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

by Steve Robinson

  ‘Aye, it’s no wonder Angus chose to distance himself. Who in their right mind would want to be associated with such a heinous act if they had a choice?’

  ‘And because he was illegitimate,’ Tayte said, ‘Angus had that choice.’

  ‘He chose well, if you ask me,’ Sinclair said. ‘Although where did that leave his father? I can’t condone Robert Christie’s actions when it comes to the murder of Cornelius Dredger, but I have sympathy for the man when it comes to his son. Robert loved him enough to leave him this house, and yet Angus evidently wanted nothing to do with him.’

  Tayte couldn’t bring himself to share Sinclair’s sympathy for Robert Christie. He saw him largely as a greedy man, who had taken Dredger’s letters at the cost of the man’s life. As far as Tayte was concerned, Robert Christie had made his bed and had to lie in it, whatever Angus’s reason for wanting nothing to do with him.

  His thoughts turned to Jane Hardwick. ‘I should like to know what became of Jane, too,’ he said. ‘Her life beyond these letters of hers might yield a clue or two as to what she may have done with the Blood of Rajputana.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ Sinclair said. ‘Did you get around to finding out when Jane died?’

  Tayte thought back to his first day at Drumarthen, to when he’d learned that Sinclair could find no death record for Jane in the British parish registers, suggesting the possibility, even the likelihood, that she had chosen to remain in India. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘The details of Jane’s death didn’t seem so important at the time. Perhaps they aren’t now, but I’ll be sure to take a look.’

  Sinclair held the whisky bottle up and shook it. ‘You’re out,’ he said. ‘Can I top you up?’

  Tayte thought about it briefly, but as much as it would have been easy to sit there by the fire talking to Sinclair, he had work to do, and he was all the more keen now to get back to it. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘but I need to finish looking through Dr Drummond’s records. I’m sure Detective Ross would like to take them with him when he leaves, and I’d like to carry out the research we’ve just discussed.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sinclair said. ‘It’s probably for the best anyway. Afternoon drinking always gives me a headache.’

  Tayte smiled and made for the door, noticing that Sinclair was pouring himself another glass of Scotch just the same. As he left him to it, he was already wondering what those Christie records he’d seen among Drummond’s files pertained to.

  Tayte pounced on Drummond’s records as soon as he was back in his room. He reached in and pulled out the Christie record he’d glimpsed before the funeral and his eyes quickly devoured it. He was looking at a copy of Sir John Christie’s record of death, issued in Christie’s home county of Fife in Scotland in 1826. It told Tayte that Christie had returned home soon after those terrible events he’d read about in the latest of Jane’s letters, and it told him a great deal more. His eyes hovered over the cause of death, where he saw that, like his daughter Arabella, Sir John had hanged himself.

  Tayte could only assume that the grief of losing his wife and daughter in such a tragic manner had proved too much for John Christie to bear, but the document he found next added even greater weight to his theory. It also cleared up any question he had over whether Sir John had been brought to account for the cover-up he’d engineered to save his wife and the good name of his family, which had led to the massacre of so many innocent people.

  Tayte was now looking at a copy of a newspaper cutting from The Times, and he was once more reminded of the reporter of Jane’s acquaintance, Mr Albert Faraday. Tayte expected to see that Faraday had authored the report, but he was surprised to see that he had not. The report was dated May 1824, more than a year after the events Jane had written about, which was plenty of time for news to have reached London from Jaipur. It had been written by someone called Alfred Crumb.

  ‘HUNDREDS SLAIN!’ Tayte read. ‘RESIDENT AT JAIPUR CONFESSES ALL.’

  He read on, seeing the headline for the sensationalism it no doubt was, having already read that the number was closer to fifty. He noted that Sir John had suffered something of a mental breakdown following the tragic events of his daughter’s eighteenth birthday, and that when recovered sufficiently to speak of what had happened, he had confessed to orchestrating the plot that led to the slaughter of those peace-loving native people. There was no mention of the Blood of Rajputana, which led Tayte to suppose Jane had not disclosed its whereabouts, leaving everyone to believe that it had been taken in the raid on the soldiers carrying it to Bombay.

  ‘So what did you do with it, Jane?’

  Tayte had to know. If the ruby could be found, then he had to find it so that it could be used to flush a killer out and help bring him to justice. He put the Christie records to one side and looked back inside the box. The remaining records were now no more than an inch thick, so he took them all out and began to flick through them, noting that most were for Drummond’s Fraser ancestors dating further back, to the late 1700s, offering no value to his search.

  As he began to put everything back into the box, it struck him that those two isolated records pertaining to Sir John Christie seemed out of place among Drummond’s files. Christie was not a part of Drummond’s family history, and there were no other Christie documents. If Drummond had known about the connection, surely there would have been more. He would have gone on to find Robert Christie, who was a key piece of this puzzle. Had other Christie records been removed the day Drummond was murdered? Were these two records the only ones to have been left behind, either deliberately or by mistake?

  Tayte had no way of knowing. He finished putting the records away and slid the lid into place, thinking that DI Ross could have them back now. If those Christie records had been left there for him to find, then he’d learned all he was meant to learn from them. He went to pick the box up to carry it downstairs, when a beep from his phone told him he had a text message.

  Jean . . .

  It struck him that he’d forgotten to call her that morning as he usually did. He didn’t think she’d be too upset because he’d called her before he’d gone to bed the night before. She knew he was okay. He took out his phone and checked the display, and his shoulders slumped when he saw that the message wasn’t from Jean. He didn’t recognise the number. He opened the text and was initially confused.

  ‘One more to go,’ Tayte read out.

  Then everything fell into place. The text had to be referring to Jane’s letters. It had therefore been sent by whoever had been leaving them for him—the same person who had killed Chrissie MacIntyre and was no doubt responsible for all the other recent murders in Comrie. Or was the message referring to one more murder? Tayte couldn’t be sure.

  The last letter, or the last murder? Tayte thought, suddenly aware that he was breathing more rapidly. Perhaps it meant both, but what then?

  He stood perfectly still by the desk for several seconds, wondering why this person had sent the message to him, and why now? What did this change in the killer’s pattern mean? He made for the door, knowing only that he had to show the text message to DI Ross as quickly as possible.

  Sinclair was still sitting by the fire, cradling his whisky tumbler, when Tayte entered the drawing room. The bottle on the table beside him looked about as full as it was when Tayte had left him.

  ‘Has Detective Ross come back yet?’ he asked, a little out of breath from having run most of the way there.

  Sinclair sat up as soon as he saw Tayte. ‘Murray called me just a few minutes ago. Apparently they’ve found something and are on their way back now. They should be here any minute. Whatever’s the matter with you? You look as if you’ve seen one of Drumarthen’s ghosts.’

  Tayte held out his phone. ‘I’ve had a text message.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘I think it’s from whoever’s behind all this.’

  He handed his phone to Sinclair, who read the short message and immediate
ly put his whisky glass down. He took his own phone out from his pocket. ‘I’m sure I know that number,’ he said, his brow knotting as he spoke.

  ‘I took it to mean there’s going to be one more letter,’ Tayte said, ‘but it could also be referring to another murder. Callum Macrae is still unaccounted for.’

  ‘Aye, he is that,’ Sinclair said, the two phones now side by side in his hands, ‘but as it appears that Callum Macrae sent you this message, I’d say he means for you to expect one more letter. You see, unless he plans to come after us, he’s run out of syndicate members to kill.’

  ‘Macrae sent the message?’

  Sinclair held the two phones up so that Tayte could see the displays. ‘See for yourself. I have Callum’s number in my address book. Maybe Ross was right about Callum all along.’

  Tayte checked the phones. The numbers were identical. It puzzled him to think that Macrae had used his own phone to send the message, knowing it would easily identify him. He wondered whether that was all somehow part of the plan, but before he could explore the idea further, his thoughts were distracted by voices out in the main hall. A few seconds later, Murray and DI Ross entered the room.

  Sinclair got to his feet. ‘I’m glad you’re here, inspector. Mr Tayte has just received a text message from the man you’re after.’

  ‘Have you now?’ Ross said, addressing Tayte with raised eyebrows. His expression darkened. ‘What does it say?’

  Tayte read out the message. ‘One more to go,’ he said. ‘That’s all there is.’

  Ross held out his hand. ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Tayte handed his phone over and Ross studied it briefly. Then he took out his notepad and pencil and wrote the details down.

  ‘I’m a little perplexed by this,’ Tayte said. ‘Why would Macrae send the message from his own phone? He didn’t even withhold the number.’

  ‘I don’t know just now, Mr Tayte. It’s odd, that’s for sure. Maybe he wants us to know it’s him for some reason, or maybe he didn’t send the message. Perhaps whoever’s doing this was simply using his phone. If it’s still powered on, we should be able to find it. In which case we’ll know soon enough.’

  Murray spoke then. ‘We know how he’s getting in.’

  ‘Aye, you said you’d found something,’ Sinclair said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s best you come and see for yourself.’

  Ross went to the door. ‘I’ll leave you to it, Murray. I need to go and find this phone.’

  Tayte followed after him. ‘I’ve finished with Dr Drummond’s files if you want to take them with you.’

  ‘Were they of any use? Did they tell you where the Blood of Rajputana is?’

  Tayte snorted a laugh. ‘No, they didn’t tell me that. They’re in my room. I can—’

  ‘I’ll collect them later,’ Ross cut in. ‘When I’ve more time.’

  ‘Of course,’ Tayte said, and with that, Ross left.

  When Tayte turned back into the room, Sinclair was standing right behind him. ‘Would you care to come with us to see what Murray’s found? We’ll have some lunch afterwards. You must be famished.’

  ‘Sure,’ Tayte said. To Murray, he added, ‘Please, lead the way.’

  It took no more than a few minutes to get where they were going, having followed Murray along a number of corridors on the ground floor, turning this way and that as they went. They were in the treacherous east wing, where everyone had to watch their step whenever they left the flagstones and the flooring changed to rotting floorboards. Murray seemed to know where it was safe to tread, so Tayte kept in his shadow until they arrived at a large oak door towards the back of the house, which looked as if it had been there since the place was built. Murray lifted the catch and opened it. He flicked on a light switch, illuminating a narrow stone stairwell that spiralled away below them.

  ‘This leads to the old wine cellar,’ Murray said for Tayte’s benefit as he made his way down.

  ‘And more besides,’ Sinclair said, raising his eyebrows at Tayte as he invited him to go next.

  Tayte grabbed hold of the thick rope that ran around the walls as he went. The air became cooler the further he descended.

  ‘We’ve not used this room for a very long time,’ Sinclair said from above him. ‘Not for wine, that is, and thankfully not for its other purpose.’

  ‘Other purpose?’

  ‘You’ll soon see.’

  Tayte emerged at the bottom of the steps into a low, dimly lit room about fifteen feet square. There was no longer any evidence of wine storage, no racks against the walls, which were bare apart from a few sections of oak panelling. What little of the original wainscoting remained looked as if it would crumble away at the slightest touch. Tayte’s eyes found Murray, who was standing in front of another oak door, this one quite narrow and very plain.

  ‘Here we are,’ Murray said, and Sinclair stepped beside him.

  ‘I thought you checked this area,’ Sinclair said.

  ‘Aye, I did. The door was locked then, and it’s locked now.’

  ‘Then why do you suppose this is how our visitor’s been getting in?’

  Murray knelt down and ran his hand over the flagstones. When he held it up Tayte could see that it was damp and there was something clinging to it.

  ‘Pine needles,’ Murray said. ‘They weren’t here when I looked before, when it was dry. They’ll cling to anything when they’re wet, and with all the rain we’ve had . . .’

  ‘I see,’ Sinclair said. ‘So someone must have brought them in on their shoes.’

  ‘Aye. There are more leading to the steps.’

  ‘Is the lock damaged?’ Sinclair asked, turning the handle. He gave the door a tug to see if it would open.

  ‘No, it’s sound enough. Whoever’s been here must have had a key.’

  Tayte noticed that there were no bolts on this door, although there clearly had been at some time in the past; large, heavy bolts, if the paler outlines at the top and bottom of the door were anything to go by.

  ‘Where does it lead?’ he asked, his fascination with the door having grown while he’d been listening.

  Sinclair turned back to him. ‘Outside,’ he said. ‘Behind this door there’s a tunnel that comes out in the woods.’

  ‘An escape route?’

  Sinclair nodded. ‘It’s an elaborate priest hole of sorts. Many old houses had them, especially those built during a time when its occupants might have had need of an alternative, secret way in and out—like when they were under attack from their neighbours or were facing religious persecution.’ He waved a hand around the room. ‘When the wainscoting was intact, there was a secret panel hiding this door. The same was once true in the room above us, where we’ve just come from. Anyone who happened to find that secret door would arrive down here to find nothing more than another room that led nowhere. They’d soon be on their way again, continuing their search elsewhere, which was the point, of course.’

  ‘So who has the key?’ Tayte asked.

  ‘There are two. Both are kept in a drawer with several other old keys for locks that are no longer in use.’

  ‘Aye,’ Murray said. ‘And that’s just the thing. I went to fetch them before we came back to the drawing room to tell you about it.’ He reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew an old iron ring. He held it up, dangling a single key before them. ‘One of the pair is missing.’

  ‘There’s no question then,’ Sinclair said. ‘This is how our intruder’s been accessing the house so freely, but however did he get hold of the other key?’

  Tayte thought about that, and he recalled the night of the family gathering again. Apart from Sinclair and Murray, who had no need to come and go at Drumarthen in secret, only Ewan Blair and Callum Macrae were gone from the dining room long enough to have taken the key, and Blair was dead. Then he remembered that the first of Jane’s letters to be found at Drumarthen, other than the letter that was already in Sinclair’s possession, had
turned up before the family gathering, suggesting that the key had perhaps been taken earlier. But if it had been taken by Callum Macrae, how would he have known where to find it?

  Tayte voiced his next thought. ‘Who else in the family knew about this secret tunnel? Would Callum Macrae have known about it?’

  Sinclair seemed to think on his answer. A moment later he said, ‘I should think just about everyone had heard about it, or would at least expect there to be one. They were quite common in such houses.’ He paused, and then began to shake his head. ‘As to the specifics, however, I don’t know how Callum could have known where the key or the tunnel was. Unless someone told him, of course.’

  Tayte chose not to voice the next thought that popped into his head. If Macrae was behind this, then given what Sinclair had just told him, it seemed likely that he wasn’t working alone. His eyes flicked from Sinclair to Murray and back again, holding on to that thought for a moment. Then he said, ‘Shall we open the door and take a look?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sinclair said, gesturing to Murray, who set the key in the lock, gave it a turn, and pulled the door open.

  The air that greeted them carried a damp odour that was laced with the smell of iron and undergrowth from the wooded area Sinclair had said was at the other end of the tunnel. Tayte couldn’t see more than a few feet inside, so he followed Sinclair’s lead and they both shone their phone’s torches into the darkness, illuminating a low and narrow tunnel that seemed to rise gradually before them.

  ‘It looks tight in there,’ Tayte said.

  ‘It only had to accommodate one person at a time,’ Sinclair said, ‘and people were typically smaller when this was built. Shall I lead the way?’