Tayte did. It seemed a rash choice of treatment for someone known to have been so weak that he had trouble climbing the stairs. He couldn’t be sure about anything, but the alternative suggestion that Jean and her friends had provided seemed to fit well enough. Perhaps more importantly, it gave him some insight into what the hanged Fellows of the Royal Society were really into. If they did have cause to believe in such a conspiracy then he wondered what they had sought to do about it.
He was considering how such a plot could have been proved or disproved back then and how it might be connected to what was going on now, some three hundred years later, when Jean’s phone rang.
“It’s detective Fable,” she said to Tayte. “He wants to speak to you.”
Tayte took the call and the group fell silent except for Ralph, who couldn’t seem to help himself.
“Detectives?” he said. “Whatever you guys are into I want some.”
Tayte cupped a hand over the phone and shot Ralph a cold glare. “No,” he said. “Believe me. You don’t.”
He went back to the call.
“JT,” he said, and he listened to Fable for half a minute then checked his watch. It was almost eight p.m. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll head back to the hotel.” He nodded. “That’s right. The Hyatt in Marylebone.”
When the call ended, Tayte stood up, leant in close to Jean as he handed back her phone and said, “Time to go. There’s been another murder.”
Chapter Eleven
When they arrived at the hotel it occurred to Tayte that a change of address might have been a good idea under the circumstances, but the prospect of changing hotels so late in the day was far from appealing. He was beat, and after the kind of day they had had he supposed Jean was, too. The best compromise he could think of was to change rooms, taking adjacent doubles and trusting to the reception staff’s discretion should anyone enquire after them.
They ate a light meal in the Regency Club Lounge, going over their research and considering their next direction, and they decided that the Jacobite society, Quo Veritas, needed further investigation. They talked about Jean’s son, too, and Jean’s growing concern for his safety given that it had now been over twenty-four hours since anyone she knew had seen him.
DI Jack Fable found them in the Churchill Bar: a panelled room with leather furnishings and a light oak floor. It was nine-thirty p.m. and the area was busy, yet quiet enough to hear the jazz piano music that was playing in the background.
“I got waylaid,” Fable said as he joined them at the bar. The acrid tang of nicotine hung heavy on his breath as he spoke.
“You ever find time to relax?” Tayte asked.
“Not much. I reckon I’ll rest when I’m ninety and sleep when I’m dead.” He gave a rare smile. “I read that on a T-shirt somewhere.”
Tayte indicated his glass. “Can I get you something?”
Fable took a moment to answer. “What the hell,” he said. “Scotch. Thanks.”
Tayte turned to get the barman’s attention, still talking to Fable. “Don’t you have a sidekick?” he said. “I thought you cops always came in pairs.”
Fable shook his head. “Not me. I prefer to work alone when I get the choice and there isn’t exactly a list of people eager to team up with me.”
The barman approached. Tayte finished his drink and slid the glass towards him. “I’ll take two more of those,” he said. “And another cocktail for the lady.”
“A mojito,” Jean said.
“You seen your bike outside?” Fable asked her. “It’s just along the street.”
“I did. Thanks.”
“Hear anything from your son yet?”
Jean shook her head.
“I’ve passed his details to the Missing Persons Bureau,” Fable said. “I’ve got people checking the CCTV images in the areas you said he frequented. No banking transactions have shown up today - no cashpoint withdrawals.” He coughed into his hand, rough and throaty. “We’re running regular traces on his mobile phone, too, but so far it’s been switched off.”
Jean tried to smile as if to say thank you.
“Oh, and don’t worry about that identity parade,” Fable added. “All the grey suits they pulled in checked out. Just people heading home for the day. I’d appreciate it though if you could drop by in the morning to sit with one of our sketch artists. A composite drawing of the man could be useful, however little you saw.”
“I will,” Jean said. “First thing.”
They took their drinks to a table.
“It’s a hell of a business,” Fable said as they sat down. “Before I get to why I’m here though you might like to know that we have some people at Kew working on those names you gave me.”
“From the convention?” Tayte said.
Fable nodded and knocked back his drink.
“How many?”
Fable sighed. “Three.”
“That’s all?” Tayte knew they needed more help than that.
“Bad timing, I guess. Most of the people who were still there wanted to go home. The three we got said they knew Marcus Brown.”
Tayte shook his head, thinking that it could take three people all week to get a single result and since Fable had called with news of another murder he supposed they didn’t have that long.
“I’ll freshen up when we’re done here and head over,” he said. He turned to Jean. “You might as well stay and get some rest. Identifying the descendants of long dead ancestors is just my thing but I shouldn’t think there’ll be much for you to do.”
Tayte wondered who else could help and Michel Levant sprang to mind. The Frenchman still left a bitter taste in his mouth but he couldn’t ignore the fact that an heir hunter would be useful to have on the team. Finding descendants of the recently, and not so recently, deceased was exactly what Levant professed to be so good at and they worked fast - had to beat the competition to make their money. Even so, Tayte had thought the man was bad news since he’d first set eyes on him in Rules restaurant so he quickly dismissed the idea.
Fable got to the crux of his visit. “I said on the phone that there had been another murder. It happened in Exeter three days ago. A forty-four-year-old man called Alexander Walsh. Same MO - eventually. He was shot twice in the chest just like Davenport, only this time it was aggravated.”
“Aggravated?” Tayte repeated, seeking clarification.
“He was beaten first. Tortured.”
“Any idea why?”
Fable nodded. “His killer clearly wanted something from him.”
“And what about Davenport? Was he tortured?”
“No. Davenport must have given his killer what he wanted without a fuss. With Walsh it was different.” Fable paused and looked around. He stood up. “Look, we can’t really continue this here. I need to find somewhere quiet.”
Five minutes later they were shown into a business meeting room with a large LCD display at one end of a long table that was replete with glasses, notepads and pens. They sat in a close group with Fable in the middle. As soon as the door clicked shut he produced a small digital device from one of his suit pockets.
“It plays MP3s,” he said. From another pocket he pulled out a set of miniature speakers onto which the MP3 player docked. “I had the Devon and Cornwall Police send me a digital copy of the witness interview recording.”
“You got a witness?” Tayte said. “That’s great.”
“The deceased’s wife. She had her two young children with her throughout the ordeal and I believe they’re the only reason Mrs Walsh isn’t lying on a slab beside her husband now.”
“Soft spot for the kids?” Jean said. She sounded agitated. “Are you trying to suggest that he’s not quite as sick in the head as I’ve come to think he is?”
“No, I’m not,” Fable said. “Far from it. But it’s not uncommon. Whoever’s doing this has a very specific purpose. He wants something from his victims. Killing young children takes a certain kind of sick individual. Anyway, don
’t get your hopes up.” He leant in and switched the machine on. “No one saw anything we can use. He wore that same mask I saw on the CCTV footage.” He paused. “But they heard stuff. That’s what I wanted to share with you.”
Fable hit the play button and a male voice stated his name and rank together with the date, time and place of the interview. He skipped the rest of the preliminaries and sat back as the interview began. The male officer spoke first.
“At approximately what time did the visitor arrive?”
“It was around seven o’clock. We’d just eaten. I pulled the net curtain back and saw a dark-haired man in a grey suit. He had a black leather bag - a holdall. I thought it was someone trying to sell us something.”
“Did he say anything when you answered the door?”
“No. He forced it open and I shouted to Alex.”
“And where was Mr Walsh at that time?”
“In the kitchen. He came out with a carving knife but the man had a gun. He held it to my head and told Alex that he’d kill me if he didn’t do exactly what he said.”
“Did you see the man’s face?”
“No. He had his back to me when I looked out. When I opened the door he was wearing a mask - a caricature of Prince Charles.”
“What happened next?”
“He made us go upstairs. The kids were crying on the landing when we got there. He told Alex to shut them up or he was going to do it for him.”
“And then?”
“Then he asked if there was a chair in any of the bedrooms. He told Alex to get one and take it to the bathroom. I had to fetch a pair of tights while he held the gun on my children.”
“Tights to tie your husband to the chair with?”
“That’s right. He made him strip to his underwear first.”
“You said earlier that he locked you and your children in the room adjacent to the bathroom, Mrs Walsh. Is that correct?”
“Yes. When we viewed the house we liked the fact that the doors still had most of the original locks and keys. You don’t see that much these days, do you?”
“No, Mrs Walsh. I suppose not. Do you think he wanted to keep you close so you could hear what was going on?”
“I didn’t know what he wanted at the time. Now I think he did, yes. He wanted to keep us scared or maybe he wanted my husband to be scared for us.”
“Did you believe he was going to kill you and your children?”
The recording went silent. Several seconds later a quiet, tremulous voice said, “Yes.”
“Okay, Mrs Walsh. Take your time. When you’re ready perhaps you could tell me what you heard.”
Silence again. Then the woman sniffed and continued.
“I heard my husband scream. I’d never heard anything like it before. The screaming came first. Then the questions.”
“What did the man want to know?”
“He kept asking Alex what his father left him in his will. My husband’s father died just under a year ago.”
“And did your husband tell him?”
“Yes. He started going through everything but it didn’t seem to matter. Every time he gave an answer I heard him scream. Then the man asked the question again. He was shouting - always shouting.
“And how long did this go on for?”
“About fifteen minutes.
“And he didn’t ask your husband anything else during that time?
“No. Just the same question over and over until Alex told him what he wanted to hear.”
“And what was that?”
“A microscope. I’d seen it briefly. It was an old thing made of ivory and wood. Alex told me it was a family heirloom - one of many.”
“And that’s what the man wanted?”
“I suppose so. It went very quiet after that. Then I heard the bathroom door open and I thought the man was going because I heard him on the stairs. But he came back.”
“So, he’d just gone to find the microscope?”
“Yes, I think so. It was in a box in the study with some other things that belonged to Alex’s father.”
“And was anything else said when the man returned?”
“No.”
“Just the gunshots?”
There was no answer.
“Thank you, Mrs Walsh.”
The interview ended and Fable leant in and switched the machine off.
“Mr Walsh had been beaten repeatedly with a towel rail,” he said. “His killer clearly meant to intimidate the family first to make them more compliant.”
“And he must have wanted to let Walsh know he wasn’t fooling around,” Tayte said.
Fable nodded. “I think it’s also clear that he intended to kill Walsh once he’d got what he went there for. Given that he was wearing a mask it can’t have been because he thought Mr Walsh could identify him. I suspect his motive for killing him was personal, as with the Sherwood Forest murders. That could help us.”
“Did any of the neighbours see or hear anything?” Jean asked.
“Not a thing. The house was too isolated. Once the killer gained access to the premises he had the family all to himself.”
“No cameras?” Tayte said.
Fable shook his head. “Forensics picked up a few grey clothing fibres this time but that’s about it.”
Tayte was wondering what this killer really wanted. “A microscope?” he said, thinking aloud. “What does he want with an old microscope?” He turned to Jean and knew she was now thinking the same thing he was.
“William Daws,” she said.
Tayte nodded. To Fable he said, “Among other things, Daws was a field physiologist with a particular interest in the study of human blood and the circulatory system. I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s Alex Walsh’s ancestor and that the microscope once belonged to him.”
Fable looked puzzled. “But what could Walsh’s killer possibly want his ancestor’s old microscope for?”
Tayte didn’t know. His head was suddenly spinning with random thoughts. There was Queen Anne and a possible Whig conspiracy to end the Royal House of Stuart, five Royal Society Fellows who were hanged for high treason - probably framed, Jacobites, past and present in the form of Quo Veritas, and now, three hundred years later, it seemed that a ruthless killer was collecting family heirlooms from the descendants of these men of science. It occurred to Tayte then why Marcus Brown might have told him to hurry.
“Four murders,” he said. “Two from twenty years ago and two more recently. If I’m right - if the victims are descendants of the men we’ve been researching - then we’re running out of time. There may only be two descendants left.”
“How’s that?” Fable said.
“The Reverend Charles Naismith had twins, so he counts for two. Assuming for now that the rest had only one heir, that makes six in total.”
“Of which four are already dead,” Jean said.
Tayte stood up. He was suddenly in a hurry to get back to The National Archives. Wherever Marcus’s research was taking them it was clear to him now that current events had to take precedence. He needed to prove his theory and get to the remaining two descendants before it was too late.
He turned to Fable. “Any chance I can get a lift to Kew?”
Chapter Twelve
Before Tayte and DI Fable left the hotel, Fable gave him the information he would need to make a start on proving Alexander Walsh’s relationship to one of the five Royal Society Fellows, and twenty minutes later Tayte was dropped off at The National Archive’s car park beneath a dark and starry sky.
Fable lowered his window. “Call me as soon as you get anything,” he said. “I don’t care what time it is.”
“I’ll do that.”
Tayte watched the detective drive off and then he walked beside the now dark pond that fronted the building, heading for the entrance. He checked his watch. The glowing digits told him it was a little after ten p.m. and he thought Jean was probably in bed by now. Part of him wished he was, too, but sleep would hav
e to wait. It was going to be a long night.
He was surprised to see The National Archives so busy given the hour and how few people had offered to help. As he drew closer he saw a crowd near the entrance. There were two uniformed police officers beneath a bright spotlight, a security guard at the door and several other people were standing beyond the glass inside the foyer. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see a man with a briefcase that was not unlike his own, minus the bullet holes, heading towards the building with him.
He wondered what was going on. There was even a mobile news team outside: a three-person crew, composed of a female reporter, a cameraman with a shoulder unit and a sound tech with a fluffy grey microphone boom and spotlight. The reporter looked cold, like she’d been standing too long in the night breeze that swept in off the pond. She had a small microphone of her own, which she shoved towards Tayte as he approached.
“Can you tell us how you hope to catch this killer?” she asked.
The question threw Tayte. He hadn’t expected anything like this. He put a hand up in front of his face, partly because that spotlight was right in his eyes, and kept walking.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m in kind of a hurry.”
He turned back when he reached the foyer and saw the man who had been behind him stop and smile for the camera. Turning away again his eyes were drawn to a woman he recognised from his earlier visit. She was standing by the reception desk, talking to someone and pointing as though giving directions. It was Chief Executive Victoria Marsh. When she saw Tayte she came straight over.
“I was told you weren’t coming,” she said. She looked pleased to see him.
“I wasn’t. Not yet anyway. What’s happening? I thought we only had three people helping out.”
“That was it to begin with,” Marsh said. “For the first hour or so. Then more arrived and they’ve been pouring in ever since.”
Tayte started walking again, heading for the reading rooms. “So how many do we have?”
She looked unsure. “Twenty-five, maybe thirty.”
“From the convention?”
“Some,” Marsh said. “Most are employees and freelancers - people who knew Marcus or knew someone else who did.”
The Last Queen of England: A Genealogical Crime Mystery #3 (Jefferson Tayte) Page 11