In the Blood by Steve Robinson

suit trousers as he recalled the encounter with one of the dogs that had chased him off the grounds.   “I don’t suppose you know how I could get an appointment,” he said.
    “You could call the estate,” Jolliffe replied.  
    “Do you have their number?”
    “I’m sure I could find it for you.   Although, an introduction might be more suitable.”
    “Do you know the family?” Tayte asked.
    “Not well,” Jolliffe said.   “But Lady Fairborne pops in from time to time.   She’s involved with various charities in the community.”
    “You think you could get her to see me?”
    “I can’t promise anything, of course,” the reverend said.   He touched his fingers together as an amused expression danced across his face.   “Have I acquainted you with our collection box yet, Mr Tayte?”
    Tayte smiled.   “No, but I think you’re about to.”   He was used to paying for information.   Everyone had an angle it seemed, even the church.
    “All in a good cause,” the reverend called back as he scuttled away to the blue velvet curtain and returned a moment later with the collection box.   “It may take a while,” he said.   He eyed the clock high up on the wall at the back of the church.”   Why don’t you come back in a couple of hours?   Perhaps a walk to Helford Passage?   Early lunch at the Ferry Boat Inn?   They serve a fine local crab sandwich.”
    Lunch sounded good.   Tayte could already feel breakfast wearing off, which he all too readily put down to the fresh sea air.   “Thanks,” he said.   “I’ll do that.”
    When he reached the coastal path, he turned right for Helford Passage and made his way along the well worn ground above Parson’s Beach, heading west towards Mawnan Shear and beyond through Porthallack and Durgan.   It made sense to Tayte that the family were buried on their own estate, though perhaps not the Daniels, although Clara was James’s sister.
    He considered that the Daniels could have moved away, and several further explanations as to why none of the family were buried in the grounds of the parish church came to mind.   But wherever they were buried, it didn’t account for why there appeared to be no details of their deaths in the parish records or why there were no entries for them in the Births, Marriages and Deaths index.   Or why James Fairborne had married again so soon after arriving in England.
     
    It was a Saturday and not a pleasant one at that.   It began with good enough intent, but by late morning on March 12th 1785, the sky over Falmouth Bay was stewing; by midday it had boiled over.   High winds and heavy rain assaulted the exposed coastline and quickly drove the guests at Rosemullion Hall into the house after a very brief reception in the grounds when they arrived back from the church.
    But James Fairborne could not be discouraged today.   Those dark lonely days he had known barely more than a year ago were so far behind him now as to belong to some other lifetime.   He was jubilant and had good reason to be, though his euphoric state was perhaps not based on the same emotional triggers that delighted his new bride.
    “Susan!   There you are...”   A portly man with ruddy cheeks came into the long gallery, cursing the stairs he’d just climbed to get there and still fussing and brushing at the rain on his indigo velvet jacket.   To one side, he was supported by his wife, Eudora, to the other by a fat wooden cane.   He made his way towards Susan as the other guests continued to pour in behind him.   “How about a kiss for your old father?” he said.   “I’ve been trying to get to you since we arrived!”
    The long gallery on the first floor of the manor house ran the full length of the upper hall.   The room was as bright as the weather would allow, lit by tall stone mullioned windows on three sides.   The inner wall hosted fireplaces at intervals along its length.   There were surprisingly few paintings and even fewer