‘Another murder,’ Tayte mused as he entered his room and kicked the door shut behind him.
Given the pattern so far, he expected to find another of Jane Hardwick’s letters soon. He had to be vigilant. If he was, he thought there was a chance he might get a look at whoever was leaving them for him. He set his lunch plate and his glass of milk down on the desk. As he did so he saw that Murray had already brought Drummond’s files up to his room—the box was on the floor beside the desk. He took off his jacket and sat down, then he opened his laptop and took a bite of his sandwich, which today he’d filled with sliced cold sausage and chutney and a few salad leaves, thinking of Jean as he’d added them in, knowing she’d approve.
Once his laptop had fired up, he saw that he had a new email. Noting it was from the Ancestry Shop, he opened it with the same degree of excitement he always felt whenever he was about to view a record he’d been waiting to see. The attachment he was expecting was there: a digital copy of Cornelius Dredger’s death certificate. He double-clicked the icon. A second later he was looking at a cause of death that confirmed his earlier suspicions.
‘Found drowned,’ he read aloud. ‘So the truth begins to unfold.’
They were just two words, but along with everything else, Tayte knew they were enough to tell him that foul play had indeed reared its ugly head. The truth was in the records, and they spelled this treachery out very plainly to Tayte’s mind. When Cornelius Dredger wrote to Sir Robert Christie in October 1869, Tayte was in no doubt that he’d shown his great-aunt’s letters to him and told him of his plans to travel to India to recover the Blood of Rajputana. But a month later, in November 1869, Christie had murdered Dredger and taken his letters to make the trip himself, arriving in India in April the following year.
Given that in 1869 Sir Robert Christie was already a wealthy man, it seemed likely to Tayte that his motives were driven by greed. It was easy to imagine the desire that crept over Christie at hearing about the ruby from Dredger, and then having read about it in Jane Hardwick’s letters. But then Tayte supposed greed was never far away where the Blood of Rajputana was concerned. Or had Sir Robert Christie somehow believed he had a right to the ruby, and for that reason could not entertain the idea of sharing it?
Tayte began to wonder whether Sir Robert had found what he’d gone to India in search of, and it was Christie’s actions after his arrival that now interested him most of all. Where had Christie gone after Bombay? He thought it a good bet that he had gone to Jaipur, where most of the events depicted in Jane Hardwick’s letters had taken place. But where in Jaipur? What did Jane’s letters yet have to tell that had made Cornelius Dredger, and then Sir Robert Christie, believe they had a good enough chance of finding the ruby to warrant making the long and difficult journey?
Tayte turned to Dr Drummond’s family history records, hoping there might be something in the box that could help him to find out. Sinclair had told him that the whole family had been looking into their family history over the years, and none more so than Gordon Drummond, convinced that it held the key to finding the Blood of Rajputana. Perhaps his records would now shed further light on the matter.
Tayte stood and lifted the box up on to the desk. When he removed the lid, he saw that it was full and he knew it was going to take time to wade through everything, but it had to be done. Unlike Sinclair, whose records he’d already seen, Drummond was descended from Lachlan Fraser. Lachlan’s brother, Captain Donnan Fraser, had been close to the Christie family, and he was there in Jaipur when on that ill-fated night the ruby was taken from the Maharaja of Kishangarh by the love-struck crown prince. According to the latest of Jane’s letters, it was Captain Fraser who had led the attack on the dacoits and recovered Naresh Bharat Singh’s possessions, but again, Tayte wondered what had become of them. What had Fraser done with the Blood of Rajputana? Had it really been seized by the Honourable East India Company as a spoil of war?
Tayte removed the first record from the pile, a folded piece of A3 paper. He sat down again and unfolded it to reveal a plain chart showing Drummond’s family tree, going back several generations. It was good work. Most of the boxes contained names and dates of birth, marriage and death—the certificates for which he imagined accounted for the vast number of records inside the box. He scanned the chart, going back through the generations until he came to the point where the Fraser name first appeared. Closer inspection told him it had only survived two further generations after Lachlan Fraser, his grandson along this particular bloodline having fathered two daughters, but no sons.
He set the chart to one side and reached into the box again, removing the next piece of paper, expecting it to be a vital record for either the first or last name on the chart, but it wasn’t. It was an envelope, and while that envelope could have contained just about anything, Tayte instinctively knew what was inside it. He held his breath as he opened it and unfurled the contents, revealing yet another of Jane Hardwick’s letters.
This letter was dated April 1823, the month following that of the previous letter Tayte had seen. He was keen to read it, but for now he was far too distracted by the question of how the letter came to be in that box. He’d known to expect it because another of the syndicate had been murdered. That was the pattern, and he had been on the lookout, but how could he have seen this coming? The letter was already there in Drummond’s research files, where it could well have been since the day Drummond was murdered.
‘Or could it?’ Tayte mused.
He suddenly found himself doubting that it had been there long at all. Whoever was feeding these letters to him was doing so in the order they were written. That person had to be sure that Tayte would read this letter after the previous letter had been read. It would have been impossible to know when DI Ross would bring Drummond’s records to him, if at all. The only person in control of that was Ross himself. A wild thought crossed Tayte’s mind then. He shook his head to dispel it, thinking it absurd, but it wouldn’t go away.
What if DI Ross put that letter in there?
Tayte reminded himself that Ross had also been around his briefcase the day they went to see Moira Macrae together. He’d had the opportunity to slip one of Jane’s letters in there, and he knew all about the family’s long-term hunt for the Blood of Rajputana.
But how could he have known about Jane Hardwick’s letters?
Tayte wondered then whether Ross had perhaps been invited to join Jamie’s syndicate along with the others. He could have found out about the letters that way. He could have pretended to want no part of it, only to go after the letters himself, to have them all for himself in the hope that they would lead him to the ruby, just like Sir Robert Christie. Tayte also thought Ross had seemed very keen to point the finger at the occupants of Drumarthen earlier, but on the other side of that coin, apart from it being Ross’s job to do so, Tayte had to agree that his—albeit indirect—accusations were not without foundation.
Tayte’s thoughts turned to Murray and Sinclair, and it seemed that poor Murray’s name was once again in the frame. He’d taken the box at the front door, and he’d carried it out of sight with him when he went to make a fresh pot of tea. Murray had had every opportunity to put that letter in there. He’d even brought it up to Tayte’s room.
Or had he?
Tayte hadn’t actually seen Murray carry the box up. He’d merely heard Sinclair ask him to. The box was already there by the desk when Tayte came back to his room. What if Sinclair had brought it up instead? Tayte shook his head and sighed. Once again, he had no way of knowing who had left Jane’s letter for him.
He returned to it now, sitting back in his chair with his glass of milk as he began to skim over the words, as he often did on a first read. He was immediately reminded of the newspaper reporter, Mr Albert Faraday of The Times, and he made a mental note to see if he could find any more of his articles from the period during which this letter was written. Faraday, who had not previously been mentioned in Jane’s correspondence wi
th her brother, now dominated her writings, although the subject matter appeared to be more concerned with Captain Donnan Fraser, which piqued Tayte’s interest. He turned the page, still skimming, looking for mention of the ruby again.
And there it was.
Tayte’s eyes lit up. Then he took another bite of his almost-forgotten sandwich and turned back to the start of the letter. He began to read it slowly and thoroughly this time, taking in every detail, content that it held the promise of revealing more about Captain Fraser and the Blood of Rajputana.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jaipur, April 1823
Jane did not delay in recounting to Arabella all she had heard said between her father and the Maharaja of Kishangarh about the fate of Naresh Bharat Singh. Two days later, Jane was with Elspeth, having just left Arabella’s room where Arabella had remained with her grief, crying into her pillow, since hearing that her young sowar-prince was dead.
‘She’d better clear her plate this time,’ Elspeth said. ‘She’s hardly eaten a thing in days. It can’t go on. If it does I shall have to force-feed her.’
Jane hadn’t had much of an appetite herself of late. She could only imagine how Arabella must be feeling. When her husband had died, Jane could take comfort in the many wonderful years they had spent together. She felt the finality of such a loss, of course, but she had so many happy memories to call upon in her times of need, and he had passed without the trauma Bharat Singh must have endured if Sir John’s account was anything to go by.
‘Give her time,’ Jane said as they slowly made their way to dinner.
‘And how can she not want a birthday party?’ Elspeth went on, as if she were caught up in her own inner dialogue and wasn’t listening to a thing Jane said. ‘She’ll only be eighteen once.’
Jane could see that Elspeth was becoming flummoxed over the matter, flapping her fan back and forth more and more as she spoke, despite the breeze that today was circulating nicely throughout the residency. ‘She’s understandably upset,’ she said, finding her own choice of words something of an understatement given the circumstances. Arabella was evidently distressed beyond measure.
‘Aye, I expect she’ll soon come to her senses and forget all about this native boy, and the sooner the better if you ask me.’
Jane watched her open her reticule, which she was rarely without. Apparently the matter had so agitated her that she needed her opium pills, perhaps to help her to see the situation in a more favourable light, if only temporarily. She removed an unseen quantity of the little pills and popped them all into her mouth at once, needing to take no water with them as she crunched them down. There was no doubt in Jane’s mind that her addiction was entirely to blame for the change of character she had seen in Elspeth since they had arrived in India.
‘Not that it’s any of my business,’ Jane said, ‘but since supper the other evening, I’ve been meaning to ask how things are between you and Sir John. As your good friend, you know you can talk to me if there’s anything troubling you.’
‘Troubling me?’ Elspeth laughed to herself. ‘Where shall I start? The trouble is that I’ve no more love for my husband than I have for this godforsaken country. I really don’t know which is worse, but I do know that India is no place to raise our daughter. You’ve seen the state she’s in. It’s this damned country, and it’s my husband’s fault for bringing her here.’
Jane hadn’t expected such vitriol, but she accepted it as just another example of her friend’s changed behaviour, brought about by her opium pills, which seemed to Jane as a crutch to her friend’s very existence in India. ‘Do you know what’s happened to Pranil?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I’ve not seen him lately.’
‘He was dismissed as soon as Arabella made it known to her father that he had been helping her with her foolish plan to run off—dismissed the very evening my husband told her what had happened to her native friend.’
Jane knew that Bharat Singh was so much more to Arabella than merely a friend, yet it seemed that Elspeth could not entertain the idea that he was anything more to her daughter than that. She wanted to tell Elspeth that Arabella had already known Bharat Singh was dead, hours before she confronted her father over the matter, but she knew it served no purpose and would only leave her having to explain how she came to find out.
The conversation between Sir John and the Maharaja of Kishangarh was still fresh in Jane’s mind. She had been suspicious of Captain Fraser’s motives in avenging Bharat Singh’s death since first hearing that it had been Fraser who had recovered Bharat Singh’s horse and possessions, proving that the dacoits he and his men had slain were guilty of the murder. It all seemed too convenient to Jane that Bharat Singh should be murdered on the very evening he was coming to carry Arabella away with him—away from her family, and perhaps more importantly, away from Captain Fraser.
As they came to the dining room, where Fraser and Sir John had already begun their meal, Jane was resolved to dig deeper beneath the surface of the events that had taken place the evening Bharat Singh was murdered. She would start with the massacre of the dacoits Fraser had reportedly identified, and she knew just the man to see about it. That was if Mr Faraday was still in Jaipur. If he was, then he was sure to have written about the incident for his column in The Times newspaper.
Having tracked Mr Faraday to a ramshackle limestone dwelling near the city’s Chandpole Gate to the west, Jane took a short flight of rickety wooden steps up to his door and knocked. She felt instantly sorry for the man. It was such a noisy, smelly area in which to live, almost on top of one of the city’s largest bazaars. The midday air hummed with chatter and the heavy odour of sweat from both traders and livestock alike. Getting no reply, she knocked again. A moment later the door opened with a creak, and there stood Albert Faraday, coughing into his handkerchief.
‘Mrs Hardwick!’ Faraday said, wide-eyed and clearly surprised to find Jane at his door. ‘What an unexpected pleasure!’ He coughed into his handkerchief again, and this time he wiped his chin with it before putting it into his trouser pocket.
Although in her estimation he had not been much to look at the last time Jane had seen him, today she thought Faraday looked dreadful. His hair was wild and unkempt, his eyes were red and his skin pallid. Judging from his stained apparel, his pale shirt and trousers hadn’t been washed in weeks. Here was a man who clearly was not looking after himself in an environment rife with disease, where personal hygiene and attention to proper nutrition were paramount to survival.
‘Mr Faraday,’ Jane said, still studying the man. ‘Have I called at an inopportune time?’
‘Not at all,’ Faraday said, his tone far more exuberant than his appearance implied. ‘Do come in.’
Faraday stepped back, and Jane entered what was without question the dingiest room she had ever set foot in. The already small space had been divided in two by a wall of drab cloth in one corner. The chamber pot she could see poking out from the base of the material told her that Faraday’s sleeping quarters were beyond. As he led her further inside, she saw few personal possessions, the room largely being taken up by writing materials, piles of paper and a small desk, upon which, to her surprise, sat a mangy grey-feathered chicken. Faraday stepped up to the desk, threw the now-clucking fowl out of a partially broken lattice window, and then removed his handkerchief again and proceeded to flick the dust off a frail-looking chair.
‘Please have a seat,’ he said. ‘Are you here on business or pleasure?’
Jane almost laughed at the notion that anyone would choose to visit such a man in such a place for pleasure. ‘Most definitely business,’ she said, making her intentions clear from the outset.
Faraday lost his smile, although it soon returned. ‘Any excuse to spend time in your company is a pleasure for me, madam,’ he said as he sat down opposite her.
‘You’re too kind as always, Mr Faraday,’ Jane said politely. ‘In truth, I was surprised to find you still in Jaipur. From our previous conversa
tions I took it that you prefer to move around.’
‘Believe me, Mrs Hardwick, I am as surprised to find myself here as you are. The reason, however, is simple. My health has been too poor these past months to travel. Now, as you can see from the abject squalor in which I am forced to live, I am without sufficient funds to go anywhere. Fortunately Jaipur generates much that is newsworthy. I hope to be back on my feet again soon. Now, what is it that I can do for you? My services are at your disposal.’
Jane remained perched on the edge of her seat, not wishing to become too settled. ‘I’ve come to see you about a matter I’m sure every news correspondent in the area has written about by now—the recent dacoit massacre in the southwest hills.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Faraday said, rocking back in his chair with a creak. ‘A terrible business. Close to fifty dead.’
‘Fifty! I hadn’t imagined the number was so high.’
Faraday nodded. ‘There was not a single man, woman or child left alive. Due to my privileged position with The Times newspaper, I was able to see the bodies prior to their disposal, enabling me to better report on their condition. Massacre is the right word for it, believe you me. There were secondary wounds of one kind or another on each and every body I saw.’
Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7) Page 21
