JT01 - In The Blood

by Steve Robinson

  “Good afternoon sir,” the man said with perfect diction.

  Tayte gave a smile. “Hi, I have an appointment with the lady of the house. Lady Fairborne?”

  Tayte heard quick footsteps approaching from inside and before he got a reply another voice cut in. “It’s all right, Manning. I’ll handle it.”

  The door opened a little further and another, much younger man replaced Manning. Tayte thought he too looked like hired help; a gardener perhaps in a scruffy old pair of jeans and a casual sweater. He had the build of a man who might have held a manual position: lean and muscular such that his torso cut sculpted lines through the fabric of his clothing. But there was that Oxbridge accent and the air of authority.

  “Mr Tayte, is it?”

  “That’s right.” Tayte thrust out a super-sized hand that competed only with the size of the smile on his face. “Jefferson Theodore Tayte,” he announced a little too eagerly, wondering why he was suddenly using the overblown naming convention that was otherwise the reserved right of his former college tutors - and then only when he was in trouble.

  Tayte’s unmistakable American twang must have stood out like a jet screeching across an early Sunday morning sky. The man at the door recoiled from the shockwave. “Yes … well … Warwick Fairborne,” he said. “I’m afraid Mother’s been called away.” He remained in the doorway, blocking any view Tayte might otherwise have had beyond. “Sorry you’ve come all the way up here, but there was no way to contact you.”

  The news knocked Tayte back. “Did she say when she could see me?”

  Warwick drew a sharp breath through his teeth. “Afraid not,” he said. “But it won’t be for a while. Family affairs in London. Could keep her there for the rest of the week, I really couldn’t say.”

  “That’s too bad,” Tayte said.

  “Do you have a contact number?”

  “Sure.” It was some hope at least. Plans change. Tayte reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small black pad and pencil. He wrote down his name and cellphone number, tore out the sheet then handed it over, thinking he should get some more cards printed.

  “I’m only here until the weekend,” Tayte said. He slipped the pad back inside his jacket. “If there is any way she can see me before then, I’d be grateful.”

  Warwick Fairborne studied the slip of paper briefly, then carefully folded it. “I’ll see she gets it.”

  Tayte found himself looking for an angle; a way to salvage something from the setback. “Lady Fairborne expressed some interest in my work,” he said. “Perhaps you could tell her I’m sure we can come to some agreement about getting a copy. She’ll know what you mean.”

  Warwick nodded. The door was closing. Tayte wanted to see the family crypt and he knew the answers to some of his riddles at least had to be less than a few hundred metres from him right now. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t just turn up and ask to take a look. He knew more tact was required and he didn’t want to blow his chances with Lady Fairborne if she did get back in time to see him. They had his number. He’d have to leave it at that.

  The door clicked shut.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The security room at Rosemullion Hall was located off the main hallway, adjacent to the entrance. Lady Celia Fairborne’s heels clicked double-time across the marble floor as she walked up to the security room door, pressed a few buttons on the bulky keypad and entered; she was keen to get a look at this American. Warwick was already waiting for her, eyeing a row of flat-panel monitors, displaying multiple images of the house and grounds from the CCTV system. He was rocking back and forth on a brown-leather swivel chair in the softly lit room. Intrigue seemed to have overtaken his own problems for now.

  “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He flicked at the slip of paper in his hand, drawing attention to Jefferson Tayte’s phone number.

  Celia took it and sat in a matching chair before the security console. She pressed a few buttons and the recorded images from the driveway and the camera covering the door in the north-east wing started to play back from the selected time point. Together, their eyes followed images of the American walking along the drive towards the house then to the door. He waited, looked around and then seemed to stare straight at one of the cameras. Celia pressed the hardcopy button and the image froze as a printer at the end of the console began to whir. She studied the still frame for the three seconds it was on screen then slid her chair across and collected the copy. Perfect!

  She looked Warwick straight in the eyes. “This must be our secret?” she said. “Not a word to anyone else?”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  Celia slid her chair closer. “The call I had from your father this morning,” she said. She paused, thinking about her husband’s troubled words again as she glared at the printout of Jefferson Tayte’s portrait on the console. “He warned me about this American - told me not to see him.”

  “Does father know him then?” Warwick asked.

  “No, I don’t believe so,” Celia said. “But he knew he’d be calling. Someone contacted him this morning.” She sat back, considering how much to tell - how much she knew. “I’ve never heard your father sound so worried. We’re being blackmailed.” Celia watched the muscles beneath Warwick’s sweater tense and lock, straightening his spine like an arrow shaft.

  “Blackmailed?” Warwick said. “Over what?”

  “I genuinely don’t know. Your father wouldn’t tell me over the telephone.”

  “Any idea who the blackmailer is?”

  Celia shook her head. “The call was anonymous.”

  “Of course. It would be.”

  “Warwick?” Celia reached across and held his hand, squeezing it. “Your father said that if what this caller claims is true it could destroy us. The implications are that serious.”

  Warwick Fairborne pulled away, slowly shaking his head. “We’ve got nothing to hide from anyone, have we?”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Did he have any proof?”

  “Apparently he does.”

  “So what can it be about?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Something to do with this American, though?”

  “So it seems. Your father warned me that the man was a threat when he told me not to see him.”

  Celia stood up. “Look, he said not to worry. Said he’d take care of it. He’s a powerful man, Wicky, with a lot of important friends. He said he’d know more on Friday. He’s expecting another call then, along with the proof.”

  Warwick threw his head back into the headrest. “So we just carry on like nothing’s happened?”

  “Don’t worry, dear. If it’s about money, I’m sure we can sort it out.”

  Celia reached across to the console and switched off the image playback. “Your father won’t let this get out of hand any more than I will,” she said. She opened the door. The light in the main hallway seemed bright after the dimly lit security room. “There’s nothing more we can do until we see him.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jefferson Tayte’s return journey from Rosemullion Head was slow and thoughtful. He took in little of his surroundings, barely noticing the pair of grey seals showing off at the mouth of the Helford River as he passed through the ferns towards Mawnan Glebe. He sensed the afternoon was fading and it would be gone altogether by the time he got back to his accommodation and his neglected luggage. That pissed him off, but he knew there were other avenues. There were always other avenues.

  As he entered beneath the woodland’s piebald shade, along a trail of stepping stones that led through a narrow, winding passage of rock walls and vegetation, his right trouser pocket buzzed. It gave him a start. He fumbled for his cellphone then stabbed at the green call-answer button.

  “JT,” he said. His voice sounded chirpier than he felt, but he wasn’t prepared for the energetic voice at the other end.

  “Jeff!”

  The voice buzzed the phone
’s plastic casing and Tayte ripped it away from his ear as the tangle of branch and leaf under Mawnan Glebe came into sharp focus. Only one person ever called him Jeff. He was struck momentarily dumb.

  The voice came again, distant now at the end of Tayte’s outstretched arm. “Jeff? Hey, big guy … you there?”

  Tayte almost hung up. Almost. He took a deep breath, drawing the phone tentatively closer. This was all he needed.

  “Come on Jeff, I know you’re there,” the voice teased. “I can hear you panting.”

  Tayte gritted his teeth. “Schofield.” he said coldly, without a grain of pretence as Peter Schofield’s toothpaste-commercial grin filled his head like some overt billboard advertisement. “What do you want?”

  “Oh, come on Jeff. Don’t be like that! And really, you can call me Peter.”

  Tayte really couldn’t.

  “So how’s England?” Schofield asked.

  Tayte felt his throat tighten - sensed the sudden quickening of his heartbeat. How does he know where I am? Before he could ask - like the cellphone was a conduit into his mind, allowing Schofield into his thoughts - the answer came.

  “I got a call from Sloane!” Schofield said.

  Tayte swallowed hard. Why was his client calling Schofield? He recalled the brief remark from Walter Sloane about Schofield back in Boston. He’d said nothing about actually involving him.

  “Old Wally thought you could do with some help.”

  “Say that again,” Tayte choked.

  “Well okay, he hasn’t actually asked me to help out just yet - not officially anyway.”

  Tayte didn’t like the intonation there.

  “He’s put me on standby, though,” Schofield continued. “That’s really something.”

  “Oh, that’s terrific.” Tayte mumbled the words through clenched teeth.

  “What was that?”

  Tayte was silent.

  “The man seems pretty serious about getting the job done by the weekend,” Schofield added. “I don’t know what you said to him before you left, but you sure gave him the jitters.”

  Tayte heard Schofield laugh down the phone. Like any of this was funny. He reflected on that last meeting with his client. His uncertainty over what happened to the Fairbornes when they left America must have made Sloane wonder if he really could pull it off in time.

  “It’s just some misunderstanding,” Tayte said. “I’ll call Mr Sloane and straighten things out.”

  “Well you’d better have some good news for him. He told me to expect his call anytime now. Hell, I don’t even think it’ll matter what you tell him. He sounded pretty keen to get me on board.”

  “Look, after Walter Sloane hears my report,” Tayte said, “you won’t be hearing from him again.” Tayte’s hackles were up. “I’m making great progress over here.” A cold lie. “Don’t need any help, thanks.”

  “Well that’s good,” Schofield said. “So what do you think about that claim against the family back in 1829?”

  Tayte tripped on his tongue. He was stumped.

  “You know all about that, right? Made headline news.”

  “Sure,” Tayte lied again. “Basic stuff.”

  “Yeah, easy enough to find, I guess. You know, there might even be some truth to it. No smoke without fire in this game!”

  Listen to this kid, Tayte thought. He’s probably still living with his parents and he’s talking like he’s been in the business longer than I have. Tayte suddenly wondered why Schofield was already looking into the assignment - his assignment. “I thought you said you were only on standby?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. But after I got the call I just couldn’t sit still. Thought I’d get a head start, you know - make a good impression.”

  Tayte began to climb the granite steps that led out of the woodland. His right hand gripped the rail for some much needed support, the other continued to press his cellphone to his ear. He was panting as he left the wood, emerging to snatched views through nature’s windows of white sails and a peaceful community further into the river.

  “Old Wally’s paying good money,” Schofield continued. “I’ll just back-date my expenses when that call comes in.”

  Tayte shook his head. He couldn’t believe how cocky this kid was. That he knew Tayte was going to fail seemed nothing more than a formality to Schofield. “Look, thanks for your interest,” Tayte said. He quickened his step. “But you’re wasting your time.”

  “Hey, we’ll see. Maybe we can meet up. I’m flying over in the morning.”

  Tayte stopped in his tracks. He felt numb. His left arm went limp, falling sharply to his side. Then he rolled the phone over in his palm and calmly but firmly pressed the red end-call button. He slid his thumb across the phone and brought up his contact list then scrolled through the names looking for Walter Sloane’s number.

  He didn’t reach it.

  Tayte felt a searing pain shoot across his skull, terminating right behind his eyes as they closed.

  Chapter Twenty

  After he felt the initial blow and the pain that exploded across the back of his head, Tayte felt nothing more for several minutes. His eyes opened slowly at first. His vision was hazy, like he was looking through a thin sheet that someone had thrown over him. It was bright. He closed his eyes again and blinked several times until they began to focus. Then the sheet seemed to flap away as if caught in a strong updraught and the sky expanded like a camera lens zooming out from a close-up. He felt the pain in his head first, throbbing to the beat of his heart and the kick of his pulse.

  The blow had come from directly behind him; he could feel the swollen lump it left at the base of his skull, just above his neck. There was no blood on his hand as he drew it away and it was only when he sat up that he felt a stinging pain in his chest. It drew his eyes to a note that was pinned through his shirt into his flesh. He could see the yellow plastic pin-stump sitting against the blood that had spread over his shirt like dye. He winced as he pulled it away.

  ‘Fuck off home!’ was written on what looked like a torn off piece of brown envelope.

  Very succinct, he thought.

  He got up and his head thumped with renewed enthusiasm, prompting him to crumple the note into an angry ball and throw it as far away as he could. He brushed the dust off his suit and checked his pockets. His pad was still there inside his jacket. His wallet was in his trouser pocket. His phone… He patted himself down then checked his pockets again. He didn’t have his phone.

  He remembered that he was about to call his client. He thought he must have dropped it when he was attacked, but he couldn’t see it on the path. He kicked at the grass where he’d fallen, saw it and stooped to pick it up. Halfway down he thought he’d been hit again. His head pounded and felt so full that he thought it might go off any minute like a grenade. He was grinding his teeth as he read the display. There was a new text message. The sender’s number had been withheld, but Tayte was in no doubt that this was another note from his attacker - someone who clearly had his number. This one read: ‘Next time the pin will be eight inches long’.

  By the time Amy Fallon returned to Helford to catch up with Tom Laity, the September air had cooled considerably. She had tucked Gabriel’s old shirt into her jeans for the walk and put on a cream zip neck fleece for extra warmth. She had passed Laity’s a while back. The sun parasols were in, the lights were off and the door was locked. There was no sign of Tom.

  The sun was behind the Helford River now, low in the sky over Helston and Porthleven to the west. Cool shadows fell from furled sail masts towards the mouth of a river that was as calm as Amy had seen it. The late sun gave the water a metallic quality, like mercury reflecting a burnt orange glow.

  Laity would certainly go fishing; Amy had no doubt of that. She hoped she hadn’t left it too late. He usually tied his boat off near the river, barely into the creek at all. She was nearly there. She came out past the Shipwrights Arms, a centuries-old thatched pub near the bottom of the creek, follow
ing the path along the edge of the water.

  Then she saw him.

  Laity looked up from his fishing boat as Amy arrived. “Ahoy mate,” he said, laughing as usual. “Just finishing off some repairs to this mackerel line. You sure you won’t come out? Lovely weather for it.”

  Amy took in all sixteen feet of Laity’s white fishing boat, which stirred memories of some of the good times with Gabriel, huddled together from a shower beneath the walk-in canopy while Laity tended the lines. Part of her was tempted, but she couldn’t do it - not today. Her eyes wandered into the boat; two planks for seats that were always home to near invisible fish scales that attached themselves to any clothing they came into contact with, clinging like wet sequins. She remembered her clothes always smelled of fish whenever she and Gabriel went out with Laity, but they were fond memories and it was a fishing boat. What had she expected?

  “I’m not really dressed for it,” she said. She knew it was a lame excuse.

  “Well, I’ll see if I can catch you something nice for your tea instead then,” he said. Then he dropped the heavy gauge, orange fishing line, climbed out of the boat and sat with Amy on the low wall.

  “Did you manage to find anything out?” Amy asked.

  “I did,” Laity said. He flashed his eyes. “I must have asked everyone who came into the shop after you left.”

  “Sorry to be a pain. I know you’re busy.”

  Laity smiled. “Never too busy for you.” He chuckled and sat rocking on his hands like a shy schoolboy. “There’s a records office in Truro,” he added. “Old County Hall off Station Road. They keep all that stuff there apparently.”

  A familiar sail tacked into the creek and Laity gave it a high wave. “Got a nice old dear to thank for that snippet,” he added. “Mrs Menwynick from Orchard Lane. She said you need to ask for a house-history search.”