JT01 - In The Blood Page 17

  The caller wasted no time. “Do you have the document I sent you?”

  Richard Fairborne felt his hackles rise to attention. “I have it,” he replied with a level of stoicism that surprised him. “And I’m at a loss to understand how it’s of any interest to me or my family. You said you’d be sending proof. Something I’d want to pay for.” He opened the envelope and pulled out the contents, unfolding a crisp sheet of A4 photocopy paper bearing a scanned image of the last will and testament of James Fairborne. He slapped it down on the desk. “What you’ve sent me isn’t worth a penny.”

  The amused laughter Sir Richard heard in response unsettled him. Clearly there was more to it than was apparent.

  The laughter stopped. “You’re right,” the caller said. By itself it’s worthless. But look into James Fairborne’s brother, William Fairborne, and you’ll find that he never left America. His descendants still live there today. That’s who this American, Tayte, is working for.”

  Sir Richard eyed the document, paying particular attention to the words ‘sole beneficiary’ and ‘William Fairborne’. He began to see the angle. Then his caller confirmed it.

  “You’re no Fairborne,” the caller said. “Trace your ancestry back two hundred years and you’ll find a liar who stole a baronetcy and a good man’s fortune by pretending to be someone he wasn’t.”

  For the first time in Sir Richard Fairborne’s life he had no immediate answer. His mind was busy working out the implications, forcing a silent pause. Instead of a defensive strike that negated the blackmailer’s weapon, the best he could manage was, “This is absurd!”

  “Is it? I doubt the papers will think so. They just love a story like this. It’ll do wonders for your political career - your Lordship. Not to mention how William Fairborne’s real descendants will take the news. Just think about it. Can you really believe they’ll just let it go? That’s their house you’re living in.”

  Sir Richard’s breath caught in his chest. He knew the caller was right. If what he claimed could be proven so easily then he would be ruined. The family would be shamed and the hereditary peerage would be lost forever. Then the Press would carve him up; his political career would die a quick and ugly death. On top of all that, there would be a law-suit to fight and with so much at stake it would be a costly battle with no certainty of a favourable outcome. It was not a path upon which he wanted to tread.

  “So what do you plan to do with this knowledge,” he said.

  “I don’t plan to do anything with it. You’re going to pay me a considerable sum of money to ensure that I don’t do anything with it.”

  “And what about the American? He called here today.”

  “I know. Don’t worry about him. I have Mr Tayte on a leash.”

  “I won’t pay a penny until he’s taken care of.”

  Sir Richard bit his tongue. He couldn’t bear to listen to himself, unable to believe what his own words were condoning, even bidding, this low-life to do. But Sir Richard Fairborne was a winner. Sir Richard Fairborne did not fail, and on this matter there was no other acceptable outcome. At any cost…

  “If I’m to go through with this,” he added, “then I need assurances. I can’t have anyone else finding out.”

  “He’ll be taken care of before we conclude our business.”

  “Does anyone else know about this?”

  “No one. I’m a strictly private enterprise.”

  “Don’t call me again until it’s done.”

  Sir Richard hung up, suddenly feeling his age for the first time in his life. His hands were shaking as he pushed his chair away from his desk. He didn’t dare try to get up yet. His only thought was that he could not fail. He would do whatever it took to beat this. The family had to come first. Lose now and he would lose everything. His entire life would have been in vain.

  Sir Richard Fairborne was noticeably pale when he returned to the drawing room at Rosemullion Hall. Celia and Warwick were there, waiting. He approached slowly, his thoughts locked in repetition like an endless-loop recording, playing back his limited options and the unthinkable deeds he’d just sanctioned.

  A man’s life to keep a secret…

  Sir Richard arrived between the pair of yellow settees without making eye contact with anyone. He looked up from the rug in front of the fireplace, first to Celia, then to Warwick where his eyes paused. “Leave us, would you.” It was not a question.

  Warwick was about to go when Celia said, “It’s all right, Richard. He knows.”

  Sir Richard sighed into the settee opposite them, too drained to argue the matter. The letter from the blackmailer was prominent in his hands, drawing their eyes. He slid it onto the coffee table. “This arrived earlier,” he said. “I’m afraid the call I received the other day was not without foundation.”

  “What does it say?” Celia asked.

  Warwick edged forward, his eyes fixed on the envelope.

  “Not much. It looks just like any other last will and testament. But throw in a few other facts that are easily proven and it says more than enough.”

  Sir Richard gave a full account of his conversation with the blackmailer - everything but his demand for Jefferson Tayte’s removal. He dealt with Warwick’s presence largely by ignoring him and Warwick did well to keep quiet and listen.

  Celia picked up the envelope, removed the contents and read the salient words from the photocopied probate record she found inside. In light of what she’d just heard she looked dumbstruck by the obvious implications. She let the papers fall into her lap. “What are we to do, Richard?”

  Sir Richard held her eyes. “I’ll deal with it.” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Kensington Gardens covers some 275 acres of royal parkland between the City of Westminster and the borough of Kensington and Chelsea to the west. Jefferson Tayte had arrived in plenty of time for his meeting with Julia Kapowski. He’d taken the first train from Truro, and the long journey afforded him time to reflect on his findings and update his notes. Now, as he stood looking into the park from Palace Gate where the cab had dropped him, all he needed to do was work out where the Peter Pan statue was. That’s where Kapowski had said she’d meet him.

  Tayte checked his watch again. He had plenty of time. Behind him, Kensington Road was busy with the constant grumble of traffic, and it was only through standing there between the green parkland and the contrasting grey city streets and shops that he knew how high his regard for Cornwall had become. He could taste the air, thick with fumes despite the expansive park that was like an overworked respirator, struggling to pump enough oxygen into an ailing patient.

  He did not linger. He stepped through the park gates and turned right onto The Flower Walk, heading away from Kensington Palace towards the Albert Memorial; he could clearly see its gilt spires over the trees that lined the walkway as he made his way further in, shadowed by the ever-hungry grey squirrels that populated the area. In his left hand he carried his briefcase. On his back was a conspicuous orange and blue rucksack that Amy had lent him to carry the box in. Kapowski had given him limited instructions: just head for the lake. If he followed the lake path then apparently Peter Pan would be impossible to miss.

  Tayte saw her before he saw the statue. He recognised her raven hair and that close-fitted black trouser suit, this time with a lime-green silk scarf at the neck. As the path turned with the contours of the lake on his right and the foliage ahead cleared, he saw that she was standing by a low iron railing looking up at the sculpture of the boy who continued to play his pipes, never growing a day older. She was tapping her foot and every now and then fussing with her hair. She had someone with her. A man wearing grey trousers and a check sports jacket with a heavily knotted tie around his neck. His short grey hair was receding and he had a dense moustache which sat proud of his face, balancing things out.

  Tayte knew he must have been just as easy to recognise the moment Kapowski turned to face him.

  “JT!” she called, wav
ing as she came to meet him, leaving the other man behind.

  “Julia, hi.” Tayte put on his best cheesy grin as she approached, and up close he thought she looked more like that portrait-style photo from her website than the plain faced business-woman on the plane. She seemed taller too and her lips were a little sultry-looking for the daytime, he thought. But then again, he had to concede that she brushed up pretty well.

  Kapowski offered a hand and Tayte leant in and gave her a peck on the cheek, surprising himself. It wasn’t much, but he could tell by the sudden glow of her skin and the mischief in her smile that she considered it plenty to be going on with. He sampled the air as he pulled away and he wondered if she always wore expensive-smelling scent to work.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” Tayte said. “Before we go on, I really want to apologise for my manners on the plane. I had no idea at the time what a total jerk I must have seemed.”

  “Hell, you were just nervous,” Kapowski said. “Don’t give it a thought.”

  The man who had been standing with Kapowski when Tayte first saw her arrived beside them.

  “This is Gerald,” Kapowski said. “He’s really into boxes.”

  Gerald Frowned. “Gerald Braithwaite,” he announced like he already wanted to be somewhere else. “And that’s ‘antique box specialist’,” he added, throwing Kapowski a raised brow.

  “Oh, don’t mind him,” Kapowski said. “He’s just cranky because he’s missing his lunch break.” She gave Gerald a playful pinch on the arm and his moustache became animated. “Was there a smile somewhere in there?” she said.

  Tayte pumped Gerald’s hand. “I’m happy to meet you,” he said. “I appreciate your time.”

  “Not at all,” Gerald said. “Actually, I’m quite excited. I believe you have something to show me.”

  Tayte could feel Kapowski’s eyes burning into him as he lifted the rucksack off his shoulder and reached inside, sensing that she wasn’t so interested in what he’d brought along. He lifted out the box and offered it to Gerald who immediately reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pair of half-frame glasses. He began to scrutinize the box like a diamond grader checking for inclusions.

  “This really is quite something, Mr Tayte. Exquisite workmanship.”

  Kapowski grabbed her associate’s arm. “Gerald’s taking the box back to the office, aren’t you, Gerald?” She spun him around.

  “Hmm?” Gerald peered at her over the rim of his glasses. “Oh - yes, that’s right.” He feigned a smile at Tayte. “Better equipped there.”

  “Well, I’m not sure…” Tayte began. He was uncomfortable with the idea of letting the box out of his sight.

  Kapowski cut in. “He’ll take good care of it,” she said. “Won’t you, Gerald?”

  Gerald returned an eager, rapid-fire nod.

  Tayte thought about it. He’d called them, after all. Not the other way around. He held out the rucksack and Gerald slipped the box back inside. Then he was off.

  “We’ll be at the Orangery when you’re done,” Kapowski called after him. “Take your time. There’s no rush.” She passed an arm through Tayte’s and led him away. The move was deftly executed. Tayte had no time to counter.

  “I know a place close by where we can get lunch,” Kapowski said as they walked beside the lake. “You gotta be hungry after your journey.”

  Tayte hadn’t known quite what to expect from the meeting, but this wasn’t it. Meeting? Who was he kidding? He was on a date whether he liked it or not.

  The Orangery at Kensington Palace exudes eighteenth century charm with its Corinthian columns and white panelled walls and wood carvings; Julia Kapowski had chosen the setting for her lunch date with Jefferson Tayte well. They were sitting at a corner table looking along a bright, neutral interior that stretched away beneath a high ceiling, past tall sash windows through which the afternoon splashed in. The place buzzed with relaxed efficiency.

  When Gerald Braithwaite found them again they were sipping coffee and amiably discussing their interests between home-made petit fours. Tayte watched Kapowski slump back into her chair as her associate appeared at the entrance and came pacing towards them like a man charged with purpose. He had the rucksack with him and his face was alive with hope.

  “You were right, Julia!” Gerald said as he arrived. “I have had some fun.” He pulled out a chair and sat down, resting the rucksack on the floor beside him. “Fascinating,” he said as he reached into the bag and produced the box, setting it onto the table in front of him. He looked pleased with himself. “It’s a writing box!” he announced. “But there’s more to it than that. This box harbours a secret.”

  Tayte’s interest peaked.

  “Certainly made in India,” Gerald added. “An early example - possibly seventeenth century. The inkwell is missing from its compartment and it’s rather crude on the inside by later standards.”

  “A secret?” Tayte said, holding onto the words before Gerald got carried away.

  “That’s right. The first thing I do with any new box is take a few measurements. The internal dimensions of this box, specifically the height, are conspicuously less than the external size.”

  “And that tells you it has something to hide?” Tayte said.

  “Not entirely, but it does suggest that some further investigation is in order.” Gerald opened the box so the inside was facing them. “Writing boxes with secret compartments are not that uncommon,” he said. “Normally you press something here or there and a secret drawer pops out, but this is something else. Very clever.”

  Tayte watched as Gerald gripped the carved ivory rose dial inside the lid and rotated it counter-clockwise. He knew it spun around but he hadn’t thought anything of it. He heard a click and Gerald turned it the other way, listening to it like he was cracking a safe. When a second click came, he looked up and his thick moustache began to twitch. He closed the lid again and pressed the initial ‘D’ in the left corner. Then he slid a bright whale-tooth tab out from the lower left side.

  “And you’ve found something?” Tayte said, grinning because he already knew the answer.

  Gerald opened the box again. “I have.” He reached inside with both hands, gripping the inner walls with his fingertips. Then slowly, he lifted out the main compartment containing Lowenna’s note. He set everything down beside the box and his hands were shaking as he tipped the box forward to reveal what he’d discovered. The box reeled Tayte and Kapowski from their seats, drawing them in with irresistible purpose, like a pair of fish caught on a single line.

  Tayte had forgotten all about his lunch and the obvious romantic play from his date sitting next to him. His eyes were fixed on the writing box and the contents of a previously hidden section beneath the main compartment.

  “Amazing.” Tayte said. He reached in and withdrew a letter that had been hidden for over two centuries.

  Gerald tipped his head by way of a bow for his efforts.

  “Oh, you’re good!” Kapowski added.

  Gerald grinned and nodded his agreement. “I’ve read it,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  Tayte shook his head, not looking up from the letter.

  “Interesting reading,” Gerald added. “Might mean more to you than it did to me.”

  Tayte noted that it was signed by Lowenna, and that it carried the date, Tuesday, May 17th, 1803 - the day Mawgan Hendry was murdered. Kapowski shifted her chair closer to Tayte until she could read the letter with him over his shoulder.

  Mawgan, my love, firstly I must ask that you deny the sadness you are surely feeling, for however contrary things may appear, these are happy times and soon they will be happier still. That we cannot be together is a lie, forced upon me by my father. It is his wish alone and one that with all my heart I do not share. I cannot yet tell you the truth in person, and so for now this letter must suffice. We must maintain a pretence if my plans are to be realised. You have to believe that our love has ended today for the satisfaction of t
he man in my father’s pay who will be watching to ensure that I do not deviate from my father’s bidding.

  My sincerest hope is that the postscript on the first note you will read shall bring your eyes with all speed to this letter, and that at reading it your sadness will quickly pass. It surely is what is inside that counts and this message that only you can fully understand has further meaning.

  Mawgan, my love, I carry our child inside me even as I write - though I regret to say that my father also knows of this and has made plans of his own. The child is to be taken from me as soon as it is born and given to my Aunt Jane to bring up as her own. I am not to see the child or to know anything of it. Such is their plan, but upon my life this cannot be.

  For there is hope.

  I have recently made a discovery so dark and unsettling that I would wish now with all my heart to remain innocent of it - and yet it may be turned to our favour. Very soon I shall leave Rosemullion Hall, never to return to that place I no longer know or to the father I only thought I knew. Then we shall be together again. Go about your routine as though you know nothing of this. I shall come to you again one happy day and our plans can be set. You must not come to the house! Stay far away from Rosemullion Hall.

  There is one other thing I must ask of you, my love. At all cost you must keep the box safe. I cannot stress the importance of this enough. Keep it safe, knowing only for now that it will protect us. It is our only security.

  “Well…” Kapowski said, drawing out the word softly in Tayte’s ear. “Does it mean anything to you?”

  Tayte considered that Mawgan Hendry may have died without knowing anything of Lowenna’s plans, or anything about the child she carried. “It means plenty,” he said. “And I think it might come to mean a great deal more.”

  He wondered what dark discovery Lowenna had made and whether it had anything to do with what happened to Eleanor and her children. Why did she feel she no longer knew her own father? Maybe it was enough that he’d insisted Lowenna end her relationship with Mawgan and give up her child. That might have been enough to brand him an unrecognisable monster in her eyes?