‘I see,’ Tayte said, thinking that explained it.
‘My research has been extensive,’ Sinclair continued. ‘As has the rest of the family’s. Aileen married just the once, and she was married to Lachlan Fraser when Angus was born. Given what I’ve just told you, and the lack of any father listed on Angus’s birth certificate, it’s clear that Aileen must have had an affair during the time Lachlan was thought to be dead.’
‘The rest of the family?’ Tayte said, raising an eyebrow as he held on to Sinclair’s words. He doubted the rest of Sinclair’s family, the legitimate Fraser bloodline, could all be interested in their family history by chance. The reason seemed clear enough to him. ‘Are other members of your family looking for this gemstone mentioned in the letter?’
‘They are, and they’ve been looking for many years—it’s an integral part of the family legend I mentioned. They all believe they have a right to it, but it’s my belief that it once belonged to someone in my paternal bloodline, not theirs. And so, it seems, did Cornelius Dredger, or why didn’t he send his letter to their ancestor instead? It’s a treasure hunt to those greedy buggers, I can tell you.’
Tayte noted the resentment in Sinclair’s voice at the idea that another member of his family should find the gemstone. It made him all the more wary of Sinclair’s true motives for hiring him. He turned his thoughts back to the letter from 1869 and the reason Dredger had sent it.
‘In his letter,’ he said, ‘Dredger is essentially asking for money.’
‘That’s right. To fund an expedition to India.’
‘To search for the gemstone?’
‘Aye.’
‘And the other letters he mentions, from his great-aunt Jane in India. He believes her letters are the key to finding it?’
‘Apparently so.’
Tayte may not have been interested in a treasure hunt when he first sat down to talk about the assignment with Sinclair, but given the obvious extent of Sinclair’s research, and of the rest of his family’s for all Tayte knew, it occurred to him that there could be a way to identify Sinclair’s four-times-great-grandfather via the letters written by Dredger’s great-aunt. Maybe they could give him a name or some other piece of information that might prove useful in identifying who this man called Robert was.
‘Do you have those letters from Dredger’s great-aunt?’ Tayte asked, a hint of doubt in his voice, supposing that if Sinclair did have them he would have scoured them for clues and would perhaps have already found the answer he was looking for.
‘Sadly, I have just one letter,’ Sinclair said. ‘No more than that. I believe my unknown ancestor came into possession of the rest—which, as I’ve said, is how I come to have one of those letters today, by way of a family heirloom, if you will. As an overly curious wee bairn, I once came upon a thick bundle of old letters in a golden-clasped album that was in my grandfather’s possession at the time. I suspect that album contained the letters from Dredger’s great-aunt.’
‘You’ve no idea where the rest of the letters could be?’
Sinclair began to shake his head before Tayte had finished speaking. ‘No, but if you’re prepared to accept the assignment, you must come to Scotland and stay as my guest. You can talk to the rest of my family. Maybe one of them knows where those letters are.’
‘Stay in Scotland?’ Tayte said, surprised by the suggestion.
‘Of course. Where else?’
Tayte didn’t particularly like the idea of spending the duration of the assignment in Scotland. It wasn’t that he had anything against Scotland; it had always been on his list of places he’d like to visit someday. It was simply because Scotland was several hundred miles away, and he didn’t want to be so far from his family just now. If he accepted the assignment, however, he knew that Scotland was where he needed to be. He had to talk to Sinclair’s family, if they would agree to see him. He drew a deep breath and held on to it, thinking. A couple of years ago he wouldn’t have hesitated. He’d have been on the next train out of London, keen to get started. Now it was different. Now he had a family to consider.
‘I’m going to have to sleep on it,’ he said, and Sinclair nodded.
‘Of course you must. Just let me know once you’ve made your decision.’
That afternoon, he’d explained the situation to his wife, Jean, who’d said that as much as she would miss him, she thought he should go.
‘It’s only for a week or so,’ Jean had said. ‘I’ll be fine.’ Then she’d squeezed his hand and added, ‘You need this more than you know.’
An announcement stirred Tayte from the half-sleep he’d slipped back into since leaving Berwick-upon-Tweed, letting him know that the train would soon be arriving at Edinburgh, where he had to change for Perth. The letters Sinclair had sent to him had fallen into his lap as he’d drifted off. He put them back inside his jacket pocket beside his travel tickets and stretched, wondering what he’d let himself in for this time. As the train came to a stop, Tayte rose to collect his briefcase and the light luggage he’d brought with him, supposing there had to be more to this gemstone and the letters that spoke of it than met the eye.
Chapter Two
To Tayte, Damian Sinclair’s family home near Comrie seemed more like a castle. As he stepped out of the car that had collected him from Perth station, into the cool, late-afternoon sunshine, he paused, briefcase in hand and mouth agape while he stared at the Scottish Baronial architecture. He took in the grand main entrance, over which was suspended what he imagined was an imitation portcullis, although given the apparent age of the place, it could just as well have been the real thing. His eyes drifted up over the grey stone walls, over the layers of small mullioned windows set high up on the first level, presumably as a defensive measure, to the ornately carved corbels and conical bartizans that adorned the towers. He looked back across the stream the car had just crossed, which the driver had told him was called a burn, and then out over the countryside, to the trees in one direction and the far hills in the other. There wasn’t another house in sight.
‘This way, sir,’ the driver said, his broad Scots accent sounding more gruff to Tayte than he imagined was intended.
Tayte turned to face him, noting that he already had his suit carrier over one arm and his holdall in the other. He’d introduced himself as Murray. He was a short, stocky man with grey caterpillar eyebrows and a bald pate. Tayte thought him older than Sinclair, closer to sixty than fifty, perhaps, although it was difficult to tell on account of his weathered appearance. He was like no chauffeur Tayte had ever seen. He wore sagging blue corduroy trousers that were too short for him, scuffed tan boots, a navy-blue jumper with threadbare elbows, and no collar at his neck. The man’s appearance and general demeanour had done nothing to prepare Tayte for the grandeur of the house he was about to enter. He followed Murray towards the entrance, his loafers crunching on the gravel, thinking that the chauffeur and the old car he’d just travelled in, with its faded silver paintwork and well-worn seats, were oddly conflicting with his expectations.
Inside the house, however, everything became clear. Sinclair, it seemed, was not as well off as Tayte had imagined. At least, things had apparently slipped a great deal since the family’s heyday. The first thing he noticed was his breath swirling in front of him, the air inside the entrance hall being much cooler than outside. It gave Tayte his first clue that this was perhaps not a well-kept house. The decor left him in no doubt. He saw a once-grand oak staircase that had been varnished some time ago and was now patchy and flaking. The same was true of the carved wainscoting that covered the lower half of the walls, above which were lighter patches on the otherwise dark-cream paintwork, where paintings, tapestries and other wall-hangings had once been.
‘Mr Sinclair has instructed me to help settle you in,’ Murray said, scratching at the side of his nose as they arrived at the bottom of the staircase.
‘You mean I can’t see him now?’
Murray shook his head and very slowly bega
n to climb the stairs. ‘I’ll take you up to your room. Keep to the left going up. Right side coming down.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Woodworm. The old place is riddled.’
Tayte didn’t much like the sound of that. ‘Is it safe?’ he asked as they made their way up. ‘My room, I mean.’
‘You’ll be just fine as long as you don’t wander about too much.’
They came to the top of the staircase, where Tayte saw more evidence of missing family portraits and other artwork, which he imagined must have been sold off at one time or another, perhaps to pay for the estate’s upkeep. There was also very little furniture, and what there was had seen better days.
‘Stay clear of the east wing,’ Murray said, pointing along a dark, unlit corridor to their right. ‘The wee buggers have made a feast of the floorboards. We don’t want any accidents now, do we?’
‘No,’ Tayte agreed, taking his new environment in with a degree of both fascination and concern. ‘You have damp, too, I see,’ he added, pointing up at the ceiling as they made their way along the opposite corridor, which in contrast was pleasantly lit by a large sunny window at the far end.
‘Aye, and wet rot, dry rot. You name it.’
They stopped at the last door before the window. Murray put Tayte’s holdall down and produced a large key from his trouser pocket. ‘Here we are,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Mr Sinclair asked me to make up the corner room for you.’
Tayte followed Murray inside, not expecting much. He was pleasantly surprised. It was warm, spacious and flooded with sunlight from tall, leaded windows on two sides, one of which faced directly west. The mellow oak floorboards and rich yellow decor made it all the more cosy, and in the centre of the room was a carved, heavy-framed, four-poster bed.
‘I’ve made up the fireplace,’ Murray said, the floorboards creaking beneath him as he went further in. ‘It can be a wee bit cool come evening time. There are matches on the mantle if you’re one to feel the cold. If you need anything, there’s a bell-pull beside the bed there. I can’t guarantee you the kind of service you’re no doubt used to, but I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you,’ Tayte said, smiling, having warmed to the man already. He went to give him a tip for his service, but though he imagined Murray could have used the money, he flatly refused it.
‘It’s nae bother,’ he said, waving the money away, pulling a sour face as he did so. He set Tayte’s bags down and handed him the room key. ‘Dinner’s at seven. You’ll find the dining room easily enough. Turn right at the bottom of the stairs and follow the corridor. You can’t miss it.’
‘Got it.’
Murray made for the door. When he reached it he paused and turned back. ‘And remember what I said about the staircase,’ he added. Then he left Tayte alone.
Tayte checked his watch. It was just after five, giving him two hours to unpack his things and freshen up. What had he let himself in for this time? He paced over to the sunlit window and looked out. The sun was low in the sky, but there were still a few hours of daylight left. It felt hot through the glass, which he welcomed. He turned to the other window, which faced more to the south. It looked out over the burn to the front of the house, and he was reminded of the isolation he’d felt when he’d first taken in the landscape upon his arrival. Coming into the house had done little to change that. He’d imagined Sinclair lived with his family when he was home in Scotland, but he’d seen no evidence that anyone else was there, or anywhere nearby for that matter.
Thinking of family caused Tayte to check his phone. He was glad to see it had a signal, which prompted him to call Jean to say he’d arrived safely. As he waited for her to answer he looked up again, still facing the window, and realised he was wrong about there being no one else around. There was a figure on the other side of the burn. He thought it was a woman, but he couldn’t be sure. He supposed Sinclair must have family living there after all, or perhaps it was another member of staff. Whoever it was, he or she was standing perfectly still, staring up at the house as if directly at him. So much so that it began to unnerve him and he turned away. When he glanced back a moment later, the figure was gone.
At dinner that evening, Tayte was pleased to see the familiar face of Damian Sinclair again. Gone was the suit and tie from their meeting in London, in favour of a heavyweight, grey cable-knit jumper, attesting to the coolness of the air, which Tayte had felt as soon as he came downstairs. He didn’t mind. He usually felt too hot anyway, especially while he was eating, and he figured he could always keep his jacket on. Sinclair was already sitting at the dining table when Tayte entered the room, which, being on the ground level, was dimly lit from the small, high-level windows he’d seen on his arrival. The oak wainscoting ran floor to ceiling in this room, further darkening the environment, but there were electric lamps here and there and plenty of candles on the table, which helped to brighten the place.
‘Ah, there you are,’ Sinclair said, pointing a bony finger at him. ‘Welcome to Drumarthen House.’
‘Good evening,’ Tayte offered.
‘It is that. I trust you had an agreeable journey?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
Sinclair gestured for Tayte to sit in the chair opposite him, and Tayte pulled the chair out and sat down. He hadn’t expected it to feel so heavy as he slid it back over the flagstone floor, but he thought it matched well with the immense thickness of the dining table.
‘The dining room never used to be down here,’ Sinclair said, ‘but I’m sure Murray has warned you about the old place by now. You won’t be surprised to hear that I’ve chosen to stay clear of the upper floors until it’s time for my bed. The house once had a grand dining room. You could comfortably seat a hundred people in it, but those days are sadly long gone. This relatively small room provides more than enough space now.’
‘More than enough is a waste,’ Tayte said with a smile as he poured himself a glass of water from the jug.
Sinclair laughed to himself. ‘I see you’re a man after my own heart. I only wish I could heat the place better, but it’s near impossible with ceilings thirty feet high. Of course, I’m not here all the time, but Murray is—luckily he seems not to mind the cold so much.’
As if summoned by the mention of his name, Murray appeared through another doorway, carrying a beaten pewter tray that looked as if it had been in the family for generations.
‘Murray’s prepared us a hearty stew for supper,’ Sinclair said as Murray arrived at the table. ‘I trust you like rabbit? It’s fresh off the estate.’
‘I can’t say I’ve eaten it before.’
‘Then you’ll have to let me know what you think once you have.’
Murray set their meals in front of them in wide, steaming bowls. Then he set down another bowl, full of boiled potatoes.
Tayte drew the steam in. ‘It sure smells good.’
‘And I’m sure it will taste even better,’ Sinclair said. ‘Murray’s a fine cook.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Murray said. ‘I’ve lit the fire in the drawing room. Will that be all this evening?’
‘Of course, Murray, off you go. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘The faithful family retainer,’ Tayte said once Murray had left them. ‘He must have his work cut out in a place like this.’
‘Aye, he’s invaluable. I’ve had to let the rest of the staff go over the years and Murray has stood in for every one of them. I don’t know what I’d do without him.’
‘It must be reassuring to know you have someone here you can trust to take care of things while you’re in London.’
Sinclair nodded and spooned a few potatoes into his stew. ‘Well, do tuck in. We’ve much to talk about this evening.’
Tayte tried the stew. If he hadn’t been told it was rabbit, he thought he could easily have mistaken it for chicken. ‘It’s delicious,’ he said, taking another mouthful. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was.
‘So, you’re an American living in Londo
n,’ Sinclair said a moment later. ‘Is your wife American?’
‘No, Jean’s an Englishwoman—a history professor. We met in London a few years back. I now have dual citizenship, but we decided to live in London at her apartment until we’re more settled and the baby’s older.’
‘Ah yes, you have a wee bairn. Five months old, I believe you said. I’ll wager he keeps you and your wife busy.’
‘You can say that again. His name’s Benjamin.’
‘As in Franklin, no doubt,’ Sinclair said with a smile.
Tayte nodded. ‘It was my wife’s idea to continue the American Founding Fathers theme. She thought it sat well alongside Jefferson, and we both liked it. Even before little Ben came into the world, setting up the baby room and decorating the rest of the apartment along with it turned into a full-time occupation for a while. During what little spare time I’ve had, I’ve been looking into my own family history, which is something I’ve only recently been able to do.’
‘Why only recently?’
‘I was given up for adoption as a baby. It’s taken this long to discover who my parents were, which opened the door to the rest of my family history.’
‘Have you found anything interesting? Any skeletons in the closet?’
Tayte didn’t answer straight away. He’d uncovered terrible things in his recent family history, having been told that both of his parents had been murdered, but since identifying his bloodline, his further research had turned up nothing out of the ordinary. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to talk about his parents and the discoveries he’d made in Germany with this man he barely knew, so he decided to keep his answer simple.
‘I don’t know about skeletons in the closet,’ he said. ‘I found that my parents and grandparents on both sides are dead, which is too bad. I’d like to have known them. It’s wonderful to finally be able to trace my own family history, though.’
Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7) Page 2