With that, Tayte turned and tossed the Blood of Rajputana towards the hole he’d made when he almost fell through the floor. It landed on the boards with a thump, then it rolled, and just as Tayte was starting to think he hadn’t tossed it hard enough, it tipped over the edge and vanished. He’d expected Jamie was going to shoot him whether he handed him the ruby or not. He wasn’t about to make it easy for him.
As Tayte turned back, Jamie was already following after it, moving towards the hole. When he reached it, he stood at the edge and looked down briefly. Then his eyes were back on Tayte. They were suddenly full of hatred. He raised the shotgun and pulled it close to his side as if to brace himself, ready for the recoil as he fired. Then just before he squeezed the trigger, Murray threw down his lamp, casting the room into semi-darkness.
In the next instant, Tayte saw Murray leap at Jamie with the agility of a man half his age. Murray knocked the gun barrel away towards the window. There was a flash from the muzzle as the shot exploded out, and a deafening blast that was accompanied by the sound of shattering glass.
‘Murray!’ Jamie shouted, but Murray was no longer listening to him. As Jamie recovered and tried to line up his next shot, Murray shoved him hard. Jamie fell back towards the hole.
‘There’s my answer,’ Murray said, as beneath him the already weakened floorboards cracked and splintered.
Then suddenly both men were falling.
‘Murray!’
It was Tayte calling his name this time. He threw himself to the floor to spread his weight out. As Murray fell beyond Tayte’s sight, he reached a hand down into the hole and grabbed Murray’s arm. Murray slipped lower, and Tayte thought he’d lost him, but then he felt Murray’s hand lock tight around his wrist.
‘Hold on!’ Tayte called. Then he began to pull Murray back to safety.
Standing at the edge of the hole a moment later, Tayte knelt down and held the lamp out to see what had become of Jamie. In the pale glow he was immediately drawn to Jamie’s contorted expression, and then to the outline of his twisted body, lying still and lifeless on the flagstones thirty feet below.
Chapter Forty-One
The following morning, Tayte was with Murray on the drive outside Drumarthen beneath a cloudy if brighter sky, his briefcase and luggage at his feet, all packed and ready to go home. He and Murray had not long returned from the hospital where they had been told Damian Sinclair was going to be okay, and Tayte was glad to know that the otherwise peaceful Highland town of Comrie wouldn’t have to read about the murder of yet another of its residents in their morning newspaper. Sinclair was being kept in for concussion, and he’d needed stitches, but his wound was largely superficial. He would be home again in a day or so, facing the unpleasant task of burying his brother for a second time. Tayte supposed it would be no easier for him to deal with, despite knowing what his brother had done.
On the other side of the burn, Tayte heard the car he was waiting for as it approached the house. DI Ross had offered to take him to the train station for his journey back to London.
He turned to Murray with a warm smile on his face. ‘Well, thanks for all those interesting meals,’ he said. ‘Oh, and for saving my life, of course.’
‘I could say the same to you,’ Murray said. ‘I always imagined I was going to die at Drumarthen some day, but I’m grateful it’s not just now.’
‘So am I,’ Tayte said.
As the car began to cross the bridge, Tayte shook Murray’s hand and picked up his briefcase. Murray went to pick up the rest of Tayte’s luggage, which wasn’t much, but Tayte stopped him.
‘That’s okay, Murray. You’ve done more than enough for me already. Go and put your feet up by the fire and have a wee dram of the laird’s finest Scotch. I’m sure Mr Sinclair won’t mind. If he does, tell him to take it out of my cheque before he sends it.’
Murray gave him a sheepish smile, the first Tayte had seen from the tough little Scotsman since he’d arrived at Drumarthen a week ago. He didn’t reply. He just nodded, turned away and headed back to the house, his expression telling Tayte that he intended to do just that. Tayte watched him go, shuffling along in those same old clothes. Murray had come close to inheriting a potential fortune, but even if he had, Tayte doubted it would have changed him one bit.
The sound of tyres on the gravel drew Tayte’s attention as Ross’s car pulled up. ‘Good morning,’ Tayte said as he opened the door and threw his things in the back. He climbed into the front passenger seat and immediately felt a weight lift from his shoulders, just to know that his assignment was over. It had been a week he would never forget. ‘Thanks for the ride,’ he added as Ross turned the car around and headed back over the bridge.
‘It’s the least I can do,’ Ross said, turning out on to the road, which was soon canopied by budding trees. ‘If you hadn’t persisted with this, we might never have known who was behind it. Jamie Sinclair might have decided to stay dead and disappear if he felt there was nothing left in it for him. Your work in finding that ruby flushed him out.’
‘Just as Mr Sinclair hoped it would,’ Tayte said, ‘although I’m sure he’d have liked a different outcome.’
‘Aye, I’m sure he would.’
It wasn’t long before they were out on the main road, heading east along the A85 towards Perth. They passed through the market town of Crieff and Tayte’s thoughts turned to the poor man Jamie had murdered at the start of his killing spree. ‘What will happen about the man who was buried in Jamie Sinclair’s place yesterday?’
‘His body will be exhumed,’ Sinclair said. ‘Proper identification will be sought. Missing Persons may be able to help us, although as the man was homeless that may be unlikely. There are other records that can be checked, though. We’ll do everything we can to find out who he is so we can inform his family.’
‘And the ruby?’ Tayte said. ‘I suppose the Blood of Rajputana now belongs to Mr Sinclair. Finders keepers and all that.’
‘I very much doubt it. Under Scottish law any ownerless object found by chance like that, modern items excluded, becomes the property of the Crown. Unless Damian can prove he’s the ruby’s legal owner it will be claimed as treasure trove.’
Tayte knew Sinclair would have a hard time proving ownership of the ruby. Perhaps through his ancestor’s paranoia over someone else getting their hands on it, Sir Robert Christie had made sure no one knew he had it. He could have left it to Angus Fraser in his will along with the house, making it easy to prove ownership now, but then he would have had to explain how he’d come by it. He could hardly have done that. He’d killed a man and robbed a grave to get it. Had he claimed to have found it, on the other hand, under Scottish law it would likely have been taken from him.
Tayte couldn’t see how Sir Robert had any other choice than to hide the Blood of Rajputana at Drumarthen for his son, or perhaps future generations of his family to find, but it seemed that his efforts had been in vain. As far as Tayte was concerned, he thought it was for the best. From what he’d heard and read about the ruby during his brief time in Scotland, enough greed-driven blood had already been spilled over it.
The journey continued in silence for several miles until Ross announced, ‘Almost there. We’re on the outskirts of Perth now.’
Tayte nodded, not really taking much in. His thoughts had turned to his family, and he became so lost in them that he was completely unaware that they had arrived at the train station until the car came to a stop in the car park and Ross nudged him.
‘Mr Tayte? We’re here.’
‘Sorry,’ Tayte said. ‘I was miles away.’ He shook Ross’s hand. ‘Thanks again.’
‘Don’t mention it. You have a safe journey now.’
Tayte smiled and got out of the car. He collected his things from the back seat, and as he closed the door and watched the car pull away, he took out his phone to call Jean. How he yearned to be home with her and his son again. Before he’d taken the assignment, he’d been keen to tackle something other t
han the usual run-of-the-mill jobs he’d had since moving to London. Now, after all that had happened, he thought such jobs were perhaps not so bad after all.
He dialled Jean’s number, his thoughts continuing to drift. He began to reflect on Jane Hardwick’s letters and the tragic story they told. Jane was now long dead, but her letters had served to breathe life into her again, if only for the time it took Tayte to read them. He hoped she had succeeded in her ambitions to teach in India, as the last of her letters had suggested, and that she had lived a long and happy life in the country she loved so much. Maybe it really was time to hang up his hat and start a teaching career himself, as his brother Rudi had suggested on his and Jean’s wedding day. While he waited for Jean to pick up, he smiled as he headed for his train, wondering just what that future might look like.
Acknowledgments
My thanks as always to Katie Green for helping me to tell this story in the best way possible, to Gillian Holmes and Gemma Wain for editing this book, to Laura Deacon and the team at Amazon Publishing for all the hard work that went into producing it, and to all the proofreaders who have helped to ensure that this book is as error-free as possible. Special thanks to former Inspector Pat Rawle for continuing to help with my enquiries, and of course to my wife, Karen, whose continued support makes everything possible. I would also very much like to thank you for reading Letters from the Dead. I hope you enjoyed it.
About the Author
Photo © Karen Robinson
Steve Robinson drew upon his own family history for inspiration when he imagined the life and quest of his genealogist hero, Jefferson Tayte. The talented London-based crime writer, who was first published at age sixteen, always wondered about his own maternal grandfather. ‘He was an American GI billeted in England during the Second World War,’ Robinson says. ‘A few years after the war ended he went back to America, leaving a young family behind, and, to my knowledge, no further contact was made. I traced him to Los Angeles through his 1943 enlistment record and discovered that he was born in Arkansas . . .’
Robinson cites crime-writing and genealogy amongst his hobbies—a passion that is readily apparent in his work. He can be contacted via his website, www.steve-robinson.me, his blog at www.ancestryauthor.blogspot.com, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/SteveRobinsonAuthor.
Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7) Page 33
