JT01 - In The Blood Read online

  Sloane’s deep bass voice vibrated the earpiece. “Shoot!” That was Walter Sloane. He was the only man Tayte knew who could make him nervous with a single word.

  Tayte turned the volume down. “Hi, Mr Sloane - it’s Jefferson Tayte.”

  “I know that, Tayte. I can see your name on the display. It’s called technology. Now what have you got for me, I’ve another call waiting.”

  Tayte updated his client - just the highlights, all up-beat and positive. “And I’m just about to find out who his father is,” he continued, referring to the discovery of the illegitimate Mathew Parfitt and his connection to the Fairborne family.

  “That’s a nice touch, Tayte. But what about this James fella and the family he took over there?”

  “Well, whoever was playing with the records back then missed this one,” Tayte said. “Maybe they thought no one could make the connection; in 1803 I doubt they could. But with all the advances we’ve made since then… Parfitt’s my way in, I’m sure of it. I’ll have more for you tomorrow.”

  “Okay Tayte, tomorrow then.”

  Tayte sensed his client was about to hang up. “Mr Sloane,” he said. “I had a call from Peter Schofield yesterday. He said you’d called him.”

  Tayte heard a gritty, humourless laugh. “Look, Tayte. I don’t know what the problem is between you two and I don’t much care. I’m paying the bills here and time’s running out. If Schofield’s taken the initiative then I say two heads are better than one.”

  If Tayte had been wearing a tie he’d be loosening it about now. “It’s just that I always work alone,” he said. “Never been much good in a team and I’m sure I’ll -”

  “I don’t care how you do it, Tayte,” Sloane cut in, buzzing Tayte’s phone again. “Work with Schofield or use him however you see fit. Just keep it professional and get the job done. He’s not taking a cut of your fee, for Christ sakes!”

  The sudden silence in Tayte’s ear told him that Walter Sloane had terminated the call. He closed his eyes and sank his head over the steering wheel, knowing that Sloane was right. This was his profession and he was letting personal feelings get in the way. By the time he sat up again, he was considering that the idea of Schofield working for him, rather than with him might not be so bad. Now he just had to think of some way to keep the kid out of his hair.

  Tayte started the engine and left the drive heading back along the lane towards the main road. Before he reached it his thoughts forced him to pull over and kill the engine again. If Lowenna’s lover was murdered and there had been a public hanging as Emily Forbes had said, he should be able to find some record of it. He didn’t have the victim’s name, just the year of the murder and the location, but he figured hangings were as much a morbid curiosity today as they ever were. It was worth a look.

  Tayte climbed across into the passenger seat where he’d have more room and slid his laptop out from his briefcase. Bodmin assizes, he thought as he brought up a Google browser and typed Bodmin executions into the search field. The first result read, ‘List of executions at Bodmin’. He clicked the link and the screen displayed a chronologically ordered list of all executions at Bodmin Jail. As he scrolled through he was distracted by the range of crimes a person could be hanged for back then; crimes considered petty offences today, like housebreaking and the theft of wheat and livestock. Only one entry appeared for 1803. The date of the hanging was May 25th. Tayte read the details in the offence column: ‘Murder of farmer, Mawgan Hendry of Helford’.

  “Touchdown!” Tayte closed his laptop and slid back across the gear shift into the driver’s seat. “Just follow the clues, JT,” he told himself. “See where they take you.”

  Now he had another name to focus on, another key that was beginning to turn, ready to open another door. And this one led to murder.

  It was 4:15pm when Jefferson Tayte pulled into a lay-by two miles outside Bodmin. The rain had been heavy all the way from Dartmoor and it continued to drum on the roof as he called the record office in Truro. He’d made good time despite the weather, but office hours were nearly over; he needed a quick result on the location of Mawgan Hendry’s murder trial records. His call rang too many times before being answered and Tayte was disappointed to hear a man’s static tones.

  “Hi, Can I speak to Penny Wilson,” Tayte said after listening to the least sincere introduction he’d ever heard.

  “She’s not available,” the man said.

  “Do you know when she’ll be free?”

  “No, I’m sorry. Can I help?”

  Tayte doubted it, but he didn’t have time to wait. “Maybe you can,” he said. “I need to know where the court proceedings are kept for a murder trial back in 1803. It came under Bodmin assizes. The date I’m looking for is -”

  “You’ll have to call in person tomorrow,” the man cut in. “We don’t have the resources to handle enquiries over the phone.”

  “If I had the time to call in, I would,” Tayte said.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but -”

  It was Tayte’s turn to cut in. “Look, can you tell Penny I need to speak to her. I don’t have much time. Just tell her it’s JT. She knows me.”

  “I think I already said that Penny’s not available.” The man’s tone carried an edge of sarcasm now.

  Tayte sighed. This conversation was going nowhere. He was about to let rip - knowing before he spoke that it would get him nothing more than a short burst of self-satisfaction - when he heard a mild commotion in the background, quickly followed by a familiar voice that could not have been more welcome.

  “Hello, can I help you?”

  “Penny! It’s JT. Who was that!?”

  Penny’s reply was muffled, like she was whispering into the mouthpiece through a cupped hand. “He’s part-time,” she said. “Only works Thursdays. He’s nice enough really.”

  Tayte thought that explained things.

  “I heard my name and came over,” Penny continued.

  “And I’m glad you did. Look, Penny, I know I’m pushing my luck, but I need a big favour and I don’t have much time.”

  “Is it about that probate record? I’m afraid nothing’s turned up yet.”

  “No, this is something else.”

  Tayte told Penny where he was and gave her the details of the murder case he needed to see. “The victim was a farmer from Helford,” he added. “Mawgan Hendry.”

  “We keep records here for cases that far back,” Penny said.

  Good, Tayte thought. Nice and easy.

  “Only, I know for a fact that the details of that particular case aren’t here.”

  Tayte couldn’t believe it. He dropped his phone away from his ear and stared at the rain streaking down his windscreen. Then he wondered how Penny knew that without even looking. There had to be more to it. He could still hear her voice, tinny in his cellphone speaker.

  “Sorry, Penny?” he said.

  “I was just saying … I know the case details aren’t here because someone else called in earlier to look at the same file. I had to tell them the same thing. What are the odds?”

  Slim, Tayte thought.

  “It was a few hours ago now,” Penny added. “Same year, same place. Then when you said it was a farmer…”

  “Can you tell me who was asking about it?”

  “I really can’t, JT. We’re not allowed to.”

  “Sure, I understand. So where are the case details? Do you know?”

  “I do. They’re on loan to an exhibition. And by the sounds of it you’re not far from them.”

  When his call with Penny ended, Tayte knew exactly where he was going, though he was a little surprised. As he pulled the car back out onto the A38, heading into Bodmin, he wondered what made this case so special that it justified entry into an exhibition of crime and punishment.

  Jefferson Tayte’s hire car was not the only car heading for the exhibition at Bodmin. The driver of the beat-up, electric-blue Mazda was suddenly in a hurry to get there, although he hadn’t
anticipated returning so soon. He clutched at the silver crucifix that hung around his neck to make sure it was well concealed.

  So the American is going to Bodmin…

  The man was impressed with Tayte’s ingenuity. It was clear that Tayte was good at his job and at first it rattled him. His mind raced ahead, trying to work out if Tayte had any chance of getting to the truth. He couldn’t allow that - that would spoil everything.

  Not without the records, he concluded.

  He was confident that Tayte had no hope of succeeding without them. Yet, as he reflected on the American’s demonstrated ability, a shadow of concern darkened his thoughts. A moment later he smiled to himself. “Who cares!” he said. “If he gets too close…” He reached across to the glovebox and popped it open. The four inch barrel of his grandfather’s old Webley .38 service revolver winked back at him as cold steel caught the daylight. It wasn’t his tool of choice - far too noisy. But he considered that it might yet see further active service.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Bodmin Jail was built around 1778 from twenty thousand tons of local granite. During its working life it saw fifty-seven executions by hanging, fifty-three of which were public, drawing crowds of up to twenty-five thousand people. The last public hanging was in 1862, after which four further executions took place behind the prison walls. The jail closed in the 1920s.

  Standing beneath the gatehouse archway, sheltering from the weather while he got his bearings, Tayte could smell the rain in the air and in the granite walls around him. The archway was set between two circular turrets joined overhead by a steep pitched roof that was topped with a central spire. The gatehouse itself had few windows and most were no more than narrow slits, like archers’ windows. The few that were wide enough to crawl through were heavily barred.

  The weather and the late hour served well to keep the tourists away; the place looked deserted. Tayte peered out through an endless curtain of rain, watching it explode and hiss off the courtyard like thousands of tiny fireworks. The entire place looked as disconsolate and oppressive as the weather. He was looking for the jail museum - that’s where Penny had told him to go. She’d said he would find what he was looking for there.

  An open doorway across the courtyard looked inviting, and the scattering of blue painted signs that crowded it looked promising. He made a dash for the steps and by half way he was soaked. He burst through the doorway, almost knocking over the woman who was standing just inside.

  “Excuse me!” Tayte said, reaching out to steady her.

  The woman laughed it off and Tayte joined her. She looked a little older than Tayte, dressed casually in jeans and a mint-green cardigan.

  “Is this the Museum?” Tayte asked. He’d been going too fast to take in any of the signs.

  “That’s right.” She was behind her desk now.

  “How much is it?”

  The woman handed Tayte a leaflet explaining some of the visitor attractions. “£3.50, please.” Her smile froze on her face while Tayte rummaged through his pockets for change.

  “Can I get a receipt for that?”

  From the leaflet, Tayte learnt that the month-long attraction, now in its last week, brought together the cases of twenty of the most notable executions from the prison’s grisly history. He stopped reading as he entered the exhibition, taking in the high ceiling and the arched windows that were set into the exposed brickwork. The floor was also brick, uneven and waxed over the years to a burnt-red hue. Display boards divided the room, lit by halogen spotlights, guiding visitors from the first hanging to the last.

  The first display Tayte came to was for a twenty-one year old man called Philip Randal, executed on Bodmin Moor on March 7th, 1785. His crime was burglary. The display showed the original case records beneath a Perspex cover so you could look but not touch. He moved further in and noticed that some exhibits featured items of evidence, including the murder weapons. In the case of Sarah Polgreen, a vial of poison was displayed inside a Perspex case. Some items looked original and others were clearly reproduced to help the exhibition come alive, along with simplified prints that depicted scenes of the associated crimes and hangings, adding a touch of the macabre.

  Tayte had the exhibition to himself and if he’d had more time he would have enjoyed reading every case. As it was he quickly moved on, checking the dates as he went, drawing closer to what he was looking for. He turned a corner and read ‘August 25th, 1802’. Almost there.

  Then he realised he was not quite alone.

  Further ahead, a seated figure in a charcoal raincoat was huddled over the case notes at the next display along. Tayte approached. The bold typeface date stood out on the display board. It read May 25th, 1803 - the case he’d come to see. He continued apprehensively, supposing this was the same person who had enquired about the case with Penny at the record office earlier.

  As he arrived he saw that the exhibit was not complete; the Perspex cases were broken and empty. He stopped beside the display and the seated figure looked up and smiled at him briefly before going back to the notepad she was scribbling into. Her coat, which revealed only the white ruffles of her shirt collar and cuffs and the hem of her claret and tan skirt, was dry, and with the obvious absence of an umbrella, Tayte supposed she must have been there a while. He thought the low-heeled black boots that filled the gap between her coat and the floor were a sensible option on a day like this.

  “Gruesome place,” Tayte said, looking back at the mock gallows he’d just passed, erected for effect half way into the exhibition.

  The woman half-smiled this time and nodded. Then she carried on writing like she couldn’t get the words down fast enough.

  Tayte’s eyes strayed to the display board. They were the only people there and he suddenly felt awkward - predatory. Like he was lingering with some other intent. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he made her feel uncomfortable, but he had to stay and he supposed the exhibition would be closing soon. He felt an explanation was in order.

  “I’m a genealogist,” Tayte announced when the scratch of the woman’s pen finally paused.

  She looked up.

  “Family history, you know… I’ve a special interest in this case.” He indicated the pen that was still poised over her notepad. “So do you, it seems.”

  “Oh, the notes,” she said, flicking the pen between her fingers like a metronome keeping an allegrissimo tempo. “Yes, you could say that.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” Tayte said. “When I called the record office in Truro earlier, they said someone else had enquired about this trial.”

  The woman looked interested, if a little confused. “I was there earlier, yes.”

  Tayte rushed a hand out and cheesy smile followed it. “Name’s JT,” he said. “Seems we have a common interest here.”

  Amy Fallon,” the woman said.

  Tayte turned back to the display and the magnified text that was there to give the passing speed-reader a general outline. “I’m interested in the victim,” he said. “He was the lover of a young woman called Lowenna Fairborne -”

  “Lowenna?”

  “That’s right,” Tayte said, registering Amy’s obvious recognition. “I’m hoping her lover’s going to lead me to the family I’m looking for. Connections,” he added. “I’m always looking for connections.”

  “Sounds interesting work,” Amy said. She sounded distracted, like her words as she spoke them were wrapped in thought.

  “Most of the time it is,” Tayte said. “Though it can be frustrating as hell. So what brought you here? Perp or victim?”

  Amy smiled to herself. “Perp,” she mimicked. “Turns out my house once harboured a murderer or two.”

  Tayte looked impressed.

  “I’m here,” Amy added, “because of a box I found at my house yesterday. I wanted to know more about it so I went to Truro this morning to find out who’d lived there before.”

  “And it led you to this old murder case?”

&n
bsp; “Not straightaway. A friend recognised two of the names on the list. He told me about a verse the National Trust had published - it’s all over Cornwall apparently.”

  “A verse?”

  Amy pointed up at the display board. “It was written by a local farmer about two drunken ferrymen,” she said. “The National Trust were very helpful. I found out that the farmer had been murdered the night he wrote it, which took me back to Truro looking for the trial details.”

  “Two different routes to the same place,” Tayte said.

  Amy nodded. “So who’s Lowenna Fairborne?”

  “Daughter of James Fairborne,” Tayte said. “A wealthy family then and now. They have an estate by the Helford River.”

  “I know it,” Amy said. “I run the ferry service at Helford.” She paused. Then in a manner that seemed to answer her own question she said, “Lowenna would have had a maid then?”

  “Sure.” Tayte thought the conversation seemed suddenly disjointed, but he could see it made perfect sense to Amy.

  “I need to be getting back,” she said, sliding her chair away from the display.

  “Hey, don’t leave on my account.” Amy’s explanation of how she came to be there had raised the possibility of other connections he didn’t want to lose. “This old place is already giving me the creeps.”

  Amy seemed to settle briefly, and Tayte was close to asking her about the box she’d mentioned, when she got up. She collected her notepad and a spotlight caught the bright gold on her ring finger.

  “Interesting ring,” Tayte said, trying to keep the conversation alive.

  “It’s Celtic.” She flashed it and Tayte caught the inverted pattern of interlocking hearts. “Look, I really need to get back,” she said. “Business calls.” She slipped her bag over her shoulder. “Good luck,” she added. “Nice meeting you.”

  Tayte watched her leave, one foot slotting in front of the other like an experienced catwalk model until she turned beyond the far display board towards the exit. The room fell instantly silent. Then Tayte heard the rain again, rapping at the windows. He sat down, took out his notebook and stared up at the story outline in front of him. The victim’s name stared back, along with the verse Amy had spoken of.