JT01 - In The Blood

by Steve Robinson

  “And the real killer got away with it,” Amy said like it was personal.

  Tayte nodded. He supposed she felt a connection through her association with the Helford Ferry. “And whoever did kill Mawgan Hendry,” he said. “They were smart enough to stay out of the picture. It looks like an open and shut case. A robbery gone wrong and justice served. There was nothing to implicate anyone else.”

  “Apart from the box,” Amy said.

  Tayte agreed. “Hendry’s murder wasn’t the result of some chance robbery gone wrong. I’ve no doubt now that his killer was after this.” He tapped the box and fixed on Amy with an uneasy stare. “Does anyone else know about it?”

  “Just a friend in the village,” Amy said. “Tom Laity. He owns the deli.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “I guess. I’ve known him pretty much since we moved down here. He’s been a good friend since Gabriel -” Amy spun away, staring at the window. When she turned back she was tight-lipped and determined. “Since Gabriel died,” she continued, adding, “I’m sorry. It’s the first time I’ve really thought about him like that.”

  “Hey, nothing to be sorry for. And I’m sure Tom Laity’s fine. I just wondered if you’d made a big fuss about it.”

  “No.”

  “Good. I suggest we keep it that way.”

  Tayte went back to Lowenna’s note, mulling over the short postscript. “It’s what is inside that counts.”

  “Say that again,” Amy said.

  “It’s what is inside that counts.”

  Amy took the note and looked it over. “Maybe it’s your accent, but there seems to be an emphasis here I didn’t get before. Inside…” she added thoughtfully. “Inside the box? But there was just this note and the silk heart.”

  “Or inside Lowenna. I found out today that she was pregnant when Mawgan Hendry was murdered.”

  Amy’s face dropped.

  “It gets worse. Seems she killed herself the night the child was born.”

  Amy put both hands to mouth. “That’s terrible,” she said. “So you think Lowenna was referring to their child. She was telling Mawgan that the child was what really mattered and that she would always love him, despite their circumstances.”

  “Sure looks that way,” Tayte said, “but why did she send her maid to get the box back? There has to be more to it. What changed after she gave it to him?”

  “Maybe her father had him killed. She says in her note that they couldn’t be together. Perhaps he was making sure.”

  Tayte shook his head. “The box seems to be the focus here, not Hendry. I think he was just in the way. But of what?”

  Amy scooped up her wine from the stool in front of the inglenook. “Can I get you a glass?” she asked.

  “Sure, why not?”

  As Amy poured, Tayte turned the box in his hands, admiring the bright detail. The inlaid mother-of-pearl initials drew his eye again. He knew the box belonged to Lowenna - the ‘F’ then stood for ‘Fairborne’, but it was not Lowenna’s to begin with.

  “There you go,” Amy said, handing Tayte his wine.

  “Thanks.” He raised his glass. “Bottoms up,” he said, smirking playfully. “That’s how you say it here, right?”

  A slow smile crossed Amy’s face. “Not unless you want to leave.”

  “Cheers it is then.” Tayte took a mouthful and set the glass down on the stool.

  “So how did you get into genealogy?” Amy asked. “Seems like an unusual profession.”

  “I guess it is,” Tayte said, “and I sure wish it paid better.” He sat back. “Truth is I had to. When my parents died - my adoptive parents that is - I was still going through college, trying to find myself, you know - discovering my purpose in life. I had no idea I was adopted until I read the letter explaining things. Then it was all so clear. Not knowing who you are just eats away at you, like a hunger you can never satisfy.”

  “Until you find out,” Amy said.

  Tayte nodded. “I sure hope so, though I’ve not tried in a while now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Oh, I dunno…” Tayte took another slow sip from his wine glass and thought that he knew only too well. He recalled how low he’d sunk the last time; how it had almost been his very last time. “I guess I just don’t feel ready to have another go just yet,” he added. “In the meanwhile, assignments like this keep me going. They feed the hunger, so to speak. I figure if I can stay on top of my game - keep finding the connections for other people - then I must be good enough to find my own someday.”

  “Sound logic,” Amy said. “But what if you don’t find this family?”

  Tayte took a deep breath and slowly released it. He couldn’t think of a single answer that didn’t scare him. “I have to find them,” he said. He stared at the box and his thoughts returned to it. “I’ve been wondering about these initials.” He fetched an A4 notepad from his briefcase - an indexed listing of the Fairborne family tree - and began to thumb through the pages. “Somewhere in here there should be a match.” A moment later, he added, “How about, Daniel Fairborne?”

  They both looked at each other, shaking their heads.

  “Here we go,” Tayte said. “Dorothea: Born, 1683. Died, 1744. It’s the only other name that fits.”

  James Fairborne’s grandmother, he thought. His connection had arrived. “So the box was handed down,” he said. “It must have come to England with the family I’m looking for and somehow it found its way into Lowenna’s care.” He paused that thought. “But it shouldn’t have passed to Lowenna,” he added. “It should have been Katherine’s, the eldest. Then Katherine would have given it to her daughter and so on.” Tayte scoffed. “No way would she give it to a step sister.”

  “Maybe something happened to Katherine,” Amy said.

  Tayte was already thinking the same thing; he’d been thinking it since Boston. “It all comes back to this box,” he said. He continued to study it, wondering again why someone in 1803 wanted it so badly they were prepared to kill for it. He considered that the reason could be the very answer he was looking for. “I’d sure like to know more about it,” he added.

  “How about an antiques dealer,” Amy said. “I used to know a few, but -”

  “Kapowski!” Tayte blurted.

  Amy looked concerned.

  “Julia Kapowski! She’s a little wired, but she might be able to help. I met her on the plane coming over. She told me she worked in valuations, pricing up antiques for auction.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Damn!” Tayte said. “I threw her card away.” He took a big slug from his wine glass and sat back with it, nestling into the wing chair by the inglenook. “Julia Kapowski works for a firm of auctioneers back in Boston,” he added. “They must operate in London, too.

  “You could call the company she works for?” Amy said.

  Tayte thought about it, but he couldn’t recall the name; he’d given it little consideration.

  Amy got up and went back to the bureau. She dropped the flap and a moment later she returned with a laptop. “What did you say her name was?”

  “Kapowski,” Tayte said. “Julia Kapowski.”

  “She might be listed under the company’s website. With a name like that it shouldn’t take long to find out.”

  As Amy worked the keyboard, Tayte’s eyes drifted to the window and the shapeless nightscape, punctuated by the lights on the other side of a river he could now barely distinguish. When he looked back at Amy she was practically laughing to herself. She spun the laptop around on her knees and Tayte found himself looking at a glamorous gallery-style portrait of Julia Kapowski. He had to concede that he thought she scrubbed up well.

  “That’s her,” he said. “That’s the woman from the plane.” He couldn’t believe she had her own website.

  “It’s a blog,” Amy said. Nothing came back under any auctioneers. In fact, nothing much came back at all. This jumped straight out at me.

  Tayte read the headi
ng on the screen: ‘Looking for Larry’.

  “Kapowski’s blog,” Amy said, “seems to follow her attempts to find the love of her life.” She pulled a cute face and fluttered her eyelashes. Then she laughed and scrolled back through the blog to what she’d been reading while Tayte was staring out the window. “She’s had a string of husbands according to this. None of them lasted long.”

  “Who’s Larry?” Tayte asked.

  “It doesn’t say.”

  Tayte caught the odd word on the screen as Amy continued to scroll back, reading snippets here and there.

  “It’s addictive reading,” Amy said.

  Tayte caught something then about Kapowski’s flight to London a few days back.

  Amy stopped scrolling. “Oh my God! That’s you, isn’t it?”

  Tayte was blushing. “It could be anyone,” he replied, trying to dismiss it.

  “But it’s not anyone, is it? It’s you.” Amy was all smiles. “Listen to this, then tell me it’s not about you.” She forced herself to be serious for a minute, barely able to maintain the facade. “He had the aisle seat and I was by the window,” she read. “I don’t know… There was something I liked about him the minute he sat down. It wasn’t his tan suit or his manners, and he needed to lose a few pounds…”

  Tayte heard Amy’s stifled giggle through those last words. Then she put on a voice, over-exaggerating like some cheap actress playing a badly written love scene.

  “But there was something in his eyes,” Amy continued. “He had nice eyes and I told him so…” She skipped to the end of the paragraph. “I gave him my card. Maybe he’ll call. Maybe he won’t.”

  Amy couldn’t control herself any longer. Laughter erupted from the pit of her stomach and she rolled into the armrest to muffle the sound. “I’m sorry,” she said once she’d recovered. She had tears in her eyes.

  Tayte was trying to keep a straight face, but he was caught in the moment. He hid his smile in his wine glass.

  “What was that about manners?” Amy asked.

  “I don’t like flying. I had a bad experience when I was a kid. I guess I was a little edgy on the flight over.” Tayte knew he was understating the truth. He was surprised Julia Kapowski had thought anything of him at all.

  “There’s a comments field,” Amy said.

  Tayte knew what she was thinking. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go public, but he knew it was their best shot. He reached for the laptop. “May I,” he said.

  Tayte added his comment: Hi Julia, it’s JT. We met on the plane from Boston. Please call me as soon as you read this. He added his cellphone number then saved his comment.

  “She’s been updating the site pretty frequently,” Amy said. “We might get lucky.” She threw Tayte a cheeky smile. “She wants you to call her. Should be easy to set up a date.”

  Tayte rolled his eyes. “If I can get to see her, I’m sure she’ll be in London. We’d have to take the box to her.”

  Amy went quiet, thoughtfully chewing at the edge of her lip like she was considering the best way to approach this. Then she opened the box, removed the silk heart and closed it again, leaving Lowenna’s note inside. “I’ll keep hold of this,” she said, resting the heart beside her on the settee. “You go by yourself.” She winked at him. “You’ll have a better chance and I wouldn’t want to spoil your date!”

  Tayte was reaching for his wine glass again when his cellphone stopped the conversation. He stared at Amy for a couple of long seconds. Then he picked up the call.

  “JT.” His throat felt parched. He took a sip of wine and choked on it.

  “Hello,” the caller said.

  Tayte couldn’t speak. He coughed.

  “JT… You there, honey?”

  Tayte coughed again. Then in a croaky voice he said, “Julia… Sorry, I just took a sip of wine and it went down the wrong way. I wasn’t expecting you to call so soon.”

  “Oh, I was already hooked up,” Kapowski said. “Saw your note there. It’s great to hear from you. I really didn’t think you’d get in touch.”

  Tayte began to pace the room. “Yeah, that was a bit of luck,” he said. “I lost your card.”

  “Hey, you gotta love the Web,” Kapowski said. “So where are you? Anywhere near my hotel room?”

  Tayte heard a giggle and snorted. “Not really,” he said. He thought he heard ice and crystal clinking in the background.

  “You know, the décor in my room reminded me of you the minute I opened the door,” Kapowski added. “Lots of neutral colours, just like your suit. So exactly how far away is ‘not really’?”

  “Look, Julia,” Tayte said. “I’d like to see you, but it’s not what you think.”

  “But you do want to see me, right?”

  “Yes I do, tomorrow if possible, but the truth is I need a favour.”

  The call went quiet for a few seconds. Then Kapowski said, “Okay, I’m still interested.”

  “Great. I’ve something I’d like to show you.”

  Tayte knew Kapowski wasn’t about to let the conversation get all serious after a line like that, but it was out before he could stop himself.

  “Easy there fella,” she said. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about us Brooklyn girls…” She was laughing in Tayte’s ear. “But I’m sure it’s all true.”

  By the time the call finished, Tayte was blushing like an over-ripe tomato. He put his phone away and looked across the room to Amy who had been watching him intently, grinning like a schoolgirl.

  “Don’t say a word,” Tayte said.

  Tayte was back in his room at St Maunanus House the next time his phone rang. He’d only been back ten minutes and the display told him it was almost 9pm. Peter Schofield’s typically hyper greeting opened a floodgate of unpleasant memories along with the sudden realisation that it wasn’t just a bad dream.

  Schofield had landed.

  Tayte’s emotions sank with him onto the bed. He couldn’t mask his disappointment. “Oh, it’s you,” he said. Everything about the man scraped at Tayte’s nerves, like a screaming dentist’s drill.

  “Who were you expecting, big guy?” Schofield said. After a pause he added, “Never mind. Main thing is, I’m here and I’m raring to go!”

  Tayte wondered where Schofield got his energy. The only place Tayte wanted to go was bed. “Look, Schofield,” he said. “Seems we’re destined to work together on this. I can’t pretend I’m happy about it, but there it is.”

  “Yeah,” Schofield said. “I had a message from Wally Sloane waiting for me when I cleared customs. I know the score. You’re running the show.”

  Tayte was happy that much was clear.

  “And, hey,” Schofield said. “I’ve got no problem with that. Just so you know.”

  “Okay then,” Tayte said. “I’ve got something for you when you get down here tomorrow. I’ll be away most of the day, so you’ll have to go it alone ‘til I get back. I’ll fill you in then.”

  “Whatever you say, Jeff.”

  Tayte had already concocted the assignment he planned to give Schofield. Something that would keep him busy all day - keep him occupied and make him regret ever getting involved. “I need all the churchyards in the area checked out,” he said. “Start where you like. Cover the gravestones and check out any local church records you come across. I’ll e-mail you with the names and dates we’re looking for.”

  “Already got ‘em,” Schofield said.

  Tayte wasn’t surprised.

  “I’m driving down first thing,” Schofield added. “Got this cool car - very British.”

  “You’re staying in London tonight?”

  “Yeah. Thought I’d check out the nightlife first. Few drinks, ya know… I’ll get some rest before I set off.”

  Rest. Tayte thought Schofield ran purely on adrenaline and annoying people.

  “Don’t worry,” Schofield said. “I’ll be there bright and early. I’ll get straight to it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Friday
.

  The envelope had arrived at Rosemullion Hall looking as innocent as the rest of the morning post. It was addressed to Sir Richard Fairborne and the phone call Manning was about to put through to him in his study prompted him to reach into the breast pocket of his navy suit and take it out for another look. He turned it in his hands then studied the Bodmin postmark for the umpteenth time, getting no further clue as to who the sender was.

  Sir Richard Fairborne was the kind of man who did not lose. When the last tin mines closed in Cornwall in the early 1990s, he was already well into his second career. The tin market was all but over by 1985 and he’d seen it coming. He’d kept employment going for as long as he could and he was there among the last to call it a day, but he’d been clever about it. He was able to turn a profit right to the end, however small. He’d kept things ticking over for a grateful community while he increasingly detached himself from the business. The key then was to have other irons in the fire. As one market dies, another emerges.

  As a politician of retirement age, he’d put on a little weight and lost a little hair over the years, but those years had been good to him and he was ever mindful of the people who made him who he was. He had never failed them; always fair and true to his word. And his intent was staunch once fixed - however much that intent might be skewed at times by well-meaning others. Systems fail. Sir Richard Fairborne does not.

  It was now late morning and Sir Richard had not long returned from London. His study was a small private room containing a desk to sit at and little else that was not used to store books or papers. It was the only place in the house where he could think and speak freely without fear of being overheard. The room was on the ground floor to the front of the house, looking out towards garages that had been converted from the old stable block some years ago. It was also the least distracting view in the house.

  Sir Richard picked up the handset on his desk and pressed a button. “Thank you, Manning,” he said. He heard a beep as Manning dropped out.