In the Blood (45 page)

Hayne still had his head buried in the stack of records he was checking.
 
He was smiling.
 
“Lavender Parfitt,” he said with obvious amusement.
 
He held up a copy of Lavender’s record of marriage to Jane Forbes.
 
“I bet he got picked on at school,” he added.
 
Then his eyes wandered to Lavender’s death record.

Tayte’s eyes fell on Hayne just as his amusement died.
 
His smile dropped below a furrowing brow that expressed sudden consternation at what he was reading.

“Asphyxiation due to strangulation,” Hayne said.
 
“Murder by person or persons unknown.”

He got Tayte’s full attention.
 
The cause of death reminded him of another murder case he’d been looking into recently.
 
Tayte practically snatched the death record copy from Hayne’s hands.
 
“Just like Mawgan Hendry,” he said.
 
The record was dated, Monday, June 22nd, 1829.
 
He reached into his jacket and took out his notebook.
 
Several of the pages were stuck together from their earlier soaking at Gillan Harbour.
 
He flicked through, looking for the pages he’d used to write down the information he’d found in
The Times
articles.
 
When he found the date he was looking for the mystery surrounding Mathew’s contest of James Fairborne’s will dissipated like midday fog.
 
“That was two days before Mathew Parfitt dropped his claim,” he said.

Bastion and Hayne looked a little lost.

Tayte had the picture clear in his head now.
 
“Don’t you see,” he said.
 
“The man claiming to be William Fairborne got to him.
 
He got to Mathew here.”
 
Tayte flicked a hand up to Mathew’s name on the chart.
 
“He’s warned him off by killing his father.”

“That’s pure conjecture,” Bastion said.

“Maybe so, but the coincidence is too big to ignore.”

“He’s got a point, sir,” Hayne said.
 
“Looks fishy.”

Bastion scratched at the hair above his left ear, causing it to spring out.
 
“Why not just kill this Mathew fella,” Bastion said.
 
“That would have made him drop his claim soon enough.”

“It was a high profile will contest,” Tayte said.
 
“There was a fortune at stake and it would have drawn plenty of attention at the time.”
 
Tayte shook his head.
 
“No,” he added.
 
“Killing Mathew would have been too risky a play.”

DS Hayne knew exactly what Tayte meant.
 
“The finger would have pointed straight at the man who stood to gain the most from Mathew’s death,” he said.
 
“Killing Mathew’s father and maybe even threatening to do the same thing to his mother on the other hand...
 
That would have shut him up tight as a coffin.”

Tayte quickly found Jane Parfitt’s death record from the records Hayne had been checking.
 
“She lived to a ripe old age,” Tayte said a moment later.

Bastion drew a long breath and paced to the window where he looked out through a stretched film of net curtain over the creek below.
 
“This is all very interesting,” he said.
 
“But where is it taking us?
 
You’ve given us Simon’s motive and confirmed the means by which he lured Peter Schofield to his death.
 
Everything we need to get a conviction is right here.”
 
Bastion turned back into the room.
 
“All we need now is Simon Phillips.”

“There’s still a kidnap victim to find,” Tayte said, thinking about Amy and where these latest clues fitted into the puzzle he had to solve before high tide.

“We’ll find Amy once we’ve brought Simon in,” Bastion said.

Tayte wished he could believe that.
 
Part of him wanted to tell them exactly where and when they could pick Simon up.
 
It would be so easy.
 
And if he thought there was any chance that Simon was bluffing about letting Amy die at the hands of the tide then he would have.
 
But Tayte knew Simon was deadly serious.
 
He’d seen it branded in his eyes.
 
He had to remind himself to watch what he said.
 
If he let it slip that he needed to solve the riddle of the box in order to find Amy, Bastion and Hayne would question why, and with Tayte’s track record he knew they wouldn’t need Sherlock Holmes to tell them that he had his own plan to save Amy again.

With all that Tayte had discovered at Simon’s flat, a terrible image was beginning to form in his mind, like a sliding picture puzzle whose jumbled pieces were right under his nose and were at last coming together.
 
Only there was still a piece of the puzzle missing and without it he couldn’t quite get what he was looking at.
 
He made for the door, certain that he knew where to find that missing piece.
 
He just had to get onto the Fairborne estate at Rosemullion Head.

“I’m sure you’re right,” Tayte said.
 
“I don’t think I can add anything more to this.”
 
He excused himself with a polite smile and wished them good luck.

“Thanks for your help,” Bastion said.
 
“I’ll have you dropped back to your car.”
 

My car...
 
Tayte’s mind tripped over the words.
 
He knew he couldn’t let them drop him back there; they would know he’d taken the ferry; know he’d seen Simon.
 
“Great,” he said.
 
He checked his watch and knew he was running out of time.
 
The afternoon was already spent and now in just over two hours he had to meet the man who held Amy’s life in the balance with answers he had yet to find.
 
On top of that he now faced being stranded at Helford Passage with no car and no ferry to take him across the river to pick it up.

Tayte passed through the doorway knowing only that he needed to get to Rosemullion Head, and fast.
 
He had to know if Eleanor and her children were buried there and he had to know when they died.
 
As he hit the first step on his way out of the flat, he realised he still didn’t have a sure-fire angle that would get him onto the Fairborne estate; even if he could talk the driver of the police car into dropping him at the door.

That gave Tayte an idea.

He stopped halfway down the stairs and spun around to Bastion who was right behind him.
 
“How long would it take to get a search warrant to go over the grounds on the Fairborne Estate?”

Bastion looked wary.
 
“We’d only need one if we were refused access,” he said.
 
His questioning eyes tightened to a squint.
 
“Why?”

Tayte suddenly saw his way in.
 
“Gravestones,” he said, giving nothing away.

“And how would it help the case?” Bastion asked.
 
“Despite the implications of that will, the Fairbornes still pull a lot of strings around here.
 
If we go disturbing them without a bloody good reason...”
 
He looked over his shoulder to DS Hayne and scoffed.
 
“Heads will roll,” he added.

“Anything to do with those churchyard photos we found in Peter Schofield’s bags?” Hayne said.

Tayte nodded.
 
His angle had arrived.

Chapter Fifty-Five

T
he light was beginning to fade as Rosemullion Hall came into view.
 
Tayte was riding up front with DS Hayne in an unmarked silver BMW 3-series.
 
The mention of unsolved past crimes relating to the case had appealed to Bastion’s ego enough to send Hayne along with Tayte while Bastion orchestrated the hunt for Simon Phillips.
 
Tayte had made it seem like they were scratching each others backs: Bastion wanted results and Tayte wanted to finish his assignment and go home.
 
That’s how it seemed, but saving Amy was his only priority.

The car turned onto the headland along a private road towards Rosemullion Hall, and across a settling field laid to pasture the grand Elizabethan manor house came into view.
 
It was already lit up for the night and what remained of the early evening sun splashed a burnt orange glow across the stone, lending it a fiery sense of drama.

“Looks like they’re having some sort of party,” Hayne said as they approached.

Ahead, the main gates were fixed open.
 
They passed between them and along the smooth slate driveway towards what looked like a prestige car show.
 
There were about twenty cars in all, the majority in varying shades of silver or black, with the occasional shock of Ferrari red or Lamborghini yellow.
 
Hayne pulled up beside a Bentley Continental Flying Spur and both men got out.

Tayte had trouble keeping up with Hayne’s authoritative march as they made their way towards the house.
 
He thought it looked odd seeing Hayne without Bastion; they seemed so interdependent, like a double-act.
 
He watched Hayne push the knot up on his tie as he stepped between the pillars that framed the gilt dressed doors.
 
One half was already open, spilling soft light and the delicate plink of a harp from within.

By the time Hayne reached the entrance, his identity badge was out, ready to announce himself.
 
Then a man Tayte recognised appeared in the door frame and studied them both curiously.
 
It was Manning.
 
Tayte caught the recognition in the man’s eyes as Hayne began the introductions.

“Could I see Mr Richard Fairborne?” Hayne said, offering out his badge.

Manning scrutinised Hayne’s ID with raised brows for several seconds then snootily said, “I’m afraid
Lord
Fairborne is otherwise detained.”
 
His forced smile served only to patronise.
 
“Perhaps you could call back another time?”

“What about the lady of house?” Hayne said.

Manning stepped forward and pulled the door to behind him.
 
“As you can see,” he said.
 
“Lady Fairborne is entertaining this evening.
 
I really don’t think your presence here tonight will be welcome whatever your business.”

Tayte thought the man more than a little presumptuous for a butler.
 
He took a step closer.
 
“How about you go get her and let her decide eh, buddy?”
 
He locked eyes with Manning longer than he cared to.
 
“Or do you want to be responsible for the scene that’s about to follow if you don’t?”

Hayne squeezed his eyes shut and winced.

Manning did not hide his irritation.
 
“Wait here,” he said.
 
Then he turned back into the house and closed the door.
 

Hayne shook his head.
 
“Better let me do the talking, Mr Tayte.”

“Sure,” Tayte said.
 
“Lady F’s all yours.”

Both men turned away from the door and looked across the driveway at the expensive cars.

“Nice,” Hayne said.

“Very,” Tayte agreed.
 
“So do you two always work together?”

“Me and Bastion?”

Tayte nodded.

“Three years now,” Hayne said.

“Still call him sir though, right?”

Hayne flashed Tayte a serious-looking affirmative.
 
“On
and
off duty,” he said.
 
“I just can’t hear myself calling him Leonard.
 
Doesn’t feel right somehow.”
 
A moment later he added, “So, genealogy?
 
Is it always like this?”

Tayte could see the detective’s eyes flitting between his numerous bandages.
 
“Not always,” he said.
 
“But it’s not all archive rooms and microfiche, either.”

“Sort of like Indiana Jones, then?”

Tayte returned Hayne’s playful smile.
 
Then the plink of harp music returned and both men wheeled in unison towards the door to see an attractive middle-aged woman.
 
She was shadowed by Manning, who stood in the doorway like a fixture.

“Lady Fairborne?” Hayne said.

The woman nodded.

Hayne stepped closer.
 
“I’m sorry to trouble you, madam,” he said, offering his badge up for scrutiny again.
 
“With your permission, I’d like to take a look around the grounds.”

Lady Fairborne gave Hayne’s badge a cursory glance.
 
“Whatever for?” she said.

“I believe it might help us with our investigation.
 
An American gentleman was murdered last night just across the river.
 
You might have heard about it?”