The Last Queen of England (46 page)

Chapter Thirty

T
ayte left the hotel the following morning with purpose in his stride.
 
He stepped out onto the pavement between a row of stone pillars that tried in vain to lend a sense of grandeur to the hotel’s otherwise uninspiring facade.
 
He looked at the park across the street in Portland Square then up into the changeable sky before turning right, making his way alongside the taxi rank further down.

It was thirty-seven minutes past eight precisely, according to Michel Levant’s bejewelled Cartier watch.
 
He’d been studying the hotel entrance from a bench in the park for the last hour, having chosen his location carefully so as to avoid being picked up by any of the street surveillance cameras in the area.
 
He was watching intently through a pair of antique, mother-of-pearl opera glasses, which he now slipped into the pocket of his coat.
 
He got up to follow Tayte, but he was pressed into his seat again by a firm hand, the arrival of which was accompanied by a dense plume of cigarette smoke.

“Inspector Fable,” Levant said, smiling thinly to disguise the consternation he felt at seeing the black-suited detective standing like some contemporary Grim Reaper beside him.

Fable sat down and nodded towards the hotel where Tayte had now passed the taxi rank, still walking.
 
“He must be taking the Tube from Marble Arch this morning,” he said.
 
He took another drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke across Levant’s line of sight.
 
When the air cleared, Tayte was gone.
 

Levant’s lips remained tight, his smile wavering.

“I thought I’d find you around here,” Fable said.
 
He held out his hand.
 
In his palm was a small black box.
 
“Know what this is?”

Levant shook his head.
 
“Should I?”

“It’s a GPS transmitter.”

“Really?” Levant said.
 
“But I’m afraid technology and Michel Levant do not mix well.”

Fable looked sceptical.
 
“I doubt that,” he said, putting the device back in his pocket.
 
“It’s not active any more,” he added.
 
“But I’m sure you already know that.
 
That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?
 
So you can follow Tayte the old-school way.”

Levant crossed his legs and turned to face Fable more fully.
 
“Is it a crime, Inspector?”

“That all depends,” Fable said.
 
“But it’s not why I’m here.”

Levant fidgeted.
 
“Then why
are
you here?”

“I’m here because I knew this is where I’d find you, and because murder most definitely is a crime.”

Levant laughed - a small laugh that belonged to a child.

“As is being an accomplice to murder,” Fable added.
 
“Like finding a man and passing his name and address to someone you know intends to kill him.”

Levant was suddenly wide-eyed at the suggestion.
 
“Inspector, I hope you’re not suggesting that -”

“What I’m suggesting,” Fable cut in, “is that you were hired by Robert and or Joseph Cornell to find the descendants of certain long dead Fellows of the Royal Society.
 
I’m suggesting that you started with Julian Davenport and ended with Peter Harper.”

“But that is absurd!”

Levant tried to stand up for a second time, but Fable forced the Frenchman down again.

“Is it?” Fable said.
 
“So there’s no point in checking the records Marcus Brown requested at The National Archives and at the General Register Office when he researched Davenport’s family history?
 
There’s no point checking to see who else requested those documents recently?”

Levant gave no reply.
 
He pulled a gold enamel cigarette case from his inside coat pocket and offered one of the thin cigarettes to Fable.

“French?” Fable said.

“Mais oui.
 
Of course.”

“No thanks.”
 
Fable lit another of his own.
 
“I’ve got news for you, Levant,” he added, getting back to the conversation.
 
“I already checked those records.”

“And what did you find, Inspector?”

“I found what was possibly your only mistake in all this.
 
I found you.”
 
Fable smiled to himself.
 
“You must have really kicked yourself for using your own name when you realised what was going on with the Cornell brothers.
 
If you’d stopped at Davenport you might have been okay.
 
How were you to know what they intended to do with the information you gave them?”
 
He paused and took another long drag on his cigarette.
 
“But you didn’t stop, did you?
 
You became someone called Alan Smith.
 
Not a very imaginative nom de plume as you might call it, was it?”

Levant laughed the suggestion off.
 
“But I am not this Alan Smith,” he protested.
 
“What if I told you I did stop when I heard of Monsieur Davenport’s murder?”

“Then I’d say you’re a liar.”

Levant gave a sickly grin.
 
“But surely, it is not a matter of what you believe, Inspector, but what you can prove.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Fable said.
 
“And The National Archives CCTV footage will prove that you were there prior to each and every one of Alan Smith’s record requests.”

“It’s a little weak, Inspector.
 
Don’t you think?”

“I think it’s a good place to start,” Fable said.
 
“Whoever requested those records was an accomplice to murder.
 
And I can put you at the scene, so to speak.
 
By the time all the footage has been checked and all the records correlated, I’ll have enough to get you in front of a jury.”

Levant laughed again, but only to hide his growing discomfort.
 
Win or lose, such a trial would do nothing for his reputation.
 
He had found Julian Davenport, after all.
 
That record trail alone would incriminate him.

“And you worked all this out by yourself?” Levant said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Fable eyed him sourly.
 
“It only takes one good copper to nail a scumbag like you.”

After a pause, Levant sighed and said, “You always get your man, eh, Inspector?
 
However smart he may be?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Levant.
 
As soon as Mr Tayte got me thinking about that record trail it was easy.”

“Ah, Monsieur Tayte,” Levant said.
 
“He has been quite an adversary, I think.”
 
He stubbed his cigarette out on the arm of the bench and let it fall to the ground.
 
Then he sat up and slapped Fable’s thigh.
 
“Bravo, Inspector!”

Fable shifted uneasily.
 
He brushed his leg where Levant had touched him as though his hand had left a dirty mark.
 
“Do that again and I’ll break your nose.”

“Tut-tut, Inspector.
 
But you should thank me.”

“What the hell for?”

Levant settled back again.
 
“The Cornells were fanatics like their father.
 
They came to me with the idea that together we could resurrect the Royal House of Stuart.
 
They told me the fantastic tale of Queen Anne’s heir and promised me great wealth and reputation - both of which I adore, of course.
 
But their plan was quite ridiculous.”

“Don’t tell me,” Fable said.
 
“Once you’d found Queen Anne’s living descendant, Joseph Cornell would use his position in Royalty Protection to assassinate the royal top table?
 
We already had that figured out.”

“I’m sure you did.
 
They believed it would pave the way for a new heir to come forward, and in the confusion, who knows?
 
Maybe the Stuart bloodline would reign again or perhaps the monarchy of Great Britain would end altogether.
 
Either way, they didn’t mind.”

“Better no monarch than the wrong monarch?”

“Oui, Inspector.
 
That is exactly how they felt.”

“And if it had all worked out you would have received a huge finder’s fee for your trouble.”

Levant gave a small clap with the tips of his fingers.
 
“Bravo again, Inspector.
 
But as I’ve said, their plan was quite ridiculous.
 
I tried to talk them around to a more realistic proposal but they would hear none of it.
 
Alas for them I had already seen another, more realistic way to make the game worthwhile.”

Fable coughed into his hand.
 
“How’s that?”

“I simply went from two desperate men to another - a politician of no consequence.
 
I offered him ammunition for his republican campaign and it was easy to convince such a vulnerable man that he needed the information I wished to sell him.”

Fable scoffed.
 
“And when Jefferson Tayte identified Robert Cornell, the man became too high a risk, is that it?”

“He had to go, Inspector.
 
In many ways, Monsieur Tayte did me a great service.
 
I wanted to stop him at first but I saw a way to use them both.
 
Such was Professor Summer’s rage that she saved me the trouble of killing Robert Cornell myself as I effected my rescue.”
 
Levant’s face suddenly lit up.
 
“Imagine my delight.”

“What about his brother?”

Levant pursed his lips.
 
“Let’s just say for now that I’m not surprised you couldn’t find him.”
 
He took out his cigarette case again and offered one to Fable as he had before.

Fable ignored him.

“Of course,” Levant said.
 
“Silly me.
 
You don’t like French cigarettes.”
 
He lit one for himself and drew slowly on it, savouring it as if it were his last.
 
“I thought I framed poor Joseph very well.
 
The mobile phone I planted at his home must have excited you, no?
 
Then when you found him dead and Elliot Summer alive...”

He paused, reflecting on how Elliot Summer had served his purpose in the end.

“Michel Levant is no barbarian, Inspector.
 
I thought that if Jefferson Tayte wanted to play games, I would play also.
 
I love a good game, don’t you?
 
With Monsieur Tayte believing he had duped us all into thinking that Queen Anne’s heir could no longer be identified, he is off his guard, no?
 
The rest would have been easy, but alas...”

Levant toyed with the
Sun King
ring on his left index finger, admiring it briefly before checking the time.
 
He watched several seconds tick slowly by.

“Do you know, Inspector, it took three strong men to hold Joseph Cornell so that he couldn’t struggle.
 
It had to look as though he took his own life, but it was Michel Levant who pulled the trigger.”

That last confession seemed to strike Fable dumb.

“Of course, you were right,” Levant added.
 
“I had no knowledge of the Cornells’ plans until it was too late.
 
I suppose they tested me at first - as if they needed to test Michel Levant!”
 
He took on an indignant air.
 
“They came to me with a name - the Reverend Charles Naismith.
 
They hired me to find his living descendant - his heir - and that is what I did when I gave them Julian Davenport.
 
It was only after I read of his murder that I was truly aware of what I had done.”

Levant let out a long sigh.
 
“Do not get me wrong, Inspector.
 
If I had known my research would lead to murder I would still have done it given the prize.
 
Only, I would have been more careful, of course.”

Levant stood suddenly and Fable did nothing to stop him this time.
 
“But enough of this chitter-chatter,” the Frenchman said, discarding his cigarette.
 
He turned and faced Fable, studying him.
 
Then he leant in and kissed his forehead, noting that the detective’s skin had turned a pallid shade of blue.

“I am disappointed, Inspector Fable.
 
You underestimated Michel Levant, I think.”
 
He shook his head.
 
“C’est la vie.
 
You were not the first to make such a mistake.”