As they left, Tayte was still ruminating over what he’d just seen inside Drummond’s box of records. He understood now that they were not simply family history records—not all his family history records at least. They were records pertaining to his search for the ruby. He followed Murray downstairs to where Sinclair was waiting for them, and as he went he wondered just how deep Drummond’s research ran. How had the doctor come to learn of the Christie name? Tayte had thought himself the first to make that association through Sinclair’s four-times-great-grandfather, Sir Robert Christie, but here was proof that Drummond had also known. He recalled Sinclair telling him that he and Drummond had collaborated on their research for a time, and he wondered, as he had before now, whether Sinclair had really known the identity of his Christie ancestor all along.
The funeral service was a small affair, attended only by a handful of friends and family members, and a few locals who had come to pay their respects. As those who were gathered around Jamie Sinclair’s grave started to move away and the gravediggers began tipping soil on to the coffin, the cool late-morning air filled with the haunting sound of a lone piper as he filled his bagpipes and proceeded to play ‘Amazing Grace.’ It charged the atmosphere with such emotion that even Tayte, who had not known Jamie, was touched by it. Sinclair, in his full, predominantly red-and-green Clan Sinclair highland dress, had carried the same stolid expression since the funeral car had arrived to collect them from Drumarthen.
‘It was a beautiful service,’ Sinclair said to Tayte as they walked the gravel path back through the churchyard beneath their umbrellas. ‘It’s a pity the weather’s so dreich.’
Tayte nodded in agreement, thankful for the loan of Sinclair’s old black trench coat, having improved the fit a little by leaving his suit jacket hanging in the hall. ‘Those bagpipes really get to me,’ he said, dabbing the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. ‘It’s a tradition back home that they’re played at fire and police department funerals. It dates back to the potato famine, when Irish immigration in particular was at its peak.’
‘I had no idea,’ Sinclair said. ‘You learn something new every day.’
They walked slowly and in silence for a while between myriad headstones to either side of them, both men looking down at their shoes much of the time.
‘Is Murray going to be okay?’ Tayte asked. ‘I was surprised when he said he wasn’t coming out to the graveside.’
‘Oh, he’ll be fine in a wee while,’ Sinclair said. ‘As I’m sure I told you, Murray was something of a father figure to Jamie.’
‘Yes, I remember.’
‘Aye, well they were very close. I suppose he couldn’t bring himself to watch poor Jamie’s coffin being lowered into the ground, that’s all it is. We must all deal with such things in our own way. I expect he’ll be waiting for us at the car.’
‘Is there going to be a wake?’ Tayte asked.
‘It’s traditional, of course, but in light of everything else that’s been going on, I decided not to. We’ll raise a dram to Jamie when we get back to the house, mind. I hope you’ll join us.’
‘Of course,’ Tayte said as they continued to amble along the path, in no hurry to leave.
Sinclair fell quiet again, and Tayte left him to his thoughts, his gaze returning absently to the headstones, more out of professional habit than interest as he passed beside them. Names and dates began to drift through his mind, and one of those names caught his attention. He stopped beside it, and Sinclair stopped with him.
‘Fiona Murray,’ Tayte read out. ‘Any relation to your Murray?’ he asked Sinclair, supposing there must be other people with the Murray name in the area.
Sinclair looked down at the headstone. ‘Fiona was Murray’s daughter,’ he said with a sigh, as if recalling her. ‘She was a beautiful wee girl—the light in her father’s eyes. Murray doted on her, as any father might, not least because of how she came into the world.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Poor Murray’s wife, Heather, died during the birth. Murray brought Fiona up at Drumarthen by himself, accepting help from no one. He felt it was his duty alone because he blamed himself for his wife’s death. His pain eased in time, of course. Fiona looked so much like her mother that I suppose he took comfort from seeing her again through his daughter, as it were. Then Fiona, too, was taken from him.’
‘She died young,’ Tayte said, noting that she had passed twenty years ago, aged twenty-six.
‘Aye, that she was—another victim of alcohol and drugs. Fiona was Ewan Blair’s partner at the time. He woke up one morning to find her lying in her own vomit. She’d been dead for hours.’
‘Ewan Blair?’
‘The very same. He won her over with his charm, and they lived together for a while. He soon had her hooked on cocaine, by all accounts. It turns out that his side of the family knew what was going on, but they kept it from Murray and me. They knew what Blair was getting the poor girl into, and they did nothing to prevent it.’
They moved on. Behind them, accompanying them at a distance back to the church, the piper continued to play. It was clear to Tayte now why Murray had flared up at Blair the last time he’d come to the house, and who could blame him? So this was the ‘old business’ DI Ross had referred to when he’d visited Drumarthen the morning Blair had been murdered, pointing his accusatory finger at Murray, who was clearly someone with an axe to grind when it came to the other side of the family. It was easy to see how Murray might have blamed not just Blair, but everyone else who knew the danger his daughter was in and yet did nothing about it.
‘It’s a tragic story,’ Tayte said, still reflecting on what he’d heard.
‘Aye,’ Sinclair said, but left it at that.
As they arrived back at the church, Tayte was thinking about Jamie, considering what Sinclair had said about his and Murray’s relationship. Murray had been more like a father to Jamie than Jamie’s real father. Now, having already buried his wife and daughter, Jamie had been taken from him, too. It was no wonder he’d chosen not to attend the graveside as Jamie’s body was laid to rest. Tayte could see Murray ahead of them now, waiting by the car as Sinclair had said he would be. He was with DI Ross, who had attended the church service.
Sinclair approached him. ‘Would you care to come back to the house for a wee drink to my brother, inspector?’
‘Aye, I would,’ Ross said. ‘It’s kind of you to ask. Thank you.’
‘Not at all,’ Sinclair said. ‘I’ll just thank the reverend, and we’ll be on our way.’
Back in the main hall at Drumarthen, Tayte was keen to get out of that tight coat. The persistent fine rain that had been in the air all morning had left him feeling cold and decidedly damp. He was also keen to get back to his room and Dr Drummond’s records, but first things first. He’d promised Sinclair he’d join him for a drink to his late brother, and he thought a dram of whisky might help to warm him up. As everyone began to take their coats off, Murray seemed to read his thoughts.
‘I’ll go and light the fire in the drawing room,’ he said.
Sinclair followed after him, keeping his jacket on. ‘Thank you, Murray.’
Ross had his coat off ahead of Tayte, who was struggling all the more with it now that the material was wet. It was like wriggling out of a wetsuit, not that Tayte had ever had cause to wear one. Ross came over and gave him a hand.
‘It’s a wonder you got it on in the first place,’ he said as he pulled at one of the sleeves. ‘Here, let me hang it on the rack for you,’ he added once Tayte was free.
‘Much appreciated,’ Tayte said, red-faced from the exertion.
Ross returned a moment later holding out Tayte’s suit jacket. ‘Will you be wanting this?’
‘Definitely,’ Tayte said. ‘I hope Murray’s fire doesn’t take too long to get going.’
Ross offered Tayte’s jacket up by the collar for him to put on, and then they both followed after Sinclair and Murray. They arrived in the drawing room
to find Murray bent over the fire, which had already begun to spit and crackle into life. Sinclair was standing beside the drinks cabinet, pouring four glasses of whisky. He brought them to the fireside on a tray and everyone took a glass.
‘My Jamie had a troubled soul,’ Sinclair said, looking into the flames as they began to take hold. ‘A caged bird, but caged no more.’ He raised his glass, and then he recited a verse from the song the piper had played at Jamie’s graveside. ‘Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, and mortal life shall cease, I shall possess within the veil, a life of joy and peace.’ He raised his glass higher. ‘To my Jamie,’ he added. ‘God rest his soul.’
‘To Jamie,’ Tayte said, raising his glass with everyone else, noticing now that Sinclair had a tear in his eye at last for his brother departed, and so did Murray.
Sinclair knocked his whisky back and turned sharply away, perhaps wishing to keep his emotions to himself. He paced back to the drinks cabinet, where he stood in silence for several seconds before returning with the bottle.
‘Well, take a seat,’ he said, addressing everyone in a more upbeat tone.
For the occasion, four wing-backed chairs had been set up around the fireplace instead of the usual two. Everyone sat down in a close group and Sinclair poured them each another drink. Tayte thought he’d better sip this one, reminding himself that he had more research to do. He settled back, and as he did so he felt something crumple inside his jacket pocket. He tried to recall what he’d put in there, but nothing came to mind, so he reached in and took it out. His jaw dropped.
‘What’s that you have there?’ Sinclair asked.
Tayte set his drink down. ‘I don’t know, but I have a good idea.’ He was holding a few sheets of old and very familiar paper. He unfolded them. There was no name and address, but he instantly recognised the handwriting, which flowed from the top of the first page. ‘It’s the rest of Jane Hardwick’s letter.’
On hearing that, everyone sat up.
‘Before you read it, Mr Tayte,’ Ross said, ‘I should like to tackle the question of what it’s doing in your jacket pocket.’
‘Someone obviously put it there,’ Tayte said. ‘It certainly wasn’t me.’
‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t,’ Sinclair said. ‘But who did put it there?’
Tayte offered the letter to Ross. ‘Do you want to have your forensics people look at it? Maybe there are prints.’
Ross shook his head. ‘We haven’t been able to lift anything useful from any of the others,’ he said. ‘I doubt this time will be any different. Right now I’m more concerned with how it got there. Can you retrace your steps for me?’
‘Sure,’ Tayte said. ‘It wasn’t there when I came down from my room with Murray. I had to take my jacket off to get that coat on. You took my jacket from me, Murray, and hung it up. Then we both went out to the car.’
Ross turned to Sinclair. ‘I take it you were already outside?’
‘Aye, I was, but I popped back in to fetch another umbrella for Mr Tayte. Then I locked up and we all left.’
‘When we arrived back here,’ Tayte said, addressing Ross, ‘you retrieved my jacket and helped me into it.’
‘Well, I certainly didn’t put that letter in there, did I?’ Ross said. ‘But clearly, either someone sitting here did, or someone else has been at Drumarthen while we were at the funeral.’
‘The cameras,’ Murray said. ‘Maybe they picked something up.’
‘I’ll make a call and have someone check,’ Ross said. ‘In the meantime, as I’m already here, I’d like to take a look around the place for myself, if you’ve no objection.’
‘Of course,’ Sinclair said. ‘But Murray had better go with you.’
Ross got to his feet and put his glass down, clearly now in no mood to finish his second drink. ‘Come along then, Murray. Let’s see what we can find. I’ll make that call as we go.’
When they left, Tayte found his thoughts were stuck on the idea that everyone there had had the opportunity to place that letter inside his jacket pocket. It was an unnerving thought, and he hoped that Ross or Murray would find another explanation.
Sinclair deliberately coughed, snapping Tayte from his thoughts. ‘The letter?’ he said. ‘Do you want to read it out, or shall I?’
‘Sorry,’ Tayte offered. ‘I was miles away there.’ He unfolded the letter again. ‘I’ll read it, if that’s okay.’
‘By all means,’ Sinclair said, settling back.
Then Tayte began to read, immediately catching up with Jane again as she confronted her friend over the considerable matter of how she came to be in possession of the ruby, the Blood of Rajputana.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jaipur, April 1823
‘Elspeth?’
Jane looked on in disbelief as her friend continued to stare up at her, the Blood of Rajputana glowing in her hands, reflecting the pale light of dawn at her bedroom window. Her mind was awash with so many troubling questions.
‘Where did you get that?’ she asked. ‘How did you come by it?’
Elspeth did not speak. She began to shake her head slowly from side to side as she drew the huge ruby closer, as if protective of it.
‘Elspeth? You must answer me.’
Instead of answering, Elspeth began to tremble and to cry silent tears that rolled from her cheeks and on to her nightgown.
Jane went to her. Her friend cowered back, at first kicking her legs out as though to warn Jane off. Then she relaxed.
‘I’m your friend, Elspeth. Is there something you need to tell me?’
Elspeth nodded, her expression suddenly grave and sorrowful. She held up the ruby, and at last she spoke. ‘After the intruder came, I wanted to make sure it was still safely where I put it.’ She sounded distant, as though lost somewhere inside her thoughts. ‘I knew what he’d come here for.’
Jane stepped closer again, and this time Elspeth did not draw away or kick out at her. ‘Hide it away again for now,’ she said, fearing that someone else might see it.
Elspeth gazed down at the dark hole where the floorboard had been removed. She nodded, and slowly began to lower the ruby, returning it to its hiding place. Once she had, she slid the floorboard back and draped the rug over it, protecting her secret.
Jane offered out her hand and Elspeth took it. ‘Now sit on the bed with me,’ she said. ‘I promise not to judge you, but you must tell me everything.’
Jane had forgotten that she was still holding the paperknife she had come to return. She set it down on the trunk at the foot of the bed, and together they sat, Jane still holding Elspeth’s trembling hand.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ Elspeth said. ‘One thing led to another, and . . .’ She trailed off, wiping the tears from her eyes.
Jane put an arm around her friend. ‘Start at the beginning,’ she said. ‘I imagine that was the night the young Prince of Kishangarh, Naresh Bharat Singh, came to elope with Arabella.’
Elspeth shook her head. ‘It was before then. When my husband told me that Arabella wanted to marry the prince, I immediately offered her servant, Pranil, money to keep a close eye on her. I was concerned she might plan to do something foolish, which of course she did. I told him to report everything he saw and heard to me.’
Jane was put in mind of the conversation she and Arabella had had that evening as she waited on her balcony for Bharat Singh’s signal. So it was Pranil who had betrayed her confidence, after all.
Elspeth pulled her hand free from Jane’s and began to make knots with her fingers. ‘When Pranil told me of Arabella’s plan to elope that night, I sent him out to intercept the prince. He was to dissuade him, that’s all. To tell him that Arabella had sent him to say she no longer wished to elope with him.’
‘Bharat Singh would not believe it?’
‘No. The situation got out of hand. Perhaps Pranil took my meaning too literally when I said that he was to stop the prince from coming to the residency that evening. When he returned with bl
ood on his hands, I couldn’t get any sense out of him.’
Now Jane was reminded of having seen Pranil outside Arabella’s room that evening before she went in to see her. There was sweat on his brow and a nervousness about him that she had previously put down to his fear of discovery should it be found out that he was helping Arabella to elope. He was afraid of being discovered all right, but it was for the murder, intentional or otherwise, of Naresh Bharat Singh.
‘What did you do when Pranil returned—when you heard what had happened?’
‘I was in such a terrible state, Jane, I really didn’t know what to do. I decided to confess, so I went to John and told him everything. I expected to be thrown to the wolves along with Pranil, and it was quite odd, but once I’d confessed, I didn’t care what happened to me. My life here with John, anywhere with John, has been so miserable. He could have executed me there and then and I would have offered no resistance. But he didn’t throw me to the wolves. He was angry, of course—more upset than I’d ever seen him—but eventually he calmed down. He told me to go about my business as if nothing had happened. He said he would take care of it.’
‘Take care of it?’
‘Aye, and very soon we all learned how. My husband later told me he’d sent Pranil back out into the hills, to where he’d hidden the prince’s body. He was to strip him of everything but the shirt on his back, then find his horse and put everything into the saddlebags. The horse had remained by its master, dutifully waiting for him to awake. Pranil was then to take the horse and tie it up near a small native settlement or encampment of his choosing and leave the body where it would be discovered. John said he would do the rest, and he knew exactly what to do.’
‘Captain Fraser,’ Jane said, beginning to see the bigger picture.
Elspeth nodded and wiped her eyes again. ‘John had someone tip the captain off, telling him that these people Pranil had chosen were dacoits. John knew Fraser would do the rest, eager as he was to make an early impression in his new role to stamp out the dacoit problem in the area. Of course, Captain Fraser was as thorough as John knew he would be. Fraser found the prince’s horse at the encampment, and then the saddlebags he’d been travelling with. And of course, he found the prince’s ring, which sealed the fate of those poor, innocent people.’
Letters from the Dead (Jefferson Tayte Genealogical Mystery Book 7) Page 25