The Lost Empress

by Steve Robinson

  He opened another browser and brought up a map application. A few seconds later he was looking at an aerial photograph of a mansion and grounds that were not far from his current location, but he knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get in touch with the occupants—he didn’t expect to find their number in the phone directory. He reminded himself of the welcome Raife Metcalfe had given him at Hamberley when he’d first arrived in England, and he decided he didn’t want to turn up unannounced again this time.

  DI Bishop . . .

  Tayte thought that as Bishop had managed to get him an interview with Reginald Metcalfe at Hamberley the day before, it was worth a phone call to find out whether he could help out again with the Ashcrofts. Tayte checked the time again and thought it a little too early to call to find out, so he made for the shower, thinking that if DI Bishop couldn’t help, he’d go along to the address anyway, if only to find out whether the Ashcrofts still lived there.

  Two hours later, Tayte was sitting in the front passenger seat of DI Bishop’s unmarked police car, briefcase between his feet, heading for an address the Inspector had told him was no more than a fifteen-minute drive into the Kent countryside, to the south of their present location. When Tayte had called, he’d thought Bishop sounded far from enthusiastic about the prospects of visiting the Ashcroft family, but Bishop had offered to see what he could find out. He’d called back an hour later, having confirmed in that time an appointment with the current Lord Ashcroft, who was descended from Archibald Ashcroft’s brother, Ernest.

  ‘They’re having a tennis lesson until eleven,’ Bishop said, chewing on one of Tayte’s Mr Goodbar Hershey’s miniatures. He pulled the car out of the hotel car park onto the main road.

  ‘It’s a fine morning for it,’ Tayte said, gazing out the window and up into the blue, wondering what new information he might discover today. ‘Did you have any trouble persuading the family to see us?’

  ‘None at all. Once I’d explained who you were and the nature of our visit, I was informed that Lord Ashcroft was only too happy to see us.’

  ‘That makes a nice change,’ Tayte said, reminding both of them that his occupational penchant for digging up the past wasn’t always welcome.

  Bishop laughed under his breath as they continued through Chatham’s suburbs in the seemingly ever-present traffic.

  ‘I was hoping to see you today, anyway,’ Bishop said. ‘With any luck I should have something to show you later.’

  ‘With any luck?’

  ‘It might be nothing, but if it is, how are you fixed this afternoon?’

  Tayte thought his schedule was far from crowded. ‘No plans I can’t change,’ he said, thinking that he had to pick his car up from Gillingham Marina where he’d left it because he’d taken a taxi back to his hotel the night before. ‘I thought I’d call on Mrs Scanlon at some point. She’s understandably keen to help find her husband’s killer, and she’s proving to be very helpful.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure she’s pinning a lot of hope on your assignment. I do hope all this is leading somewhere.’

  So did Tayte. He couldn’t miss the sideways glance Bishop had given him as he said that, letting him know that he remained sceptical about the value of Tayte’s assignment in his murder investigation.

  They turned off the main road, leaving the town behind them, and the landscape seemed to change in an instant from concrete grey to emerald green.

  ‘How long have you been in law enforcement?’ Tayte asked.

  ‘I’ve worked for Kent police since I dropped out of university partway through my second term,’ Bishop said. ‘I suppose I rejected my further education at Canterbury as a protest against my parents. They seemed determined to dictate the entire course of my life, but I can see now that they meant well. They wanted me to become a barrister, and with a family history embedded in the judiciary for generations, I suppose law at one level or another was always on the cards for me.’

  ‘But you didn’t want to be a barrister?’

  ‘I was young. I think I just didn’t want to be what my parents wanted me to be. So I chose to help tackle crime at the source—prevention over prosecution, as it were.’

  ‘Well, it’s an admirable profession,’ Tayte said.

  Bishop laughed. ‘I wish everyone shared that view.’

  They continued in silence for about half a mile, when Tayte’s thoughts turned back to the events of the day before. ‘Did you turn anything up after the break-ins at Mrs Scanlon’s properties?’ he asked. ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Nothing to get excited about. It’s amazing the amount of material our modern forensics teams can gather from a scene, but it takes time to analyse. And even if they do find a match with anything found at the scene of Lionel Scanlon’s murder, it only tells us that the same person was likely present at both locations. Unless he’s on file, it’s unlikely we’d be able to confirm his identity until we have a suspect to bring in.’

  Tayte was beginning to wonder how anything he might uncover by digging up Alice Stilwell’s past life might lead to a suspect here in the present, although it wouldn’t be the first time that had happened. ‘Are you any closer to finding a motive for Lionel Scanlon’s murder?’

  Bishop gave a wry smile. ‘That would be nice, but I’m hoping that’s where you come in. His killer clearly wants something he thought Mr Scanlon had with him in his workshop that night. If the same man was responsible for the break-ins, then I have a good idea of his height and build, although both are pretty average, which doesn’t help.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  Bishop nodded. ‘In a manner of speaking. There are plenty of CCTV cameras at the Marina. The images from the floor covering Mrs Scanlon’s apartment show a man wearing blue maintenance overalls and a grey ski mask, exiting the lift. He collects a fire extinguisher from the rack on the wall and hammers at the apartment door until the lock gives out. Then in he goes. He’s inside no more that five minutes before he’s seen going back into the lift. Job done.’

  ‘What about the other cameras?’ Tayte asked. ‘Was he seen anywhere else?’

  ‘Not in any way that he could be recognised. My guess is that he’d checked the camera locations beforehand and planned his exit so as to avoid them. I suspect he changed out of the overalls and removed his mask in the lift.’

  ‘It wasn’t covered by the security cameras?’

  ‘No, and he must have known that, too. They’re generally not too hard to spot, mind you.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he was careless enough to leave the overalls and mask behind?’

  Bishop drew a breath through his teeth, shaking his head as he turned the car onto a lane bordered by farmland—wheat still young and green in the sunlit fields. ‘No, and he’s proving to be anything but careless. The overalls were marina issue, for maintenance staff. They wouldn’t have been too hard to pick up, and without the mask he’d have blended right in, even if he was still wearing them when he came back out of the lift. The only other people who show up on the various cameras around the time of the break-in can be accounted for. They’re mostly staff and a few people who live at the marina, or have boats moored there. None of the people we interviewed afterwards saw anything unusual. It’s like he just vanished, but as I say, you just have to know where the cameras are.’

  They reached a junction and turned right, plunging into shade beneath a leafy canopy as the road rose before them.

  ‘We’re almost there,’ Bishop said. ‘Have you got your questions worked out?’

  Tayte smiled to himself. ‘I don’t really work to an agenda like that, but yes, I’m all set. I often find it best just to set the ball rolling and listen. Folks generally like to talk about the past once they get started, and who doesn’t like an excuse to get the old family photos out?’

  As they came to the brow of the hill and emerged from the canopy of trees, Tayte saw the house
they were heading for to their left. He recognised the bold red brickwork and the general landscape of fields and trees from the aerial view he’d seen on his laptop earlier. Drawing closer, he thought that it was not on the same stately scale as Hamberley, but it was nonetheless a fine English mansion, with several thick chimney stacks on two main floors, Dutch gables and a tower-like main entrance that was topped with a pediment.

  When Bishop turned the car onto the drive and proceeded past what appeared to be the ruin of the former gatehouse, Tayte began to wonder just how close Alice had been to the young Archibald Ashcroft and how much the descendants of his brother, Ernest, knew about their time together before the First World War. As Bishop stopped the car on the limestone gravel outside the main entrance, Tayte supposed he was about to find out.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Tayte and DI Bishop were met on the drive of the Ashcroft residence by a cheerful young member of staff in a smart navy suit. He informally introduced himself as John, and then he escorted them to the rear of the house, where the thump of tennis balls could be heard. John ushered them to a table on the partially shaded terrace behind the house, which overlooked the tennis court and gardens, with an expanse of hazy countryside beyond.

  ‘They should be finished soon,’ John said as they sat down. ‘Can I get you something to drink?’

  ‘Black coffee, thanks,’ Tayte and Bishop said in harmony, and John left them to watch the tennis, which Tayte thought was all very British.

  He settled back on the upholstered rattan chair he’d been invited to sit on, and while they waited for their hosts to finish their game, he asked Bishop, ‘Are you from Kent?’

  Bishop raised his eyebrows and nodded. ‘Born and bred.’

  ‘So, are you a Kentish man or a man of Kent? I see there’s a distinction, depending on where you were born.’

  ‘I was born near Canterbury, east of the River Medway, so according to folk lore that makes me a man of Kent.’

  ‘And any man born in Kent to the west of the Medway is a Kentish man?’

  ‘Or maid if it’s a woman. It harks back to the days of William the Conqueror. The East resisted the invasion, while the West surrendered without putting up much of a fight, so the East came to regard the West as Kent-ish, or so I read.’

  Tayte became aware then that the near constant sound of a tennis ball being thumped back and forth since their arrival had stopped. He looked back towards the court to see three people—two men and a woman in their tennis whites—walking slowly up the garden path towards them. They were dabbing at their perspiration with towels as they talked, and judging from his animated arm movements, Tayte supposed the taller, younger of the two men was the tennis coach, finishing off the lesson. The coach broke away before reaching the terrace steps, and Tayte and Bishop stood up as their hosts came to meet them.

  ‘Good morning,’ the man said in bright tones, still trying to catch his breath. ‘It’s another fine one, isn’t it? Although I could use a breeze to help cool me down.’

  Tayte and Bishop returned his smile. Tayte put him in his fifties. He had short brown hair of a slightly unnatural shade, which was glistening with sweat in the sunlight. Beside him was a woman who appeared a few years his junior, her blonde hair tied up in a ponytail behind her tennis cap.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us, Lord Ashcroft,’ Bishop said. Then, as he made to continue, their host stopped him.

  ‘Do call me Brendan,’ he said. ‘I don’t go in for all that peerage puffery. This is my wife, Rachel.’

  Everyone sat down, and John arrived with a tray bearing a large cafetière of coffee with all the usual accoutrements, two tall glasses, and a jug containing what appeared to be Pimm’s.

  ‘The sun’s just about over the yardarm,’ Brendan said as he poured his and his wife’s drinks. ‘At least, it is in the North Atlantic this time of year, which is where the phrase was first coined, and Pimm’s is just the tonic after a gruelling hour on the court. Help yourselves to the coffee, or shall I have John bring some more glasses?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bishop said, ‘but not while I’m on duty.’

  ‘Coffee’s good for me,’ Tayte added as he picked up the cafetière and poured, thinking that a caffeine shot was all the tonic he needed.

  ‘Will there be anything else?’ John asked, addressing Brendan.

  Brendan began to answer, but his wife beat him to it. ‘There’s a cardboard box on the landing at the top of the back staircase,’ she said. ‘Could you bring it out to us?’

  ‘Of course,’ John said, and then he retreated back into the house via the terrace doors he’d previously arrived by.

  The idea of a box being brought out to them greatly intrigued Tayte. He was already imagining what it might contain, hoping there would be something to help unlock another piece of the puzzle that was Alice Stilwell’s life.

  ‘So . . .’ Brendan said as they all settled back with their drinks. ‘How can we be of service?’

  Bishop answered. ‘I’m investigating a recent murder that could be connected to events that occurred a hundred years ago.’

  Tayte saw that as his cue to join in. ‘And I’m trying to put those past events together,’ he said. ‘Events that appear to centre around a young woman called Alice Stilwell née Metcalfe. Are you still in touch with the Metcalfe family? By all accounts your ancestors were close family friends.’

  ‘Not so much these days, I’m afraid,’ Brendan said. ‘We cross paths at one function or another from time to time, but that’s about it. Associative friendships tend to drift once the root has gone, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they do,’ Tayte said, thinking that he hadn’t been in touch with Marcus Brown’s wife, Emmy, so much since his old friend had died. He made a mental note to correct that, and then he moved the conversation on. ‘I’ve heard that Alice was a close childhood friend of Archibald Ashcroft—your great-grandfather’s brother and the son of Lord Thomas Ashcroft.’

  Tayte already had his briefcase open on the floor beside him, with Davina’s photo at the ready. He withdrew it and slid it across the table, indicating the two young people he was referring to.

  ‘I know the names,’ Brendan said, and Rachel nodded in agreement. ‘I’ve no need to tell you that Thomas Ashcroft was a naval man—that much is plain from this picture. You might not know, however, that Archibald followed in his father’s footsteps.’

  ‘He died very young, didn’t he?’ Rachel said. She sounded unsure.

  Brendan nodded. ‘I believe the First World War took him, although I’ve never checked. I suppose that’s why my great-grandfather, Ernest, inherited all this.’ He cast a hand towards the house and added, ‘Fate can change with the wind, can’t it? For good or bad.’

  John came out with the aforementioned box then, and Rachel went to meet him, carrying it the rest of the way before setting it down on the floor beside her chair. Tayte thought it looked like an old hat box, and it was still dusty, clearly having been tucked away out of sight and mind for some years. Rachel sat down again, removed the lid and reached inside, bringing a handful of old photographs up onto the table.

  ‘I knew we had these somewhere,’ she said. ‘It didn’t take long to find them after you called this morning, Inspector.’ She began to flick through the images, pausing from time to time to study one. ‘Most of them look too recent to be of any interest to you,’ she added. Then she set them aside and delved into the box again, bringing up another handful. ‘Here we are. This looks more promising.’

  She looked one of the photographs over and then passed it to Tayte. ‘That’s from Granddad Ernest’s wedding. September 1912.’ She grinned at Tayte. ‘I only know that because it says so on the back.’

  Tayte turned the image over and read the now faint handwriting. He considered such thoughtful labelling as something of a gift in his profession; an image and a few wel
l-chosen words, especially names and dates, could confirm so much. Rachel offered up another photograph, and Tayte was pleased to see that whoever had written on the back of the image he was holding had clearly made a habit of it.

  ‘Hubby at the coronation, June 1911,’ Rachel read out.

  The image was of a proud, if somewhat stern-faced, man in a highly decorated dress uniform, at what was evidently the coronation of King George V.

  ‘The handwriting’s the same,’ Rachel added, confirming that the inscriptions had been written by Thomas Ashcroft’s wife.

  Tayte noticed that Rachel’s face had suddenly lit up. She had another image in her hand, which she slid across the table. It was the young boy and girl he recognised from the photograph Davina had loaned him: Archibald and Alice, holding hands in front of a merry-go-round. They were a few years older in this image, but the resemblance was unmistakable. The words Tayte read on the back as he turned it over confirmed it, along with the year 1897, making Alice seven years old when the photograph was taken. Tayte squinted at her image, trying to see the resemblance with his client’s great-grandmother, but Alice was still too young in this photograph to be sure.

  ‘The boy was just like his father,’ Brendan said, interrupting Tayte’s scrutiny.

  He looked up to see Brendan looking over his wife’s shoulder at the next image she was holding. A moment later, Rachel offered it up. It showed a young man in a naval officer’s uniform, who looked to be in his early twenties, his abundant smile dimpling his cheeks. In the background a building faced predominantly with Portland stone filled the shot.