In the Blood (20 page)

Not without the records,
he concluded.

Chapter Twenty-Five

B
odmin Jail was built around 1778 from twenty thousand tons of local granite.
 
During its working life it saw fifty-seven executions by hanging, fifty-three of which were public, drawing crowds of up to twenty-five thousand people.
 
The last public hanging was in 1862, after which four further executions took place behind the prison walls.
 
The jail closed in the 1920s.

Standing beneath the gatehouse archway, sheltering from the weather while he got his bearings, Tayte could smell the rain in the air and in the granite walls around him.
 
The archway was set between two circular turrets joined overhead by a steep pitched roof that was topped with a central spire.
 
The gatehouse itself had few windows and most were no more than narrow slits, like archers’ windows.
 
The few that were wide enough to crawl through were heavily barred.

The weather and the late hour served well to keep the tourists away; the place looked deserted.
 
Tayte peered out through an endless curtain of rain, watching it explode and hiss off the courtyard like thousands of tiny fireworks.
 
The entire place looked as disconsolate and oppressive as the weather.
 
He was looking for the jail museum - that’s where Penny had told him to go.
 
She’d said he would find what he was looking for there.

An open doorway across the courtyard looked inviting, and the scattering of blue painted signs that crowded it looked promising.
 
He made a dash for the steps and by half way he was soaked.
 
He burst through the doorway, almost knocking over the woman who was standing just inside.

“Excuse me!” Tayte said, reaching out to steady her.

The woman laughed it off and Tayte joined her.
 
She looked a little older than Tayte, dressed casually in jeans and a mint-green cardigan.

“Is this the Museum?” Tayte asked.
 
He’d been going too fast to take in any of the signs.

“That’s right.”
 
She was behind her desk now.

“How much is it?”

The woman handed Tayte a leaflet explaining some of the visitor attractions.
 
“£3.50, please.”
 
Her smile froze on her face while Tayte rummaged through his pockets for change.

“Can I get a receipt for that?”

From the leaflet, Tayte learnt that the month-long attraction, now in its last week, brought together the cases of twenty of the most notable executions from the prison’s grisly history.
 
He stopped reading as he entered the exhibition, taking in the high ceiling and the arched windows that were set into the exposed brickwork.
 
The floor was also brick, uneven and waxed over the years to a burnt-red hue.
 
Display boards divided the room, lit by halogen spotlights, guiding visitors from the first hanging to the last.

The first display Tayte came to was for a twenty-one year old man called Philip Randal, executed on Bodmin Moor on March 7th, 1785.
 
His crime was burglary.
 
The display showed the original case records beneath a Perspex cover so you could look but not touch.
 
He moved further in and noticed that some exhibits featured items of evidence, including the murder weapons.
 
In the case of Sarah Polgreen, a vial of poison was displayed inside a Perspex case.
 
Some items looked original and others were clearly reproduced to help the exhibition come alive, along with simplified prints that depicted scenes of the associated crimes and hangings, adding a touch of the macabre.

Tayte had the exhibition to himself and if he’d had more time he would have enjoyed reading every case.
 
As it was he quickly moved on, checking the dates as he went, drawing closer to what he was looking for.
 
He turned a corner and read ‘August 25th, 1802’.
 
Almost there.

Then he realised he was not quite alone.

Further ahead, a seated figure in a charcoal raincoat was huddled over the case notes at the next display along. Tayte approached.
 
The bold typeface date stood out on the display board.
 
It read May 25th, 1803 - the case he’d come to see.
 
He continued apprehensively, supposing this was the same person who had enquired about the case with Penny at the record office earlier.

As he arrived he saw that the exhibit was not complete; the Perspex cases were broken and empty.
 
He stopped beside the display and the seated figure looked up and smiled at him briefly before going back to the notepad she was scribbling into.
 
Her coat, which revealed only the white ruffles of her shirt collar and cuffs and the hem of her claret and tan skirt, was dry, and with the obvious absence of an umbrella, Tayte supposed she must have been there a while.
 
He thought the low-heeled black boots that filled the gap between her coat and the floor were a sensible option on a day like this.

“Gruesome place,” Tayte said, looking back at the mock gallows he’d just passed, erected for effect half way into the exhibition.

The woman half-smiled this time and nodded.
 
Then she carried on writing like she couldn’t get the words down fast enough.
 

Tayte’s eyes strayed to the display board.
 
They were the only people there and he suddenly felt awkward - predatory. Like he was lingering with some other intent.
 
He knew it wouldn’t be long before he made her feel uncomfortable, but he had to stay and he supposed the exhibition would be closing soon.
 
He felt an explanation was in order.

“I’m a genealogist,” Tayte announced when the scratch of the woman’s pen finally paused.

She looked up.

“Family history, you know...
 
I’ve a special interest in this case.”
 
He indicated the pen that was still poised over her notepad.
 
“So do you, it seems.”
 

“Oh, the notes,” she said, flicking the pen between her fingers like a metronome keeping an allegrissimo tempo.
 
“Yes, you could say that.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Tayte said.
 
“When I called the record office in Truro earlier, they said someone else had enquired about this trial.”

The woman looked interested, if a little confused.
 
“I was there earlier, yes.”

Tayte rushed a hand out and cheesy smile followed it.
 
“Name’s JT,” he said.
 
“Seems we have a common interest here.”
 

Amy Fallon,” the woman said.

Tayte turned back to the display and the magnified text that was there to give the passing speed-reader a general outline.
 
“I’m interested in the victim,” he said.
 
“He was the lover of a young woman called Lowenna Fairborne -”

“Lowenna?”

“That’s right,” Tayte said, registering Amy’s obvious recognition.
 
“I’m hoping her lover’s going to lead me to the family I’m looking for.
 
Connections,” he added.
 
“I’m always looking for connections.”

“Sounds interesting work,” Amy said.
 
She sounded distracted, like her words as she spoke them were wrapped in thought.

“Most of the time it is,” Tayte said.
 
“Though it can be frustrating as hell.
 
So what brought
you
here? Perp or victim?”

Amy smiled to herself.
 
“Perp,” she mimicked.
 
“Turns out my house once harboured a murderer or two.”
 

Tayte looked impressed.

“I’m here,” Amy added, “because of a box I found at my house yesterday.
 
I wanted to know more about it so I went to Truro this morning to find out who’d lived there before.”

“And it led you to this old murder case?”

“Not straightaway.
 
A friend recognised two of the names on the list.
 
He told me about a verse the National Trust had published - it’s all over Cornwall apparently.”

“A verse?”

Amy pointed up at the display board.
 
“It was written by a local farmer about two drunken ferrymen,” she said.
 
“The National Trust were very helpful.
 
I found out that the farmer had been murdered the night he wrote it, which took me back to Truro looking for the trial details.”

“Two different routes to the same place,” Tayte said.

Amy nodded.
 
“So who’s Lowenna Fairborne?”

“Daughter of James Fairborne,” Tayte said.
 
“A wealthy family then and now.
 
They have an estate by the Helford River.”

“I know it,” Amy said.
 
“I run the ferry service at Helford.”
 
She paused.
 
Then in a manner that seemed to answer her own question she said, “Lowenna would have had a maid then?”

“Sure.”
 
Tayte thought the conversation seemed suddenly disjointed, but he could see it made perfect sense to Amy.

“I need to be getting back,” she said, sliding her chair away from the display.

“Hey, don’t leave on my account.”
 
Amy’s explanation of how she came to be there had raised the possibility of other connections he didn’t want to lose.
 
“This old place is already giving me the creeps.”
 

Amy seemed to settle briefly, and Tayte was close to asking her about the box she’d mentioned, when she got up.
 
She collected her notepad and a spotlight caught the bright gold on her ring finger.

“Interesting ring,” Tayte said, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“It’s Celtic.”
 
She flashed it and Tayte caught the inverted pattern of interlocking hearts.
 
“Look, I really need to get back,” she said.
 
“Business calls.”
 
She slipped her bag over her shoulder.
 
“Good luck,” she added.
 
“Nice meeting you.”

Tayte watched her leave, one foot slotting in front of the other like an experienced catwalk model until she turned beyond the far display board towards the exit.
 
The room fell instantly silent.
 
Then Tayte heard the rain again, rapping at the windows.
 
He sat down, took out his notebook and stared up at the story outline in front of him.
 
The victim’s name stared back, along with the verse Amy had spoken of.

On Tuesday, May 17th, 1803, Mawgan Hendry stood silent in the late afternoon rain and watched Lowenna run from him.
 
He felt light headed and detached from the scene, as though looking in on the life of some other unfortunate soul, standing beneath the shelter of that broad oak tree, watching
his
life run away with her - feeling
his
blood drain from him like it were washing along a fast gutter with the rain.

She had been gone several minutes before any feeling came back to him.
 
Only then did his dull senses tell him that he was holding something.
 
He recalled Lowenna giving it to him, but the memory of it was as stale as an old dream.
 
He looked down, bringing an ornate box up to meet his far-away gaze.

When he could bring himself to open it, the note beneath the silk heart inside confirmed what he already knew.
 
It was over.
 
And he could guess well enough at the reason.
 
He had always known the day would come.
 
His mother, Tegan, had told him enough times.
 
Told him that one day Lowenna would have no choice but to break his heart; that their love would ultimately be denied.
 
Yet in his heart a bright cinder of hope had lived, ignited like a phoenix rising every time they met.

By the time Mawgan reached Helford Passage he was not the same man who had crossed the river that Tuesday morning bound for Falmouth market.
 
As he pulled his cart up beneath a dark and crowded sky, the hard rain was relentless on his back, bonding his clothes to him like a second skin, flowing with the contours of his muscles.
 
But it was no match for the unbearable weight that somehow managed to keep beating inside his chest.
 
Mawgan Hendry did not want to be delayed by the ferrymen tonight.
 
He wished only to get home now and quickly.
 
But he had no choice.
 
He had been there nearly two hours already.