The Last Queen of England: A Genealogical Crime Mystery #3 (Jefferson Tayte) Read online

  T h e

  L a s t Q u e e n

  o f

  E n g l a n d

  S t e v e

  R o b i n s o n

  Copyright © 2012 Steve Robinson

  The right of Steve Robinson to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author.

  The characters in this publication are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle Edition

  Release 1.6

  www.steve-robinson.me

  Other books in this series

  In the Blood (June 2011)

  To the Grave (June 2012)

  Table of Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Karen

  Prologue

  Three months ago.

  Julian Davenport owned a penthouse apartment in Bermondsey, overlooking Tower Bridge. He drove any one of three expensive cars and had a second home in Aspen where he spent most of his winters. His London-based real estate business was lucrative, his trophy wife was a surgically enhanced conversation stopper and their two spoiled-brat teenage daughters doted on him, if only for their generous weekly allowance. Davenport must have thought he had it all, but his dark-haired visitor in the smart grey suit knew he was about to deny him everything.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Davenport said, avoiding eye contact as he invited the man in. “My wife’s due home.”

  Davenport was a short, skinny man with a quick manner and a curt tone. He wore leather slippers and a plush white dressing gown that he was still tying. He turned away from the door and shuffled across a spacious lounge of white leather furnishings and exposed floorboards.

  “Don’t touch anything you can’t afford,” he added. “Which means don’t touch a damn thing!”

  The visitor wore thin leather driving gloves, which he removed and slipped into his pocket as he followed Davenport into the room. He didn’t once take his eyes off the back of the man’s head: a tangle of long, mousy threads that looked wet, like he’d just taken a shower.

  Davenport slumped into an armchair. “Have a seat.”

  “I’d prefer to stand. Do you have the item?”

  Davenport made eye contact at last. He nodded and reached down beside him. “Here,” he said as he brought a slim oak case into view. He placed it on the coffee table and slid it towards his visitor.

  “It’s all original,” Davenport added. “Nothing’s missing.”

  On seeing the case for the first time, the visitor rushed to it and picked it up, studying the unremarkable object as though it were something of exquisite beauty.

  “Take it easy,” Davenport said. “It’s three hundred years old.”

  The visitor knew exactly how old it was. He flung the lid back and caught his breath as his eyes fell on the contents: a parallel ruler, a sector and a pair of callipers, which were among several other mathematical instruments set into a green velvet inlay. He traced his fingertips over the cool brass-work and the hint of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

  “Is it there?” Davenport asked.

  The visitor returned the case to the table and removed one of the items: a rectangular protractor. He studied it closely then put it back and moved on to the callipers.

  “Can you hurry it up?” Davenport said. “I already told you, my wife’s due home.”

  The visitor ignored him. He would not be rushed. He removed the parallel ruler and turned it slowly in his hands. Then he paused, eyes narrowing as he brought it closer.

  “Can you see it?” Davenport asked. “I had no idea what I was sitting on until I got your call.” He scoffed. “Some heirloom, eh? Dad never told me anything about all this.”

  “That was careless of him.”

  “You’re telling me.”

  Davenport was on the edge of his seat, rubbing his palms together. “So that’s it, right? It’s what you’re looking for?”

  The visitor nodded. The digits were engraved on the brass, small but visible to his keen eyes: four binary numbers, one decimal. They were a reminder to him that his life had purpose, and now that it was time to fulfil that purpose he felt something primeval stir within him. He tensed to suppress the feeling and placed the item carefully back into the case.

  “So when will you have the rest?” Davenport asked.

  “Soon,” the visitor replied, closing the case as he flourished a handgun from beneath his jacket and shot Davenport twice in the chest.

  Chapter One

  Jefferson Tayte was in London, sitting on the pavement somewhere near Covent Garden, waiting for an ambulance to arrive. It was the middle of a wet Sunday afternoon in September and the frightened faces that had previously scattered now formed into a concerned crowd around him, despite the rain that made the blood on his tan linen suit spread like dye. It was not his blood, but he would have traded places with the man in his arms in a heartbeat.

  Tayte had very few friends - maybe only one true friend if he were honest with himself - and judging from the seemingly impossible amount of blood Marcus Brown was losing, Tayte was mournfully aware that unless help arrived soon, his friend was not going to make it. Jean was there too, no more than a blur in his periphery. Marcus had only just introduced them. Two hours ago they were sitting in a restaurant enjoying a very British Sunday lunch, chatting and laughing over roast rib of beef and fine wine as Tayte got to know Jean and he and Marcus continued to play catch-up on all the years that had passed since they last saw each other. All Tayte could think about now was the blood and his friend, and why anyone would want to shoot him.

  What were you working on, Marcus? Who did this?

  Right now, Tayte had no idea, but he did know that some of the answers had to be back there in the restaurant: threads of conversation still hanging in the air, yet fading rapidly now after the confusion that had followed. He knew he had to piece them back together again if he was going to make any sense of what had just happened.

  Rules restaurant was lively when Tayte and Marcus had arrived, each carrying a battered leather briefcase that seemed to compete in terms of whose looked the most tatty and travel-worn. Tayte had flown in from Washington DC twenty-four hours ago to attend the International Genealogy Convention at the London Arena, although his main reason for
coming to London was to see Marcus. He wanted to congratulate his friend on his recent retirement from The National Archives, where Marcus had worked most of his life, and Tayte wanted to thank him in person for all the support he’d given him over the years. It only occurred to him recently that he’d never really done that. Marcus was the only person who had been there for him after his adoptive parents died; when his friend was teaching family history in America and Tayte, who was suddenly left alone and without any real sense of identity, had never been in greater need of direction.

  Rules was apparently Marcus Brown’s only consideration when any kind of celebration was called for. It wasn’t cheap but you get what you pay for, Marcus had said, and he’d insisted on ‘getting the check’ as he put it, playfully mimicking Tayte’s American phrases as he often did. He’d also pointed out that the place had been going since 1798 and that it was the oldest restaurant in London, so they had to be doing something right.

  The restaurant decor was old-world cream and red, with red and gold carpet and mahogany chairs and tables hiding beneath starched linen. Sections of the ceiling were made up of domed glass panels and the walls were a mosaic of framed caricatures and old photographs of famous patrons. The staff in their white aprons, black blouson jackets and bow ties, conjured images of Paris, although Tayte had never been there. He might have believed his friend’s motives for bringing him to Rules were it not for the woman waiting for them at the cocktail bar. Marcus was quick with the introductions.

  “This is my good friend, Professor Jean Summer.”

  She wore a black dress and patent heels and Tayte thought she looked a little on the bony side, although he had to concede that next to him most people did.

  Marcus leant in and kissed her hand. “Jean was at a loose end this weekend so I invited her along. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Tayte just smiled.

  “Jean’s a historian, specialising in all things royal and London, aren’t you, dear?” Marcus said. “Very handy to know. I’m sure you’ll have plenty to chat about.”

  “Maybe not all things quite yet,” Jean said. “But I like to think I’m getting there. Wherever there is.” She gave a small laugh and held out her hand.

  Tayte shook it. “JT,” he said, holding on to his smile until it felt awkward.

  He put her in her late thirties. She had brown shoulder-length hair and he thought her lipstick looked uncomfortably bright on her face. His initial impression was that she was trying too hard, and there was something about her that told him she’d left her glasses at home today: her eyes looked pinched and unsettled, like her contact lenses were irritating her. As blind dates went, this was about as obvious a setup as there was.

  The penny really dropped when they were seated at their corner table looking into the restaurant. Casual conversation dominated the entrées, after which they each raised a glass to someone or something. Marcus toasted Tayte for turning forty a few months ago and Tayte toasted Marcus on his retirement. Jean, who was already a full glass of wine ahead, followed with a toast to herself to celebrate her decree absolute, which explained everything. Not that Tayte minded. She was proving good company and if she was in on Marcus’s little dating game then he figured she was the one who had been shortchanged.

  They were part way through the main course when Tayte asked Marcus what he’d been working on since he’d retired. It was a throwaway question to which he expected the usual ten-minute monologue about whichever family history he was researching. Instead, Marcus scratched his goatee and began to fidget and play with his food like he was chewing over his reply. When it came it was too brief to be taken seriously.

  “Nothing,” he said. Then he pushed his glasses up on his nose and carried on eating.

  Tayte just laughed at him. “Nothing? I don’t believe that for a minute.”

  Marcus Brown and family history were synonymous. He’d published many books on the subject and Tayte knew he wasn’t about to stop doing the one thing he loved just because The National Archives had stopped paying him.

  “Come on, Marcus,” Tayte said. “You’re always working on something.”

  Marcus coughed into his hand and fidgeted again. He looked like he was trying to hold back a smile - trying not to crack. It took him a while to settle and when he did he leant in low over the table.

  “Not now,” he said under his breath. “And certainly not here.”

  Jean’s smile was laced with intrigue. “What are you up to, Marcus Brown?”

  Marcus shook his head, but Jean wasn’t giving in that easily.

  “Anything to do with Queen Anne?” She turned to Tayte. “It’s been the hot topic with him all month.”

  Marcus’s smile surfaced at last. “Look, I’m literally sworn to secrecy,” he added. “Please can we leave it at that?”

  “How about the Bonny Prince?” Jean said, grinning.

  Tayte admired her persistence but it seemed that Marcus did not. He waved a hand over the table, urging Jean to lower her voice. His eyes were suddenly wide, his smile gone.

  “Okay,” he whispered. “I am working on something, of course I am, but I really can’t talk about it now. I’m meeting some people first thing in the morning and let’s just say that they’re the kind of people who like to keep their secrets close to their chest.”

  “And you can’t tell us who it is?” Tayte said.

  Marcus stared at him and sighed. “No,” he insisted. “Look, maybe after the show. I’ll put you both in the picture then. We’ll go back to my place for a nightcap. Emmy hasn’t seen you yet, Jefferson. I’m sure she’d like that. We can talk about it there.”

  Tayte was a great lover of musicals and he’d seen just about everything going at least twice. They were going to see Les Misérables at the Queen’s Theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue after the meal - another of Marcus’s treats - although Tayte was beginning to wonder if that too hadn’t been arranged on account of Jean. He sat back in his chair and eyed Marcus with a measure of puzzlement, knowing that he wouldn’t enjoy it as much this time around for wondering whose family history demanded such caution and why Marcus was being so secretive about it. He let it go for now and topped up the wine glasses, lingering over Marcus’s, thinking the wine might loosen his tongue.

  “So what’s your topic for tomorrow?” he asked, changing the subject.

  Marcus had been a key speaker at the genealogy convention for many years and this year Tayte knew he had something controversial planned.

  “Technology,” Marcus said, relaxing again. “Specifically the World Wide Web and how it’s changing the way we genealogists do our job - and not necessarily for the better.”

  Jean seemed surprised by his negativity. “Surely the Internet’s making things easier, isn’t it?”

  Tayte agreed.

  “In many ways, yes,” Marcus said. “Access to archives has never been easier, but there are serious downsides. There’s a price to pay.”

  “How so?” Tayte asked.

  “Well, take e-mail for example. People don’t write to each other any more, do they? Once my generation’s gone, the written letter will be consigned to social history. Tell me, Jefferson. When did you last write a letter?”

  Tayte had to think about it. When the occasion came to him he smiled, wide and cheesy. “It was to you,” he said. “I wrote you on your 60th birthday.”

  “That was five years ago.”

  “I still wrote you.”

  Marcus looked sympathetic. “It was an e-mail.”

  “Was it?”

  Marcus nodded. “You see my point? Letters are key to genealogical research and they’re becoming obsolete. Photographs are going the same way.” He looked genuinely saddened by the thought. “How many connections have you made going through boxes of old letters and faded sepia photographs? How many assignments would have fallen flat without them?”

  “Too many,” Tayte agreed.

  “I can’t see genealogists of the future fervently poring ove
r their clients’ old emails, can you? Where’s the fun in that? Where’s the excitement and the scent of time that so often accompanies the discovery?”

  He had Tayte there, too. Tayte’s methods were straight out of the Marcus Brown School of Family History. Tripping back into the past through an old letter and a few photographs was everything he loved about his work. It wouldn’t be the same without the sensory triggers he currently took for granted.

  “So what’s the answer?” Jean said.

  “I’m not sure there is one. As I said, technology is changing things and not necessarily for the better.”

  Such sobering thoughts and the unanswered question of what Marcus was working on preoccupied Tayte for the rest of the meal. By the time the coffee arrived the conversation had fallen to small talk, which made Tayte as uncomfortable as ever. Marcus led most of the topics and they were all so transparently designed to get Tayte and Jean talking that it became laughable.

  “Marcus tells me you’re working on your first book,” Jean said, sipping her coffee.

  Tayte could have kicked his friend right there under the table. He laughed to himself instead and slowly pushed his thick crop of dark hair back off his brow, pausing to hide his face in his hand.

  “Is there anything he hasn’t told you about me?”

  “I’m sure there must be something,” Jean said. The wine had added something playful to her smile. “What’s it called?”

  Tayte held on to his answer too long.

  “Come on, Jefferson,” Marcus cut in. “Don’t be shy.”