The Last Queen of England (30 page)

Fable sighed so hard that Tayte could smell the coffee and tobacco on his breath.

“By definition,” he continued, “a secret heir would have to have been brought up by a family that only a handful of people knew about - like our five Fellows of the Royal Society.
 
We’re running with the theory that this ahnentafel will identify that bloodline and in doing so point to Queen Anne’s heir.
 
But we need to know the bloodline in the first place.”

“The chicken and egg scenario?” Fable said.

“Looks that way.
 
But I don’t believe it can be.
 
It just needs some thought and a clear head.
 
I’ve told you how things look but I can’t be seeing it right.”

The food arrived and Tayte thought the nourishment would help.
 
He watched it land, took a little black pepper and Parmesan cheese with his bolognese and dove right in.
 
There was no need to tuck his napkin in.
 
His shirt and suit couldn’t get much dirtier.

Fable gathered the SMS logs into the folder.
 
He tore the page Tayte had been writing on from his notepad and handed it to him.
 
“So, you’ve got all you need from the logs?”

Tayte nodded, concentrating on the food that tasted as good to him as any condemned man’s last meal.
 
The ahnentafel was laid out in binary on the scrap of paper.
 
It wasn’t going to be easy to work it out but everything he had to go on was there.

Fable’s phone rang inside his jacket.
 
“Good,” he said, getting up to take the call.
 
“Just remember that we need to get there first.”

Tayte watched Fable go and he had a cigarette in his mouth by the time he reached the door.
 
As soon as he was outside, he lit it awkwardly and pressed his phone to his ear as the cigarette began to dance in time with his conversation.
 
Tayte turned back to Jean and noticed she’d hardly touched her food and that her wine was long gone.

“How are you holding up?” he asked her.
 
“It’s gone kind of quiet over there.”

Jean tried a smile.
 
“I’ve been away with my thoughts, that’s all.
 
I’ll snap out of it in a minute.”

“I hope so,” Tayte said.
 
“I think I’m getting to like the sound of your voice.
 
I missed it.”
 
He paused.
 
“So you’re not suffering from post traumatic stress or anything like that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No, I guess not - tough biker chick like you.”

That made her smile.
 
“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a chick before.
 
Even when I was young enough to be one.”

“Really?
 
We say it all the time back home.”

“You personally?”

Tayte laughed at that idea.
 
“No, not me.
 
But people do, generally.
 
Or they did back when I was in high school.
 
I think kids have an entirely different vocabulary now.”

“I know,” Jean said in such a way that Tayte knew he’d brought her thoughts back to Elliot again.

He locked eyes with her and gently squeezed her hand.
 
“We’ll find him,” he told her for the second time that day, having no real understanding as to how he would make that happen, knowing only that he must.

Jean’s pensive smile seemed to thank him for his kindness.
 
“Anyway,” she said, sounding a little brighter.
 
“How are you holding up?
 
You’re the one who just got a grilling off the detective inspector.”

Tayte snorted.
 
“We’ve both been through a whole lot worse than that today, don’t you think?”
 
He laughed.
 
“He was kind of grouchy though, wasn’t he?”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean to be,” Jean said.
 
“I think we’ll all feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

“Don’t tease me,” Tayte said.
 
“You don’t know how much I’m looking forward to that - whenever
that
might be.”

Fable returned with his wallet in his hand.
 
“We need to go,” he said, waving it at one of the staff.
 
“The hospital called.”
 
He looked at Tayte.
 
“Harper’s asking for you.”

“He’s talking?
 
What did he say?”

“Not much.
 
‘Get Tayte.’
 
That’s all.
 
I hope he’ll have more for us when we get there.”

Tayte gazed longingly at his pasta and thought the news both good luck and bad timing.
 
The wide bowl was still half full, his stomach considerably more than half empty.
 
He sighed and stuffed a ball of spaghetti into his mouth as he got up, realising that Harper must have heard his name.
 
He must have heard his questions, too, and he hoped he was about to answer them.

When Tayte and Jean arrived at the hospital with DI Fable, Peter Harper was no longer in a position to answer anything.
 
He was dead.
 
They received the news in a consulting room soon after their arrival and were left with a nervous-looking uniformed police officer called Wilkins, who had been with Harper since he was admitted.
 
Fable got straight to the point.

“Well, did he say anything else besides asking for Mr Tayte?”

“He could hardly speak at all, sir,” Wilkins said.
 
“He asked for Mr Tayte then he went quiet for several minutes before he spoke again.”

“Well get to it, lad,” Fable said.
 
“What did he say?”

Wilkins swallowed dryly.
 
“Well, it didn’t really make much sense as I heard it.
 
It sounded like he said, horror-bus.”

“Ouroboros?” Jean said.
 
“Was that it?”

“It could have been, Miss.”

Jean threw Tayte a knowing glance.
 
“It’s about
Quo Veritas
,” she said to Fable.
 
“Ouroboros is a self-consuming dragon, depicted in a circle, continually eating its own tail.
 
I saw it when I went to Nottinghamshire.
 
The journalist included a drawing in one of his articles showing it as part of the society’s emblem.”

“What does it mean?” Fable asked.

Jean looked blank.

“Mr Tayte?”

Tayte puffed his cheeks out.
 
“Not much at this time,” he said.
 
“But it was a dying man’s last word.
 
Whatever it means it must be important.”

“Something to do with the ahnentafel?”

“I don’t doubt it,” Tayte said.

Fable made for the door.
 
“I’ll drop you back at your hotel.
 
Sounds like you two need some quiet time to get your heads together.”
 
In the corridor outside, he added, “Call me as soon as you get a breakthrough.
 
And don’t talk about this to anyone else.
 
I’m your only contact.”

Chapter Eighteen

T
hey stopped off at Jean’s flat to pick up a change of clothes and when they arrived back at the hotel Tayte felt like a weary traveller returning home to the familiar and the ordinary after a journey that was anything but.
 
Time seemed to run on a different clock at the hotel and he felt it the moment he stepped over the threshold - the freneticism of the last twenty-four hours having been checked at the door like a heavy coat he was glad to be rid of.

As he crossed the polished marble floor in the lobby, heading for the Churchill Bar with Jean beside him, he was already thinking about his old roommate, Jack Daniels, wondering how much of his company he could afford to indulge in before his head became too foggy to concentrate.
 
He knew it was a fine line, but after their ordeal with Robert Cornell he intended to test it.

“According to Wikipedia,” Jean said as she browsed the Web on the BlackBerry Fable had loaned them, “the Ouroboros often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly recreating itself.
 
Cycles that begin again as soon as they end.”

“Like one monarch dying to be replaced by another,” Tayte said.
 
“The king is dead - long live the king.”

“Or queen in this case.”

“Right,” Tayte said.
 
“The Ouroboros circling the fleur-de-lis.
 
Queen Anne recreated through her heir.”

“Yes, although in a broader sense it’s about the continuation of the Protestant Stuart bloodline.”

They reached the bar and the bright, neutral decor gave way to low lighting and rich mahogany panelling, lending an air of relaxation to the otherwise lively environment.
 
The room hummed with abstract conversation from the clusters of people at the tables and at the bar, which Tayte made straight for.

“But why did Harper want to draw our attention to the Ouroboros?” he said, continuing the conversation.
 
“As a part of the society’s emblem it makes perfect sense.
 
It compounds the theory that this is about an heir - the royal bloodline recreated - but Harper must have heard me ask Cornell about that.
 
He knew we’d already worked that much out, so what else was he trying to say?”

“I don’t know,” Jean said.
 
“But whatever it was it’ll have to wait.
 
Look over there.”

She didn’t point.
 
She just nodded towards the far end of the bar where Michel Levant was sitting and smiling at them in his tight-lipped, effeminate manner.
 
Tayte saw him raise a half-full champagne flute to acknowledge that he’d seen them, his golden
Sun King
ring catching the light as if to wink at them.
 
Tayte was about to turn around again and leave when he was distracted.

“Good evening, sir.
 
Madam.
 
What can I get you?”

Tayte didn’t answer the barman right away.
 
He was too caught up with the internal debate of whether or not to grab Jean’s hand and run.

“Sir?”

“Sorry,” Tayte said, refocusing.
 
“I’ll take a JD on the rocks.
 
Make it a double.”
 
He wanted that drink and it was too late to run now.
 
He turned to Jean, having forgotten his manners on account of the Frenchman who was almost upon them.

“Sounds good to me,” Jean said.
 
“Make that two.”

Just hearing Levant’s thin, melodious voice again as he approached them made Tayte’s skin crawl.

“But where have you been?” Levant said as he came between them, reeking of some well-matched sickly-sweet cologne that was so strong Tayte had to step away.
 
He was wearing black jeans and an embossed white shirt that had exuberant, jack-a-dandy flounces at the neck and cuffs.
 
“
S’il
vous
pla
î
t!” he exclaimed.
 
“Let me pay for your drinks.
 
I insist.”

At that point Jean surprised Tayte by stealing his response before he had time to unleash it.

“I think you’ve done too much for us already today, Monsieur,” she said, her expression neutral.

Tayte wouldn’t have been so polite but the message was there just the same.
 
He supposed something he’d said at the Italian restaurant must have struck a chord with Jean and it was good to see.

The corners of Levant’s mouth twitched.
 
“Ah, to hear my native tongue spoken by one so charming,” he said.
 
“You spoil me, Madame.”

A part of Tayte wanted to spoil Levant’s pointy little nose for having turned up uninvited, knowing that he must have followed them there at some point, too, but it was the part of Tayte that only existed in his alter ego fantasies.
 
In case there was some chance Levant didn’t already know his room number, rather than give it to the barman and be overheard, he went for his wallet to pay for the drinks, but Levant was ahead of him.
 
Tayte missed his lithe arm as he slipped the barman the money.

“I really do insist,” Levant said.

Tayte just frowned and put his wallet away again.

Levant indicated a vacant table further into the bar.
 
“Shall we?” he said, heading towards it, allowing no time for debate.

Tayte eyed Jean as they followed Levant a few paces back, his expression asking what the hell they were going to do.
 
He didn’t want to sit down and shoot the breeze with this man.
 
He was getting cranky-tired and they had a serious puzzle to work out.