by M J Lee
‘Exactly. That’s how you sounded last night.’
‘Sorry, my telephone voice. Years at RADA trained me to adjust my voice to match my character. On the phone, the more “mature” lady pops out. You’re not the first to be surprised. As for the pictures, you’ll be amazed by the miracles they can work with make-up.’
‘I should know better. My years in the police trained me never to force my expectations or preconceptions on any suspect.’
‘So I’m a “suspect” now, am I?’ Rachel laughed.
‘You know what I mean. We so often have preconceptions about the people we meet. It’s important not to be influenced by them.’
‘Like all actresses and models are ditzy airheads?’
‘Exactly. And all policewomen are dour, humourless drudges.’
‘I played a dour, humourless drudge once. It wasn’t much fun.’
‘On TV?’
‘On stage. One of Elizabeth Gaskell’s books turned into a play. Won’t do that again. Shall we order?’ Rachel put the menu down.
‘You're not eating?’
‘Oh, they know what I want. Unfortunately, a pound of fat around my tummy looks like ten tons on telly. I’m permanently on a diet – not much fun, I’m afraid. But you eat what you want. I like watching other people eat. A vicarious pleasure.’
Jayne stared at the menu and decided to indulge herself. The daily special of nduja and chestnut ravioli to start, followed by grilled branzino and a rocket salad.
As if hearing she was ready to order, the waiter came across. She gave him her order while Rachel just said, ‘The usual.’
‘And maybe a glass of pinot grigio?’
Jayne shook her head.
‘Please have one,’ Rachel urged. ‘I’m going to.’
Jayne shook her head again. Work was work.
The waiter took their menus away. There was a moment’s silence between them before Jayne spoke. ‘Much as I am enjoying this restaurant, Rachel, you didn’t ask me to come here simply for the pleasure of watching me eat.’
‘You don’t take many prisoners, do you, Jayne?’
‘It’s not one of my most likeable traits, but at least we won’t spend hours beating around the bush. I’m a genealogical investigator, so I’m guessing you want me to research your family.’
Rachel smiled. ‘Got it in one. In particular, I want you to research me.’
‘You?’
‘Let me tell you about myself...’
‘You were born on July twenty-third, 1992, in the Countess of Chester Hospital. Your father is Sir Harold Marlowe, a noted financier and philanthropist. Your mother passed away when you were ten years old and you have one elder brother, David. You were educated at Cheltenham Ladies’ College and won a place to study history at Trinity College Cambridge but, to the consternation of your father and brother, decided to go to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art, graduating third in your year. Whilst at college you began acting in film and on stage, and almost immediately won the part of Lady Hermione in the television soap opera, To Have and Have Not. Your pictures make you look a lot older than you do in real life, I’m afraid. Another reason I was surprised when I met you.’
Rachel grimaced. ’That’s television for you, ages everybody. Did you know Ant and Dec are only twelve years old?’
‘Now that doesn’t surprise me one bit.’ They both laughed and then Jayne continued. ‘Your address is currently given as Wickham Hall near Chester, but my bet is you probably live somewhere else. I can find the address out if you like.’
Rachel smiled, this time revealing a cat-like pleasure in Jayne’s answer. ‘I do know where I live, thank you. But a word of warning – don’t call it a soap opera. Sir Anthony Blanche, who writes the bloody thing, thinks he’s creating art.’
Jayne laughed. ‘I’m sorry to say I’ve never watched it.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s classic upstairs-downstairs drama that sells particularly well in America for some obscure reason.’ The lightness in her voice tailed away. ‘You have researched me?’
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘Not really. Just a quick check with Google this morning. I like to know the people who might become my clients.’
‘So you are wondering why I wanted to meet you?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind. You seem to come from a wealthy, well-established family.’
‘That’s just it. My brother, David, would be mortified if he knew I was meeting a genealogist.’
‘Why?’
‘He thinks he’s researched the family history all the way back to 1066.’
‘William the Conqueror’s time?’
Rachel nodded. ‘Apparently, we are related to one of William’s liege lords who was given land in Cheshire after the Battle of Hastings.’
‘But you don’t think he’s correct?’
‘It’s not that. I’m sure he’s right, he’s frightfully clever.’
‘That’s why he’s standing as a Conservative candidate in the next election?’
‘You have researched my family,’ Rachel laughed. ‘It’s a safe seat with the incumbent retiring to the Lords. He’s one of the up-and-coming young men, is my brother.’
‘So what’s the issue?’
Before Rachel could answer, the waiter reappeared with a salad for her and the ravioli for Jayne.
‘Let’s get started. I’m starving as usual. Rabbit food may help to stave off the pangs of hunger for at least seven minutes. Your pasta looks delicious.’
Jayne tucked in to the ravioli. The pasta was smooth and thin, while the chestnut filling with its spicy sausage and a hint of rosemary was to die for. She was tempted to ask for a glass of chianti to go with it.
After a few mouthfuls of salad, Rachel continued speaking. ‘There’s a new programme going to be broadcast next Friday. It’s called Where Do You Come From?’
‘I’ve heard about it. A sort of Graham Norton Show with DNA.’
‘That’s the perfect way to describe it,’ Rachel said between mouthfuls of rocket. ‘I’m going to be the first guest featured. My agent convinced me to do it, said it was going to be “great publicity, advance your career, take you on to a new level”. You know, the usual stuff they say when they want you to do something, making it out to be the most important thing on earth. I don’t know why I listen to her. We’ve been shooting for the last week in London, in Cheshire, on the set and at rehearsals for my new play. The final interview was shot in front of a studio audience last Wednesday.’ She paused for a moment, putting her fork full of salad leaves down on the plate. ‘The results were a bit of a shock.’
Jayne paused, her own fork laden with ravioli. ‘What do you mean?’
Rachel reached into the Hermès Birkin sitting next to her on the banquette, pulling out a folder. ‘Well, apparently I am 56% Anglo-Saxon, 22% Irish, 10% Scandinavian and 6% African from from the area around Ghana.’
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t know how accurate those percentages are. As far as I remember they are averages from a range, not a specific number. Frankly, your results are not surprising, there are many people of mixed heritage in the UK. We are a nation of immigrants, always have been. Not as much as America, but our history has waves of immigration and settlement that are reflected in our DNA.’
‘But Ghanaian? My family is part of the Cheshire hunting, shooting and fishing set. How have I got Ghanaian blood?’
‘It could be an error. DNA samples are occasionally compromised.’
‘The television consultant said they checked the samples. There was no error.’
‘So what’s the problem?
Rachel laughed out loud, so loud the couple on the next table turned to look at them. ‘You don’t get it.’
Jayne frowned. ‘I don’t get what, Miss Marlowe?’
Rachel leaned in close. ‘I want to celebrate my African background if it’s there. To hold it up for the whole world to see.’ She held up two fingers. ‘Two reasons. First, so I can f
inally escape the shackles of all these Victorian upper-class damsel-in-distress roles. I never want to see another bloody corset till the day I die.’ She leaned in closer. ‘I want to play real women, Jayne – modern women with modern problems, not caricatures of the past.’
‘And the second?’
She sat back on the banquette. ‘A bit more selfish. I would like to see the look on the faces of my brother and his snobbish friends when they realise we actually have Ghanaian ancestry.’
Chapter Eight
July 07, 1842
Wickham Hall, Cheshire
Emily took three deep breaths to calm herself.
Her brother had just been spying on her in the library. She didn’t hear him enter through the door, nor as he tiptoed silently to stand over her.
He crept in so silently as to be a ghost. A ghost come to haunt her once more. Luckily, she had already finished writing for the day and was reading the story of Mr Dickens in Bentley’s Miscellany.
‘Sister, I think we should pay a visit to Dr Lansdowne again. I notice your stocks of medicine have been depleted considerably.’
Inwardly, she prayed that none of the servants or gardeners had noticed she had been pouring the noxious concoctions into the jardinière under the library window. Dr Lansdowne was a vile man; only his supposed cures were more vile.
‘Really, brother, is that necessary? I have been feeling tolerably well of late.’ She affected an unconcerned manner but inside her heart was beating fit to burst.
He made that little coughing sound that always indicated he disagreed with something she had said. ‘You have been spending far too much time in the library, Emily, you should get out more. I am going riding with Clara this afternoon, would you care to join us?’
Clara was his wife, a misshapen shrew of a woman, her wit as barren as her womb. Emily had thought of her as a friend when they were at school together but since her marriage to Henry, she had changed.
‘No thank you, brother, I would prefer to stay indoors today.’ She indicated the magazine in her hand. ‘I have so much reading I need to do.’
'Too much reading will make you go blind. It is a well-known fact. I have it on the word of Dr Lansdowne himself.’
‘If it is true that Dr Lansdowne does not read, brother, he must find it difficult to keep up with the latest advances in medicine.’ She smiled to lessen the blow of her words.
Her brother frowned and then his face softened and he leant towards her slightly. ‘You do understand I only care for your health and happiness, don’t you, Emily? Dr Lansdowne is one of the most trusted medical practitioners in Liverpool.’
‘Dr Lansdowne is a charlatan,’ she snapped, ‘a man who bleeds his patients dry of their money as he bleeds them for their humours. I have more medical knowledge in my little finger than Dr Lansdowne has in his whole body.’
Her brother looked like he had been slapped across the face by one of the whips their father had once used on their slaves. His jaw tightened and she could see him struggling to control his anger.
‘Nonetheless, you will be visiting Dr Lansdowne next week,’ he said. ‘By your words today it is obvious that you need some more, some stronger medicine, to control your feminine outbursts. A consequence of your sex, which is understandable but not excusable.’ He ended the sentence with a smile. The smile of a hyena about to prey on a wounded animal.
She couldn’t bear his intolerable smugness any more, but she stayed silent, hoping he would leave her in peace.
‘Clara and I will depart for London at ten a.m. on Friday and will spend three or four days there. On our return, we will ask the good doctor to visit us again to assess your condition. I bid you good day, sister.’
With that, he turned and marched out the door as if a ramrod had been surgically attached to his spine, his time with the Cheshire Yeomanry obviously serving him well. She heard his feet stomp down the corridor with all the rhythm of one of his snare drums.
Next week.
She had till next week to finish the book of her life. After that, the servants would be tasked with administering new medicine prescribed by Dr Lansdowne and her whole being would vanish in a haze of dreams and faint memories. She didn’t know what was in his vile concoctions, but it affected her disastrously. Even worse, she always seemed to desire more and more and more.
It had taken her much effort and the help of Rosie, her old maid, to wean herself off the effects of the last doses. But Rosie was no longer in her employ. Sacked without a reference by her father long ago.
She had to finish her story. Because if she didn’t, who would?
Chapter NINE
Saturday, August 17, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne sat down in front of the computer with a glass of wine. Mr Smith had already been let out through the patio doors to wreak his wicked ways among the female cats of Didsbury, and was last seen heading straight for an assignation at number nine. Either that or another house was feeding him, offering the dessert that Jayne refused to provide.
Throughout the rest of lunch, Rachel had provided the details of what she required Jayne to do. ‘I want you to find out which of my ancestors came from Africa. To prove conclusively that my background is Ghanaian. When the Sun and the Daily Mail come hunting after the programme goes out, I want to provide them with all the details to celebrate my heritage in their pages. If I don’t have the information, they will speculate and guess and intrigue as they always do – or go digging for it themselves.’
‘When is the programme due to be broadcast?’
‘Six days from today, at eight p.m. on Friday. I’ll get the first phone calls from the red-tops the minute it finishes.’
‘That’s not a lot of time.’
‘I know, but it’s all there is.’
‘I’ll need the family history your brother compiled.’
‘Does that mean you’ll take the job?’
Jayne thought about it. She had already decided she could do with a break, and Iceland would be very attractive at this time of year. But a case searching for the answers to a DNA riddle and only six days to solve it? That was something she had never done before.
‘Here’s the money I promised you.’
Jayne looked down at a cheque drawn from Coutts with the figure ‘5,000 pounds’ written on the front. She shook her head. ‘I don’t know if I can help you. I’ve never done DNA-based research before.’
‘But you must. You’re the only person I can turn to. My brother has already said he wants nothing to do with it.’
‘You told him about the programme?’
She nodded. ‘And Father. They both had to know.’
‘What was their reaction?’
‘They were livid with me, particularly my father. He said I had been a little fool, should never have agreed to the show and that the DNA must have been contaminated.’
‘Well, they would say that, wouldn’t they?’
‘Please take the job.’
Jayne thought for a moment. ‘I’ll do it, but on one condition.’
‘Anything.’
‘You put your money away. If, and it’s a big if, I can work out which ancestor of yours contributed the African part of your DNA, then you pay me. If not, then I will accept nothing.’ Rachel tried to speak but Jayne held her hand up and continued. ‘The reason is, I’m not certain I can do anything. It’s not a normal investigation.’
Rachel smiled like a cat who had just discovered a whole gallon of cream. ‘But that’s exactly what Lord Radley said you were good at. Investigations that were out of the ordinary.’
Jayne knew she had been trapped. Rachel had an understanding of human nature far beyond her years. No wonder she was such a good actress. Jayne’s motivation was always in the investigation, not in the outcome. In many ways, she was still a detective, only now she investigated family history not family violence.
‘I’ll start today. Can you send me the family tree your brother compiled?’<
br />
‘It’s a big file, as soon as I have access to a computer, I’ll send it along.’
‘Good. I’ll call you in two days with an update.’
‘There’s one thing I have that might help you.’ Rachel reached into her Birkin and pulled out a dark blue jewellery case. ‘My mother gave me this before the cancer took her away.’ She opened up the case to reveal a gold necklace with a variety of charms hanging from it. ‘My mother said this had always been in the family, handed down from daughter to daughter. She told me she had added this charm to protect and guide me through life. I was to add something and give it to my daughter.’ Rachel pointed to a gold lion dangling off the necklace. ‘I’m a Leo, you see. Could it be of use?’
‘If it’s been handed down, it might be helpful.’
Rachel closed the box and handed it Jayne. ‘But please don't lose it. It’s one of the few things I have to remember my mother by.’
And that was it. They spent the rest of the lunch chatting about Rachel’s job as an actress. She was a great story-teller with a theatrical love of gossip about the rich and pretentious. All told with a salacious glint in the eye that said, quite boldly, ‘I don’t take all this celebrity malarkey terribly seriously’.
It was only when they came to pay and Jayne offered to share the bill that the benefits of celebrity became apparent. The bill was put on Rachel’s account. Not for her the ignominious presentation of a credit card machine.
Now Jayne was back at home in front of the computer, a strange sense of anticipation tingling through her body. What would she find out this time? Was there a hidden secret in the Marlowe history? Or was the DNA result false? Just another mistake by the testing lab?
That was the beauty of genealogical research; you never knew what you would find until you looked.
She logged into her Gmail account. There it was at the top, an email from Rachel with a large attachment. She clicked on it and waited and waited and waited.
Finally, the file opened. A quick glance showed that it contained 3774 names. ‘He has done his research,’ Jayne said out loud.