The Last Queen of England (18 page)

Fable got to the crux of his visit.
 
“I said on the phone that there had been another murder.
 
It happened in Exeter three days ago.
 
A forty-four-year-old man called Alexander Walsh.
 
Same MO - eventually.
 
He was shot twice in the chest just like Davenport, only this time it was aggravated.”

“Aggravated?” Tayte repeated, seeking clarification.

“He was beaten first.
 
Tortured.”

“Any idea why?”

Fable nodded.
 
“His killer clearly wanted something from him.”

“And what about Davenport?
 
Was he tortured?”

“No.
 
Davenport must have given his killer what he wanted without a fuss.
 
With Walsh it was different.”
 
Fable paused and looked around.
 
He stood up.
 
“Look, we can’t really continue this here.
 
I need to find somewhere quiet.”

Five minutes later they were shown into a business meeting room with a large LCD display at one end of a long table that was replete with glasses, notepads and pens.
 
They sat in a close group with Fable in the middle.
 
As soon as the door clicked shut he produced a small digital device from one of his suit pockets.

“It plays MP3s,” he said.
 
From another pocket he pulled out a set of miniature speakers onto which the MP3 player docked.
 
“I had the Devon and Cornwall Police send me a digital copy of the witness interview recording.”

“You got a witness?” Tayte said.
 
“That’s great.”

“The deceased’s wife.
 
She had her two young children with her throughout the ordeal and I believe they’re the only reason Mrs Walsh isn’t lying on a slab beside her husband now.”

“Soft spot for the kids?” Jean said.
 
She sounded agitated.
 
“Are you trying to suggest that he’s not quite as sick in the head as I’ve come to think he is?”

“No, I’m not,” Fable said.
 
“Far from it.
 
But it’s not uncommon.
 
Whoever’s doing this has a very specific purpose.
 
He wants something from his victims.
 
Killing young children takes a certain kind of sick individual.
 
Anyway, don’t get your hopes up.”
 
He leant in and switched the machine on.
 
“No one saw anything we can use.
 
He wore that same mask I saw on the CCTV footage.”
 
He paused.
 
“But they heard stuff.
 
That’s what I wanted to share with you.”

Fable hit the play button and a male voice stated his name and rank together with the date, time and place of the interview.
 
He skipped the rest of the preliminaries and sat back as the interview began.
 
The male officer spoke first.

“At approximately what time did the visitor arrive?”

“It was around seven o’clock.
 
We’d just eaten.
 
I pulled the net curtain back and saw a dark-haired man in a grey suit.
 
He had a black leather bag - a holdall.
 
I thought it was someone trying to sell us something.”

“Did he say anything when you answered the door?”

“No.
 
He forced it open and I shouted to Alex.”

“And where was Mr Walsh at that time?”

“In the kitchen.
 
He came out with a carving knife but the man had a gun.
 
He held it to my head and told Alex that he’d kill me if he didn’t do exactly what he said.”

“Did you see the man’s face?”

“No.
 
He had his back to me when I looked out.
 
When I opened the door he was wearing a mask - a caricature of Prince Charles.”

“What happened next?”

“He made us go upstairs.
 
The kids were crying on the landing when we got there.
 
He told Alex to shut them up or he was going to do it for him.”

“And then?”

“Then he asked if there was a chair in any of the bedrooms.
 
He told Alex to get one and take it to the bathroom.
 
I had to fetch a pair of tights while he held the gun on my children.”

“Tights to tie your husband to the chair with?”

“That’s right.
 
He made him strip to his underwear first.”

“You said earlier that he locked you and your children in the room adjacent to the bathroom, Mrs Walsh.
 
Is that correct?”

“Yes.
 
When we viewed the house we liked the fact that the doors still had most of the original locks and keys.
 
You don’t see that much these days, do you?”

“No, Mrs Walsh.
 
I suppose not.
 
Do you think he wanted to keep you close so you could hear what was going on?”

“I didn’t know what he wanted at the time.
 
Now I think he did, yes.
 
He wanted to keep us scared or maybe he wanted my husband to be scared for us.”

“Did you believe he was going to kill you and your children?”

The recording went silent.
 
Several seconds later a quiet, tremulous voice said, “Yes.”

“Okay, Mrs Walsh.
 
Take your time.
 
When you’re ready perhaps you could tell me what you heard.”

Silence again.
 
Then the woman sniffed and continued.

“I heard my husband scream.
 
I’d never heard anything like it before.
 
The screaming came first.
 
Then the questions.”

“What did the man want to know?”

“He kept asking Alex what his father left him in his will.
 
My husband’s father died just under a year ago.”

“And did your husband tell him?”

“Yes.
 
He started going through everything but it didn’t seem to matter.
 
Every time he gave an answer I heard him scream.
 
Then the man asked the question again.
 
He was shouting - always shouting.

“And how long did this go on for?”

“About fifteen minutes.

“And he didn’t ask your husband anything else during that time?

“No.
 
Just the same question over and over until Alex told him what he wanted to hear.”

“And what was that?”

“A microscope.
 
I’d seen it briefly.
 
It was an old thing made of ivory and wood.
 
Alex told me it was a family heirloom - one of many.”

“And that’s what the man wanted?”

“I suppose so.
 
It went very quiet after that.
 
Then I heard the bathroom door open and I thought the man was going because I heard him on the stairs.
 
But he came back.”

“So, he’d just gone to find the microscope?”

“Yes, I think so.
 
It was in a box in the study with some other things that belonged to Alex’s father.”

“And was anything else said when the man returned?”

“No.”

“Just the gunshots?”

There was no answer.

“Thank you, Mrs Walsh.”

The interview ended and Fable leant in and switched the machine off.

“Mr Walsh had been beaten repeatedly with a towel rail,” he said.
 
“His killer clearly meant to intimidate the family first to make them more compliant.”

“And he must have wanted to let Walsh know he wasn’t fooling around,” Tayte said.

Fable nodded.
 
“I think it’s also clear that he intended to kill Walsh once he’d got what he went there for.
 
Given that he was wearing a mask it can’t have been because he thought Mr Walsh could identify him.
 
I suspect his motive for killing him was personal, as with the Sherwood Forest murders.
 
That could help us.”

“Did any of the neighbours see or hear anything?” Jean asked.

“Not a thing.
 
The house was too isolated.
 
Once the killer gained access to the premises he had the family all to himself.”

“No cameras?” Tayte said.

Fable shook his head.
 
“Forensics picked up a few grey clothing fibres this time but that’s about it.”

Tayte was wondering what this killer really wanted.
 
“A microscope?” he said, thinking aloud.
 
“What does he want with an old microscope?”
 
He turned to Jean and knew she was now thinking the same thing he was.

“William Daws,” she said.

Tayte nodded.
 
To Fable he said, “Among other things, Daws was a field physiologist with a particular interest in the study of human blood and the circulatory system.
 
I wouldn’t mind betting that he’s Alex Walsh’s ancestor and that the microscope once belonged to him.”

Fable looked puzzled.
 
“But what could Walsh’s killer possibly want his ancestor’s old microscope for?”

Tayte didn’t know.
 
His head was suddenly spinning with random thoughts.
 
There was Queen Anne and a possible Whig conspiracy to end the Royal House of Stuart, five Royal Society Fellows who were hanged for high treason - probably framed, Jacobites, past and present in the form of
Quo
Veritas
, and now, three hundred years later, it seemed that a ruthless killer was collecting family heirlooms from the descendants of these men of science.
 
It occurred to Tayte then why Marcus Brown might have told him to hurry.

“Four murders,” he said.
 
“Two from twenty years ago and two more recently.
 
If I’m right - if the victims are descendants of the men we’ve been researching - then we’re running out of time.
 
There may only be two descendants left.”

“How’s that?” Fable said.

“The Reverend Charles Naismith had twins, so he counts for two.
 
Assuming for now that the rest had only one heir, that makes six in total.”

“Of which four are already dead,” Jean said.

Tayte stood up.
 
He was suddenly in a hurry to get back to The National Archives.
 
Wherever Marcus’s research was taking them it was clear to him now that current events had to take precedence.
 
He needed to prove his theory and get to the remaining two descendants before it was too late.

Chapter Twelve

B
efore Tayte and DI Fable left the hotel, Fable gave him the information he would need to make a start on proving Alexander Walsh’s relationship to one of the five Royal Society Fellows, and twenty minutes later Tayte was dropped off at The National Archive’s car park beneath a dark and starry sky.

Fable lowered his window.
 
“Call me as soon as you get anything,” he said.
 
“I don’t care what time it is.”

“I’ll do that.”

Tayte watched the detective drive off and then he walked beside the now dark pond that fronted the building, heading for the entrance.
 
He checked his watch.
 
The glowing digits told him it was a little after ten p.m. and he thought Jean was probably in bed by now.
 
Part of him wished he was, too, but sleep would have to wait.
 
It was going to be a long night.

He was surprised to see The National Archives so busy given the hour and how few people had offered to help.
 
As he drew closer he saw a crowd near the entrance.
 
There were two uniformed police officers beneath a bright spotlight, a security guard at the door and several other people were standing beyond the glass inside the foyer.
 
He heard footsteps behind him and turned to see a man with a briefcase that was not unlike his own, minus the bullet holes, heading towards the building with him.

He wondered what was going on.
 
There was even a mobile news team outside: a three-person crew, composed of a female reporter, a cameraman with a shoulder unit and a sound tech with a fluffy grey microphone boom and spotlight.
 
The reporter looked cold, like she’d been standing too long in the night breeze that swept in off the pond.
 
She had a small microphone of her own, which she shoved towards Tayte as he approached.