‘Loyalty?’ Saxby scoffed. ‘I’m afraid this great country of ours turned its back on us Saxbys a long time ago. My family went to India to help build the British Empire, and what thanks do you suppose they received?’
Alice didn’t answer.
‘They were slaughtered, Alice, all but my father, who was just a small boy then. And all for want of a relief column that was never sent. Where was their country’s loyalty to them when they most needed it?’ Saxby laughed sourly. ‘No, I’m afraid I have very little loyalty in me.’
‘Well, what of friendship? You’ve been a close friend of my family’s since you were a boy. Doesn’t that count for anything?’
‘Like I said, Alice. It was time to choose a side, and some paths once taken are impossible to deviate from. Now I think we’ve chatted long enough. I shudder to think what this telephone call is going to cost you.’
Alice didn’t care what it cost. She had enough money—Archie had seen to that—and this was unquestionably the most important conversation of her life. She was about to ask Saxby why he’d chosen her, and whether it was because of her closeness to Archie, just so that she could use him to get the defence plans they wanted, but as she started to speak, she knew any further questions would have to wait. The call had already ended.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Present day.
An early start to another bright new day saw Jefferson Tayte at one of his most frequented locales—the churchyard. This particular churchyard belonged to a flint-and red-tiled church of early twelfth-century origin called St Peter’s, which was located in the village of Bredhurst, South Gillingham, no more than two miles from the Ashcroft residence Tayte had visited the day before. He was standing beside a family burial plot in God’s Acre—as he’d been informed this particular churchyard was commonly known—surrounded by trees and encircled by a low wall, the dewy grass at his feet dampening his loafers.
The research he and Davina had conducted at her home the day before, during what had turned into a pleasant evening of good food and good company, had revealed much about Archibald Ashcroft—who, as well as Davina and the lengthy meal she had prepared, had dominated the evening, leaving no time to explore any of the other lines of research he wanted to follow. By the time Tayte went back to his hotel, later than he’d planned to and accordingly ready for his bed, he had discovered all he thought he could hope to about the young naval officer. It had become apparent that Archibald had not died during the First World War as the current Lord Ashcroft had supposed, but had instead died the day after the warrant had been issued for Alice Stilwell’s arrest, which threw the timing of his death into an entirely different light.
Tayte continued to gaze upon the nautically themed burial plot before him, taking in the large stone anchor that formed the cross, and the depiction of a ship’s sail being blown on a heavenly course by a cloud of angels, thinking that although it was good to talk to the family, it was also vital to back things up with hard facts. His eyes drifted back over the faded but legible inscription he’d gone there to see: ‘Archibald Ashcroft. 1889–1914. Died May 3rd. Age 25 years.’
This revelation had led Tayte to wonder whether Brendan Ashcroft’s mistake over the year Archibald died had been forced in an attempt to throw him off the scent. Surely Brendan had visited the family burial plot before and knew precisely when Archibald died. Although, Tayte had to concede that this was an old family plot, long since full. If Brendan were even the type to visit his family’s graves with any regularity, he would likely now do so at the crematorium.
Had Archibald’s involvement with Alice—and more importantly, the threat of his own activities coming to light—caused Brendan Ashcroft to take steps to keep the past buried? Tayte wondered whether the notebook mentioned in the telegram Davina had shown him might contain something to implicate Archibald more directly in crimes against his country, but it was a fanciful thought. Protecting the memory of the dead, or the reputation of the living, still seemed to Tayte too weak a motive for murder a hundred years on, although it was a possibility he could not rule out.
The close proximity of these incontrovertible events—of Alice’s attempted arrest and Archibald’s death—had led Tayte and Davina deeper into the circumstances of his demise, and by the end of the evening Tayte had formed a clear picture in his mind, leaving him in no doubt that Archibald had aided and abetted Alice, born as his actions surely were out of their long-standing friendship and, in all probability, his deeply affected love for her.
From various newspaper archives such as The Times and the recently defunct Liverpool Daily Post, Tayte had learned that Archibald’s body had been found on the outskirts of Liverpool, in a car that later proved to be registered to him. Tayte had read how he had died from blood loss following a stab wound, and much mystery had surrounded the piece for both the newspaper reporter and Tayte. Then Tayte found a later report that connected Archibald’s murder to another murder, discovered that same day in a village not far from where Archibald’s body had been found. This other man had suffered a similar knife wound, thought to have been inflicted by the same weapon, but which was more instantly fatal. He carried no identification papers and was travelling in a car registered to an untraceable alias, which had only served to deepen the mystery further.
Knowing all that Tayte now knew, he saw it as far less of a mystery. It seemed clear to him that Alice and Archibald had been pursued. The fact that this other man was not a policeman or an officer from the Secret Service Bureau—who would have been carrying identification papers if he were—told Tayte that they were being pursued for reasons other than arrest. Their pursuer had clearly caught up with them, for what good it did him, and a fight had ensued. Tayte couldn’t help but wonder whether the reason Alice and Archibald were being pursued at all was because of the notebook he had come to believe Alice was carrying with her when she fled to Quebec.
Details of the final part of Alice’s journey had been provided by the Outbound Passenger Lists for Britain: 1890–1960, which he had searched online towards the end of his evening with Davina. The pertinent record told Tayte that Alice had sailed on the RMS Laurentic from Liverpool, having departed for Quebec on the third of May, the day after Archibald had died. This left no question in Tayte’s mind that Archie had helped Alice make her escape and had paid the ultimate price for doing so.
Tayte checked his watch and turned away from Archibald’s resting place. He popped a Mr Goodbar miniature into his mouth and made his way back out along the path and through the gate to his car. He had two meetings planned for that morning. DI Bishop had called to say that Dean Saxby wanted to see him, and Bishop thought Tayte might like to go along. The second was a meeting with Lady Vivienne Metcalfe. A highly unexpected phone call the night before had left him with the promise of seeing someone who held a key piece of the puzzle, and she had said to meet him at the Historic Dockyard Chatham at eleven.
It felt to Tayte as though there were twice as many steps in the stairwell to Dean Saxby’s flat as there had been the day before. He was always a few paces behind DI Bishop, and as they neared what he hoped was the top, he had the feeling that Bishop had slowed down for him.
‘What does he want to see you about?’ Tayte asked, panting.
‘He said he had some information that could be useful to my case. Lord knows why he couldn’t have told us yesterday. I expect we’re wasting our time, but you never know.’
They reached another level where the stairwell flattened out, and Tayte was relieved to see the number 9 on the door that led out to the flats on that level. One flight to go.
‘I checked up on him,’ Bishop said. ‘He was arrested for domestic violence last year—put his wife in hospital, but she dropped the charges.’
‘I guess that explains the divorce.’
Bishop agreed. ‘At least she had the good sense to end their marriage.’
They reache
d the top floor and left the stairwell, pacing out onto the balconied walkway that looked down over the rooftops of the terraced houses below. Tayte drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air to clear out the tang of ammonia that was prevalent in the stairwell from countless dried urine stains.
‘Are you telling me that,’ Tayte asked, ‘because you think Dean Saxby’s violent nature has a bearing on the case?’
‘No,’ Bishop said, ‘but my experience won’t let me ignore it. And what if Lionel Scanlon’s murder was nothing more than a burglary attempt gone wrong after all? Whether it’s connected with your assignment or not, if he thought there was money to be made from it, I’d say that Dean Saxby had a pretty strong motive given his impoverished circumstances, and he clearly has a temperament for violence. That said,’ Bishop continued, ‘he does seem to be on the level. I followed up on the sale of that cigar case yesterday afternoon. It checked out.’
They reached the door to Dean Saxby’s flat, and a moment later they were invited in. No refreshments were offered this time.
‘So what did you want to tell me?’ Bishop asked him. ‘You said you had some information about the Scanlon case.’
‘That’s right.’ Dean paused. His eyes flitted back and forth between Bishop and Tayte. ‘Before I tell you’—he stopped again, as if he was having difficulty with what he wanted to say—‘I read about a reward.’
‘Did you now?’ Bishop said, throwing Tayte a cynical glance. ‘When was that?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, when did you read that a reward had been offered.’
‘Yesterday, after you left. I thought I’d look into the murder some more. Amazing what you can find on the Web. Why does it matter when I read about it?’
Bishop smiled to himself. ‘It just strikes me as an odd coincidence that you—a man who’s obviously short of money—should suddenly have something to offer my case less than twenty-four hours after reading about the reward. Why didn’t you say what you had to say yesterday?’
‘It didn’t come to me at the time—not until after you left.’
‘No, of course not,’ Bishop said, and Tayte noted the sarcasm in his tone, even if Dean Saxby didn’t.
‘So, if what I’m about to tell you leads anywhere,’ Dean said. ‘I’ll get the reward, right?’
‘Possibly, yes. If it leads to a conviction.’
Dean smiled to himself. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Lionel Scanlon was in the middle of a phone call when I went to see him. The door wasn’t locked, so I went in. He was standing behind his desk in his overalls, talking on one of those old-fashioned phones with the curly wire. He put his hand up to stop me approaching, which I did, but I could hear most of what he said. He said he couldn’t find it, whatever “it” was, and that he needed more time. The conversation must have become heated then, because Scanlon couldn’t seem to get a word in edgeways, and I could hear the other voice in the speaker for the first time, not that I could make anything out. Before the call ended, though, I did hear the name “Metcalfe.” ’
‘Metcalfe?’ Tayte repeated, unable to stop himself.
Dean nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘Did you hear a first name?’
‘No, that’s it.’
‘And there was no mention of what Mr Scanlon couldn’t find?’ Bishop asked.
‘I just said that’s all I heard. Maybe it’s not much, but it could lead somewhere, right?’
Tayte thought it certainly tied in with the idea that Lionel Scanlon’s killer was looking for something. Metcalfe . . . The name offered several candidates, and foremost in Tayte’s mind was Raife, but he still couldn’t discount Lord Reginald Metcalfe either.
‘Well, thank you for the information,’ Bishop said. He made for the door, and Tayte followed him.
‘So, you’ll let me know about the reward?’ Dean called after them.
They paused in the cramped hallway, and Bishop turned back and said, ‘Of course, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ He had a foot outside when he turned back again and asked, ‘Just for the record, could you tell me where you were on Tuesday last, up until lunchtime? That was only two days ago. I’m sure you can remember.’
Tayte thought back and quickly realised that was when Davina’s house and apartment were broken into.
‘Here we go again,’ Dean said. ‘I’ve just helped you out, and you’re still getting at me. Why do you want to know this time? Someone else murdered, was there?’
‘Just tell me where you were, Mr Saxby, and we’ll be on our way.’
‘I told you yesterday. I’ve got no work on. I made a few phone calls to see if I could get any, as I do most mornings, and then I played some Xbox and watched the telly.’
‘Thank you,’ Bishop said, forcing a smile. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’
HM Dockyard Chatham, as the dockyard was once called, had served the Royal Navy for more than four centuries before the last hammer fell in 1984. In its heyday it provided jobs for ten thousand workers across a four-hundred-acre site. Now known as the Historic Dockyard Chatham, it was an eighty-four-acre Georgian maritime museum, home to three historic warships and an important trove of British naval history.
As he stepped out into the late morning sunshine, Tayte had his head down in the information leaflet he’d been given along with his admittance ticket. He was looking at the map that had thoughtfully been printed on the back of the leaflet, searching for the Wheelwrights’ restaurant. That was where Lady Metcalfe had said she would meet him, adding that the dockyard would be easy for him to find and that she didn’t think it was a good idea for him to return to Hamberley. Tayte suspected the reason was also because Lady Metcalfe didn’t want her husband to know she was talking to him.
He looked up from the map to get his bearings. There were covered slips ahead, and on his right there were several long huts—one of which, according to the map, was the restaurant, which he soon found a few doors down. As he made his way inside, he was glad that Lady Metcalfe had chosen to meet him at the dockyard, or he might otherwise never have seen it. He supposed Alice must have visited many times herself, given who her father was, and he tried to imagine the dockyard as it had been then—fully functioning and unknowingly preparing for war.
Tayte thought the interior of the Wheelwrights’ had a cafeteria feel to it. It was long and narrow, the walls and vaulted ceiling painted chalky white, the bare wooden tables set along the side walls and in a continuous line down the centre, perhaps to represent a ship’s mess. It was quiet. Lady Metcalfe was easy to spot, sitting in a pale peach summer coat at one of the side tables, beneath one of several windows that ran the length of the building.
Tayte fixed his best smile as he approached, and at the same time he noticed the brown envelope in front of her. ‘Lady Metcalfe,’ he said. ‘I can’t tell you how excited I’ve been since I got your call.’
‘I just want to know the truth,’ Lady Metcalfe said, dispensing with the formalities. ‘The idea of a traitor in the family is doing nothing for my husband’s health.’
Tayte was about to offer an apology for stirring up the past as he had, but Lady Metcalfe continued without pause.
‘Did Alice Stilwell die when that ship went down in 1914, or didn’t she? Was she spying, and if so, why? I refuse to believe that a young girl with such a patriotic upbringing as Alice would have received from her father would do such a thing willingly.’
Tayte didn’t believe it either. ‘I’ve seen proof that confirms Alice was wanted in connection with spying,’ Tayte said. Diplomatically or otherwise, he chose not to tell her that Alice had also been wanted in connection with murder. ‘As for the rest . . .’ he paused. ‘All I can say is that I’m still working on it.’
Lady Metcalfe placed a hand on the envelope before her and slid it across the table. ‘Maybe this will help answer my first q
uestion.’
Tayte opened it. When he saw the edges of two old photographs, the corners of his mouth curled into a smile. He held his breath as he withdrew them and set them down in front of him. One image was of a family gathering at Christmas time, showing several happy-looking people in front of the tree. He had no difficulty picking Alice out, or her father, whom he recognised from Davina’s photograph. The second image was a full portrait of Alice Stilwell—or Dixon; it no longer made a difference. He knew right there and then that he was looking at the proof he needed. He’d studied the photograph his client had given him of Alice Dixon enough times to need no further confirmation. They were without question one and the same person.
Just the same, for Lady Metcalfe’s benefit Tayte went into his briefcase and found the image. He set it down beside the others and let his smile flourish. There were perhaps a few years between them, but in those years Alice had changed little. He turned the photographs around.
‘I think that does indeed answer your first question,’ he said. ‘No, Alice Stilwell did not die in 1914.’
Lady Metcalfe studied the photographs in silence for several seconds, and Tayte could see that the stark comparison between the images had taken her aback. He supposed then that she had likely come to him hoping for a different outcome. Perhaps she had hoped to prove his assignment folly, and that realising it as such, he would pack his bags and go home again—and for her husband’s sake, stir the Metcalfe family past no more.
‘Would it be okay with you if I held on to these photos for the time being?’ Tayte asked. ‘I’ll be sure to return them once my assignment’s finished.’
The sudden change in Lady Metcalfe’s expression told Tayte that she wasn’t keen on the idea. ‘Well, I . . .’ She paused as if weighing up her answer. Then she seemed to change her mind. ‘Yes, I suppose that would be okay.’
‘Thanks,’ Tayte said. ‘I’ll take good care of them.’ He gathered the photographs together and put them in his briefcase. ‘Now only one of your questions remains to be answered. Why did she do it?’
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