In the Blood (14 page)

Celia heaved a frustrated sigh.
 
She could guess well enough where all this bitterness was coming from.
 
She’d seen it too many times before.
 
His latest venture was in trouble.

“I thought the Internet was going to be your golden ticket.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You know your father can help you, Wicky.”

Warwick scoffed again.
 
“Can he give me another loan?
 
That’s the only kind of help I need.”

“You know how he feels about that,” Celia said.
 
“I meant that he can help you in other ways.
 
He knows how hard you try, even if he doesn’t show it.
 
He can still find you a position.
 
You only have to ask.”

“Only!” Warwick said.
 
He turned away, squinting from the glare at the windows.
 
“I’ll open my own doors, thanks.”

“Headstrong as a mule,” Celia said with a dismissive shake of her head.
 
“At least you have that much in common.”
 
She could see this coming between her plans for the weekend: the investiture at Buckingham Palace and the after party she’d put so much effort into.
 
“Just tell me that these latest problems of yours won’t keep you from your obligations on Saturday.”

An edgy smile preceded Warwick’s sharp snort.
 
“I’ll be there,” he said.
 
He looked like a man whose problems had taken him beyond worry into a protective cocoon of denial.
 
His smile hung in contradiction on his face.
 
“So what did you want to see me about?”

Celia Fairborne sat forward on the settee and clasped her hands together.
 
“Something far more important than any of this,” she said.
 
“I need a favour.”

Chapter Seventeen

I
t was 2pm when Jefferson Tayte arrived at Rosemullion Hall, cursing the inadequate loafers on his already sore feet.
 
After leaving Mawnan, he’d come through a small woodland called Mawnan Glebe, which he thought was like something out of a fairytale.
 
Chunky granite steps led down into the wood through a tangle of ivy.
 
Then a pathway of earth and exposed roots wound through the steep terrain like a helter-skelter to the river’s edge.
 
Restless swatches of sunlight dappled the wood, shifting to the whispered tune of a gentle breeze.
 
Beyond, Tayte walked beside fields of wild grasses to his left and the sea below the headland cliffs to his right, towards the gorse and grassy hummocks of Rosemullion Head.

He was standing between open gates now, looking up at the house along a blue-grey, slate driveway, worn smooth with use; it looked wet in the shimmering heat haze.
 
He dabbed his forehead with a white handkerchief then drew it slowly across the back of his neck, glad of the strengthening breeze that had been with him since reaching the headland.
 
He looked for an intercom and found none, so he followed the drive towards the house.

Rosemullion Hall was built during the latter half of the sixteenth century.
 
The manor house conformed well to the characteristic architectural design of the Elizabethan period, forming a decisive letter ‘E’ in shape.
 
It was constructed from red brick with stone facings and tall mullioned windows.
 
The gables exhibited subtle Dutch design influences, and the pitched roof was scattered with several clusters of tall chimney stacks, forming classical square columns.
 
The main entrance was central to the building, facing away from the sea, being typically ostentatious with oversized gilt-dressed doors set between highly decorated pillars.

Tayte could already see the door to which he’d been directed by Reverend Jolliffe; clearly a tradesman’s entrance by its relative simplicity.
 
He straightened his suit as best he could and knocked, bringing the heavy brass scroll in the middle of the door down with a thud.
 
He glanced around, casually waiting, then he knocked again.
 
A moment later he heard a catch rattle on the other side and the door opened just enough to accommodate the middle-aged man who stood in the gap.
 
He wore a starched, light brown apron that put the creases in Tayte’s suit to shame.
 
The man was clean shaven, dressed in a white shirt with black trousers and polished black shoes.
 
His hair was a distinguished shade of silver-grey.

“Good afternoon sir,” the man said with perfect diction.

Tayte gave a smile.
 
“Hi, I have an appointment with the lady of the house.
 
Lady Fairborne?”

Tayte heard quick footsteps approaching from inside and before he got a reply another voice cut in.
 
“It’s all right, Manning.
 
I’ll handle it.”

The door opened a little further and another, much younger man replaced Manning.
 
Tayte thought he too looked like hired help; a gardener perhaps in a scruffy old pair of jeans and a casual sweater.
 
He had the build of a man who might have held a manual position: lean and muscular such that his torso cut sculpted lines through the fabric of his clothing.
 
But there was that Oxbridge accent and the air of authority.

“Mr Tayte, is it?”

“That’s right.”
 
Tayte thrust out a super-sized hand that competed only with the size of the smile on his face.
 
“Jefferson Theodore Tayte,” he announced a little too eagerly, wondering why he was suddenly using the overblown naming convention that was otherwise the reserved right of his former college tutors - and then only when he was in trouble.

Tayte’s unmistakable American twang must have stood out like a jet screeching across an early Sunday morning sky.
 
The man at the door recoiled from the shockwave.
 
“Yes ... well ... Warwick Fairborne,” he said.
 
“I’m afraid Mother’s been called away.”
 
He remained in the doorway, blocking any view Tayte might otherwise have had beyond.
 
“Sorry you’ve come all the way up here, but there was no way to contact you.”

The news knocked Tayte back.
 
“Did she say when she could see me?”

Warwick drew a sharp breath through his teeth.
 
“Afraid not,” he said.
 
“But it won’t be for a while.
 
Family affairs in London.
 
Could keep her there for the rest of the week, I really couldn’t say.”

“That’s too bad,” Tayte said.

“Do you have a contact number?”

“Sure.”
 
It was some hope at least.
 
Plans change.
 
Tayte reached inside his jacket and pulled out a small black pad and pencil.
 
He wrote down his name and cellphone number, tore out the sheet then handed it over, thinking he should get some more cards printed.

“I’m only here until the weekend,” Tayte said.
 
He slipped the pad back inside his jacket.
 
“If there
is
any way she can see me before then, I’d be grateful.”
 

Warwick Fairborne studied the slip of paper briefly, then carefully folded it.
 
“I’ll see she gets it.”

Tayte found himself looking for an angle; a way to salvage something from the setback.
 
“Lady Fairborne expressed some interest in my work,” he said.
 
“Perhaps you could tell her I’m sure we can come to some agreement about getting a copy.
 
She’ll know what you mean.”

Warwick nodded.
 
The door was closing.
 
Tayte wanted to see the family crypt and he knew the answers to some of his riddles at least had to be less than a few hundred metres from him right now.
 
But he couldn’t do it.
 
He couldn’t just turn up and ask to take a look.
 
He knew more tact was required and he didn’t want to blow his chances with Lady Fairborne if she did get back in time to see him.
 
They had his number.
 
He’d have to leave it at that.

The door clicked shut.

Chapter Eighteen

T
he security room at Rosemullion Hall was located off the main hallway, adjacent to the entrance.
 
Lady Celia Fairborne’s heels clicked double-time across the marble floor as she walked up to the security room door, pressed a few buttons on the bulky keypad and entered; she was keen to get a look at this American.
 
Warwick was already waiting for her, eyeing a row of flat-panel monitors, displaying multiple images of the house and grounds from the CCTV system.
 
He was rocking back and forth on a brown-leather swivel chair in the softly lit room.
 
Intrigue seemed to have overtaken his own problems for now.

“So, are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
 
He flicked at the slip of paper in his hand, drawing attention to Jefferson Tayte’s phone number.

Celia took it and sat in a matching chair before the security console.
 
She pressed a few buttons and the recorded images from the driveway and the camera covering the door in the north-east wing started to play back from the selected time point.
 
Together, their eyes followed images of the American walking along the drive towards the house then to the door.
 
He waited, looked around and then seemed to stare straight at one of the cameras.
 
Celia pressed the hardcopy button and the image froze as a printer at the end of the console began to whir.
 
She studied the still frame for the three seconds it was on screen then slid her chair across and collected the copy.
 
Perfect!

She looked Warwick straight in the eyes.
 
“This must be our secret?” she said.
 
“Not a word to anyone else?”

“Of course.
 
What is it?”

Celia slid her chair closer.
 
“The call I had from your father this morning,” she said.
 
She paused, thinking about her husband’s troubled words again as she glared at the printout of Jefferson Tayte’s portrait on the console.
 
“He warned me about this American - told me not to see him.”

“Does father know him then?” Warwick asked.

“No, I don’t believe so,” Celia said.
 
“But he knew he’d be calling.
 
Someone contacted him this morning.”
 
She sat back, considering how much to tell - how much she knew.
 
“I’ve never heard your father sound so worried.
 
We’re being blackmailed.”
 
Celia watched the muscles beneath Warwick’s sweater tense and lock, straightening his spine like an arrow shaft.

“Blackmailed?” Warwick said.
 
“Over what?”

“I genuinely don’t know.
 
Your father wouldn’t tell me over the telephone.”

“Any idea who the blackmailer is?”

Celia shook her head.
 
“The call was anonymous.”

“Of course.
 
It would be.”

“Warwick?”
 
Celia reached across and held his hand, squeezing it.
 
“Your father said that if what this caller claims is true it could destroy us.
 
The implications are that serious.”

Warwick Fairborne pulled away, slowly shaking his head.
 
“We’ve got nothing to hide from anyone, have we?”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Did he have any proof?”

“Apparently he does.”

“So what can it be about?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Something to do with this American, though?”

“So it seems.
 
Your father warned me that the man was a threat when he told me not to see him.”

Celia stood up.
 
“Look, he said not to worry.
 
Said he’d take care of it.
 
He’s a powerful man, Wicky, with a lot of important friends.
 
He said he’d know more on Friday.
 
He’s expecting another call then, along with the proof.”

Warwick threw his head back into the headrest.
 
“So we just carry on like nothing’s happened?”

“Don’t worry, dear.
 
If it’s about money, I’m sure we can sort it out.”

Celia reached across to the console and switched off the image playback.
 
“Your father won’t let this get out of hand any more than I will,” she said.
 
She opened the door.
 
The light in the main hallway seemed bright after the dimly lit security room.
 
“There’s nothing more we can do until we see him.”