In the Blood (19 page)

Lowenna knew what pain was.
 
She knew pain in every way a person can know pain.
 
It began in the rain that May afternoon, the last time she saw her love, and it spread through her like a vile disease when she learnt of his murder.
 
She knew why he was dead, just as she knew who was responsible.
 
And although the box her father had given her on her fifth birthday had come to mean so much to her, she wished now that it never existed.

But she felt that pain no more.

All the pain she knew was taken from her with the child she would never see or hold - never know.
 
She understood that now.
 
When her pain left her the chasm that remained was replaced by a singular determination that saw nothing else and felt nothing else beyond its own focused purpose.

Lowenna’s bed gown glowed as she came to the window.
 
She looked ghostly in the moonlight, gaunt and drawn, with her long and colourless hair still clinging to her face here and there by the sweat of her labour.
 
Dark patches on the lower half of her bed-gown were still damp from complications during the birth, but she was insensible to it.
 
She stood there, staring absently into the silver night.
 
Then she opened the window and the bitter air sunk its teeth deep into her pale, blueing skin.
 
But Lowenna did not flinch.

She climbed onto the sill, grazing her knees on the rough stone.
 
Then with the last of her strength, she raised herself into the open frame, leaning forward like a ship’s proud figurehead - determined.
 
There was no breeze.
 
Not even the slightest sound.
 
Her bed gown draped heavily from her body, weighted by her own blood as it continued to percolate through the material.
 
Three floors below, dark slate shimmered beneath the moon like a black sea that she knew would wash her and purify her - rid her of that vile disease and make everything better again.

Chapter Twenty-Four

T
he Dartmoor rain was heavy on Tayte’s back as he climbed into his hire car.
 
Peter Schofield was on his mind again.
 
He could still hear his parting words on the phone yesterday:
Maybe we can meet up.
 
I’m flying over in the morning.
 
If Schofield took an early flight as Tayte was sure he would, then with the time difference he’d be in London sometime that evening.
 
He’s up there right now,
Tayte thought.
 
Somewhere over the Atlantic.
 
It was time he spoke to his client.
 
He pulled out his phone and dialled, hoping he wouldn’t get Sloane’s answer service or his PA.
 
The call rang twice before it was picked up.

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.