plate beside him, considering the most recent of Jane’s letters again. He thought about Arabella Christie’s desire to marry Naresh Bharat Singh, and of her plans to elope with him, and he wondered where their story was heading. He shared Jane’s fears that their road to happiness would not be an easy one, if it was to lead anywhere at all. But what of the ruby? So far, the letters gave no mention of the Blood of Rajputana.

  He threw his head back and closed his eyes, supposing that he would have to take its existence on faith for now. If he was to make any worthwhile progress with his assignment, he had to think beyond what he’d so far read of Jane’s story—beyond the letters themselves and what they might yet come to tell him. To do that, he had to look into more recent events, to the lives of Cornelius Dredger and the man he’d written to in 1869, whom Tayte now knew to be Sir Robert Christie.

  Firstly, Tayte decided he had to satisfy himself that Dredger did in fact go to India. If he could find a record to prove as much, perhaps dated soon after Dredger wrote to Robert Christie, then he could safely assume that Christie had agreed to fund Dredger’s expedition. That would be a good place to start, but how to go about it?

  Back then, Dredger would have travelled by ship, but Tayte knew he wouldn’t be able to use the British outgoing passenger lists because they were only available from 1890, all previous records having been destroyed by the Board of Trade in 1900. Neither could he use the incoming passenger lists because they were only available from 1878. He thought it a pity that the year he was interested in, 1869, was so tantalisingly out of reach of those records. They might have offered him another way to confirm that Dredger had left the country soon after writing his letter to Robert Christie, by way of his return voyage.

  As every journey has a beginning and an end, Tayte thought to search through everything he could find on India’s passenger lists, some of which he discovered were recorded at the back of the Bombay Calendar and Almanac and the Madras Almanac. There was also the Bombay Directory and the Bengal Directory, but he quickly learned that the years covered were largely too early.

  His next step was to try a website he’d used before. It was a genealogical organisation called the Families In British India Society. He accessed their website and read that FIBIS was founded in 1998 to assist families tracing their ancestors to and from British India. Although paid membership for added-value services was available, their online archive was largely free to access and boasted over one and a quarter million names. It was potentially just what he was looking for.

  He pulled his bag of Hershey’s Miniatures up on to the desk and poured several out of the bag within easy reach of his right hand. He unwrapped one and began to eat it as he studied the webpage in front of him, wondering where to start his search. He recalled that Jane Hardwick and her companions arrived in India via the port of Bombay, as Mumbai was then known. He supposed Cornelius Dredger would likely have arrived by the same route. Further down the webpage he saw the option to search the FIBIS database and he followed the link.

  He thought Dredger an unusual enough surname, so he entered it into the quick search field and clicked the ‘Go’ button. There were several results from various records. Closer inspection, however, revealed that they were not for ‘Dredger’ at all, but for ‘Tregear,’ a variant spelling of the name with its origins in Cornwall. Tayte went back and clicked on the advanced search option, into which he added Dredger’s first name, omitting the year range for now. He was disappointed to find that there were no matching results at all.


  He popped another chocolate into his mouth, supposing there had to be another way to prove whether or not Dredger had gone to India. If he’d made the journey as intended, surely he would have left some kind of trail in the records that were available to Tayte today.

  ‘One hundred fifty years ago, give or take,’ he said under his breath.

  He thought about the type of record he might hope to find from that far back, for an everyman such as he imagined Cornelius Dredger was. Headstones came to mind, then books and journals, and then one of the most useful genealogical resources there was beyond a person’s vital records: newspapers. He thought the odds were slim that Dredger would have drawn enough attention to himself while in India to have made the news, but it was possible. And yet, there was nothing at all in the FIBIS database, which had entries from The Times of India, and the Bombay Gazette, and a great many more publications across India besides.

  ‘Think, JT,’ he told himself, just as there was a knock at his door.

  It was Murray. He had a green bucket hat on his head and a garden trowel in his hand. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ he said, ‘but Mr Blair is here to see you.’

  ‘To see me?’ Tayte said, surprised.

  ‘Aye, he asked for you personally.’

  Tayte stood up. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say, sir. He’s waiting outside.’

  Tayte supposed it was as good a time as any to take a break. ‘Tell Mr Blair I’ll be right down,’ he said, wondering what the man he’d met at the family gathering the night before wanted to see him about.

  Having passed two men in overalls, who were installing DI Ross’s discreet wireless CCTV cameras, Tayte found Ewan Blair on the driveway outside, sitting against an old burgundy Jaguar XJS, puffing on one of his roll-up cigarettes. Tayte crossed the driveway to find out why Blair wanted to see him, hoping the reason was somehow connected with his research. Maybe there was something about Blair’s family history that he wanted to share. In the background, towards the sunlit bridge that crossed the burn, Tayte could see Murray tending one of the estate’s many ailing flower borders.

  ‘Mr Blair,’ Tayte called as he approached. ‘Murray told me you wanted to see me. What is it I can do for you?’

  Blair threw him a wide smile that Tayte immediately saw for the car salesman’s greeting it was. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Blair was there to try to sell his Jaguar to him.

  ‘Perhaps the real question here, Mr Tayte, is what can I do for you?’

  ‘What can you do for me?’

  ‘I’ll come to that in just a moment,’ Blair said. ‘Tell me, how’s your research coming along? Are you any closer to working out where this ruby—the Blood of Rajputana—might be?’

  The question told Tayte to be wary of Blair’s intentions. He wasn’t about to tell him anything more than he’d told Moira Macrae when he’d gone to see her. ‘It’s going okay,’ he said, leaving it there.

  ‘Good, good,’ Blair said, nodding as he spoke. ‘So, what do you think the odds are that you’ll find it?’

  ‘I really couldn’t say. Look, where’s this heading? I’m kind of busy.’

  ‘Of course you are, Mr Tayte. Let’s take a walk. I’ve a proposition for you.’

  Blair reached a hand up on to Tayte’s shoulder and turned towards the bridge. Tayte didn’t appreciate the contact, but he went along with him, if only to find out what he had to say.

  ‘I’m a businessman, Mr Tayte,’ Blair said as they started walking, his hands back at his sides. ‘I don’t mind admitting that I also like to take a wee gamble now and again. Tell me, are you a wealthy man?’

  ‘Not particularly.’

  ‘I bet you’d like to be, though, wouldn’t you?’

  Tayte decided he didn’t like where this conversation was going. ‘Not particularly,’ he said again.

  ‘Well, hear me out anyway. You just might like what I have to say.’

  As they came to the bridge they passed Murray, who did nothing to acknowledge their presence as he continued to dig weeds from the border. Blair didn’t speak again until they were halfway across the bridge, as if not wishing Murray to overhear his proposition. He stopped and rested his elbows on the bridge wall, and Tayte stopped with him, each looking along the babbling burn that chattered over the rocks several feet beneath them.

  ‘I’m not short of a few bob,’ Blair said, ‘but I wouldn’t class myself as a wealthy man, either. What I have to say could be very good for both of us.’

  Tayte was growing impatient. ‘Can you get to the point?’

  Blair drew a sharp breath. ‘The point is that I want that ruby. I’m prepared to give you a cheque for a tidy sum right here and now, whether you find the thing or not. That’s my gamble. If you do find it, we’ll split the proceeds of the sale fifty–fifty. You don’t have to tell anyone else you’ve found it, and—’

  Tayte began to laugh, stopping Blair mid-sentence. ‘I don’t know what kind of person you think I am, Mr Blair, but my answer’s no. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  Tayte began to walk away, but there was Blair’s hand on his shoulder again.

  ‘A thing like that won’t be easy to sell at the right price,’ Blair persisted. ‘I know people.’

  The suggestion that he was in this for the money angered Tayte. This time he shrugged Blair’s hand off as he turned to him and said, ‘I don’t care who you know. I’m not interested. You got that?’

  The fact that Blair’s cheesy smile had returned told Tayte that he hadn’t.

  ‘Just think about it,’ he said, deftly sliding a business card into the breast pocket of Tayte’s jacket. ‘I’m leaving Comrie in the morning. I’m not stupid. Three members of the syndicate have already been murdered, four including Jamie. Perhaps Damian was right about these Rajputs he mentioned. Either way, I’m not sticking around to find out who’s next.’

  ‘I don’t need to think about it,’ Tayte said, and at that point he heard another voice.

  ‘Is he bothering you, Mr Tayte?’

  It was Murray. He paced up on to the bridge in a surly manner, pushing his shirtsleeves higher up as if he were bruising for a fight. He had a penknife in his hand, which Tayte was pleased to see him close and put away as he arrived.

  ‘It’s okay, Murray,’ Tayte said. He fixed his eyes back on Blair. ‘Mr Blair here was just leaving.’

  Despite Tayte’s words, Murray kept coming. He walked up to Blair until there was no space between them. Then with aggression in his eyes he pushed his face closer to Blair’s, forcing him to back away.

  ‘Is that right?’ Murray said to Blair. ‘You were just leaving?’

  ‘You’d love me to say no, wouldn’t you, Murray?’ Blair said. ‘Any reason to punch me on the nose and throw me off the estate, eh?’

  ‘I don’t need any more reason than I already have,’ Murray said, and Blair laughed at him.

  ‘All these years and you still can’t let it go, can you?’

  Tayte didn’t know what Blair was referring to, but there was clearly more going on here than he understood.

  ‘I’ll never let it go!’ Murray said, almost shouting.

  He grabbed a lapel of the leather jacket Blair was wearing, turned on his heel and practically dragged the man off the bridge, back towards his car. He was moving so fast that Blair almost tripped a few times as he tried to keep up. Tayte wanted to say something, but he felt he had no right to. Whatever had happened between Murray and Blair in the past, it was none of his business, and Murray hadn’t actually hit the man. He didn’t have to. Blair was now as quiet as the proverbial church mouse. They reached the car. Murray, still holding Blair by his jacket, opened the driver’s door, and then he none too delicately shoved him headfirst inside.

  ‘Now get away from here and don’t come back!’ Murray said as he slammed the car door shut. ‘You’re not welcome, you hear?’

  Tayte heard the engine start up. Then the Jaguar’s wheels began to slip o
n the gravel, churning loose stones all the way to the bridge. When the car reached him, Tayte stepped back.

  Blair slowed and lowered his window. ‘If you change your mind, just let me know. You’ve got my number.’

  As the car sped away, Tayte had to smile at the man’s tenacity. He shook his head, thinking that if Murray hadn’t intervened Blair would never have let up. He made his way back to the house and Murray met him halfway.

  ‘I’m sorry for my outburst, Mr Tayte,’ he said, ‘but there’s only one way to deal with a man like Ewan Blair.’

  ‘Are you okay? Is there anything you want to talk about?’

  Murray shook his head. ‘It’s in the past. I must get back to my gardening. We’ll leave the matter at that, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tayte said, and they each went their separate ways: Murray back to his weeding, Tayte to his room.

  As he made his way up the stairs an idea came to him, and he thought Blair’s visit hadn’t been quite the waste of time he’d taken it for when he first heard what the man had to say. The interruption had helped to clear his head, making room for other ideas to present themselves. Now, as he opened the door to his room, he was wondering whether, for one reason or another, Sir Robert Christie had made the journey to India instead of Cornelius Dredger.

  Back in his room, Tayte was drawn to the window by the sound of another car on the gravel drive. He wondered whether Ewan Blair had returned. He wouldn’t have put it past the man to come back and hound him over his proposal to split the proceeds from the sale of the ruby if and when he found it. He was, however, glad to see that it wasn’t Blair, but Damian Sinclair, returning to Drumarthen in his beat-up old car from wherever he’d been that afternoon. Tayte smiled to himself as he went over to the desk, wondering how the old motor continued to run, supposing it was all down to Murray’s mechanical know-how.