The Merchant's Daughter

by M J Lee

  David stood up to shake her hand. ‘Good morning, Mrs Sinclair, I believe you have some news for us. Finally solved the problem, have we?’

  ‘I think I have, David.’

  Sir Harold stood up too. ‘Good morning, Mrs Sinclair. I do hope we haven’t inconvenienced you too much, dragging you all the way into the wilds of deepest, darkest Cheshire.’

  ‘Not at all, Sir Harold, I think you’ll find what I have to say very interesting.’

  They both waited for Jayne to sit before returning to their places. Rachel remained standing, hovering next to both of them.

  Jayne placed her phone down on the table, opened her folder and began to read. ‘It has been an interesting case – actually two cases…’

  ‘I don’t understand, Jayne. There’s just my case, isn’t there? I briefed you to find my African ancestor?’ said Rachel.

  ‘If there was one at all,’ added her brother.

  Jayne spoke firmly. ‘No, there are two cases. The first is the search for your African ancestor. The second is a much more unusual case. One of threatening behaviour and criminal damage.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rachel.

  ‘Since I took your case, Rachel, I have received a threatening phone call, my car was nearly run off the road, I have been spied on and, finally, last night, my house was broken into.’

  ‘You were burgled, Mrs Sinclair?’ asked David.

  ‘No. Nothing was stolen, except Rachel’s necklace.’

  ‘My necklace was stolen? But I asked you to take good care of it, Jayne, it was given to me by my mother!’

  Jayne held her hand up. ‘Don’t worry, I know where it is.’ She turned towards David. ‘Mr Marlowe, you made the threatening phone call as soon as you heard I had been commissioned to work on this case. Why?’

  David laughed. ‘I would hardly classify the call as threatening, Mrs Sinclair. I can’t remember what I said, but I’m sure I didn’t threaten you.’

  ‘You actually said, “I’m very proud of my family and its history, Ms Sinclair. I wouldn’t want it to be sullied in any way.”’

  ‘Don’t be such a snowflake, Mrs Sinclair. I wouldn’t call that a threat, more a statement of my feelings towards my family.’

  ‘Normally those words would not be classified as a threat, but given the incidents that followed, the threat is implied.’

  ‘All I meant is that I take my reputation and that of my family seriously. I didn’t mean to threaten you at all. I know nothing about your other problems, I swear on my honour.’

  ‘And yet you have lied to me and to Rachel regarding your family and the family tree, haven’t you?’

  For a moment, David looked sheepish. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Three years ago, you started to investigate your family’s genealogy. You discovered there were missing records from the church, or you removed them yourself—’

  ‘I did not,’ he shouted.

  Jayne carried on undaunted. ‘So you followed up as we did, visiting the archives in Chester and discovering the true ancestry of Henry Marlowe; he married into the family and was originally a Roylance from Liverpool. I checked with the Cheshire archivist this morning. They went through their visitors book. She even remembered you. I think her exact description was “an obnoxious, rude man”.’

  ‘What of it? I did find out about Henry, but that doesn’t change anything. He became the adopted son of Sir Philip Marlowe and as such was his rightful heir.’

  ‘True, but it does make your claim to a family tree stretching back in an unbroken line to a soldier of William the Conqueror untenable, doesn’t it?’ Before David could answer, Jayne carried on. ‘But one matter troubles me. Why three years ago? What happened then that suddenly made you decide to investigate your family history?’

  David’s face reddened. ‘I found something.’

  ‘You found what?’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you.’

  ‘But you do have to tell the other members of your family.’ She pointed to his father and sister. ‘And I don’t think you have.’

  ‘What is it, David? What did you find?’ Rachel asked.

  David Marlowe’s head sunk down. ‘I found a notebook,’ he whispered.

  ‘What notebook, whose was it?’

  His head came up again. ‘It belonged to Emily Roylance.’

  ‘The sister of Henry? The woman who was living here at the time of the 1841 census?’ said Jayne.

  He nodded. ‘I found it in there.’ He pointed at the glass-covered bookcase. ‘Hidden in another book. I don’t think it had been touched since she placed it there before she died.’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  David stood and strode over to the bookcase. Pulling a key from his pocket, he inserted it in the lock and turned. The door squeaked open. He reached up to the top shelf and pulled out the book Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens. He opened it up and hidden inside was a small notebook. ‘I was looking for first editions. They can be extremely valuable these days.’

  ‘You’ve been selling our books?’ Rachel asked.

  ‘He’s been doing that for a long time, haven’t you, David? It covers his gambling debts, you see.’ Sir Harold Marlowe spoke for the first time.

  ‘You know, Father?’

  ‘I’ve always known, David, ever since you stopped asking me for money. I worked out you must be getting an income from somewhere. Your sudden interest in spending time in the library intrigued me.’

  Jayne held out her hand. ‘Can I see the notebook?’

  David Marlowe handed it to her.

  Together with Rachel, she sat down at the library table and opened it to the first page and the first entry.

  An Account of the Life of Emily Roylance

  My name is Emily Roylance and I was born on March 4, 1806; the daughter of Jeremiah Roylance, merchant, and Dolores Sharpe, spinster, on the Perseverance Estate in the island of Barbados.

  Chapter fifty-five

  October 12, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  1842 – Cheshire

  I know the end is near.

  I can barely leave my bed now, my body is so weak. I spend much of the time sleeping, crossing between the worlds of the conscious and unconscious as if the barrier no longer existed.

  Yesterday, I dreamt Charles visited me and sat by my bed. He asked me to join him, holding out those strong hands that had once gripped a bible or a lectern.

  I hesitated.

  Not because I was unwilling to be with him. On the contrary, the prospect of spending the rest of eternity with the man I love is so appealing.

  But I knew I still had one thing left to do. So tonight, after everyone had gone to bed, I summoned all that remained of my strength and tumbled from my bed.

  My legs were so weak and shrivelled from lack of use that I barely managed to stagger to the desk. I took out my notebook and began to write these words.

  I have long planned for this day. I took a pair of scissors I had hidden in my drawer and began to remove the pages from Mr Dickens’ book to create a hole where my notebook could fit snugly.

  It amused me to secrete my book within another book. It was as if my memoirs had been published within these pages. And, knowing my brother, it will be the last place he would ever look. The maid has been instructed to take it down with all the other books and place them all in the library where it will lie hidden in plain sight.

  Perhaps one day, in the fullness of time, somebody will eventually discover the story within. I hope my future kin – for I believe it will be one of my family – read the words and understand my life.

  I have left a note in my will for Liberty; I cannot bear to call him Royston. I do hope he understands, but I cannot be certain. He is eight years old now but already bears the signs of Henry’s influence. I have left him my mother’s necklace with instructions that he is to add to it and pass it on to a daughter, if he has one.

  I pray he discovers the worl
d has more to it than the acquisition of money and power.

  I am finished now and must return to my bed to die.

  I have made many mistakes in my life, but I believe all have come from love and passion rather than fear and hate.

  I am ready to spend the rest of time with Charles.

  Remember this, dear reader, if you are one of my kinsmen or women. Love conquers all, even death.

  Chapter fifty-six

  Thursday, August 22, 2019

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  ‘“Remember this, dear reader, if you are one of my kinsmen or women. Love conquers all, even death.”’

  Jayne spoke the last words out loud and closed the notebook.

  ‘What an amazing woman,’ said Rachel, ‘and what an amazing story.’

  ‘You see now that I had to hide it, to protect our family’s reputation,’ David said.

  ‘But there was no need to attack Jayne, or destroy her house. What did you mean to gain by that?’ Rachel thrust her face towards her brother.

  ‘He didn’t,’ said Jayne.

  ‘What? What do you mean? You just said he knew about the Roylances.’

  ‘I thought about it last night. Your brother did know the family secret, and would have gone to any legal lengths to keep it quiet, wouldn’t you, David?’

  ‘I told you as much, Mrs Sinclair.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t have been able to order one of the estate’s gamekeepers to attack me, would he, Sir Harold? Only you could do that.’

  All eyes turned to look at Sir Harold, sitting upright in his armchair.

  ‘And why would I do that, Mrs Sinclair?’

  ‘Because you’ve known about this family secret for a long time, haven’t you? Well, before David ever did his research.’

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘My ex-colleagues checked the Police National Computer. Your man – John Goddard is his name – has form, doesn’t he? Theft, assault and battery, GBH. He has an impressive rap sheet. Has he always done your dirty work, Sir Harold?’

  The man smiled. ‘We have known each other a long time and John is very good at his job. But you can never prove anything, Mrs Sinclair, he’s always very careful. A true professional.’

  ‘Father, why?’ cried David.

  ‘You don’t understand, David. You’ve been so wrapped up in your political ambitions, you forgot that politics is a dirty game where people will stop at nothing to humiliate you, and that’s just the ones on your own side.’ He turned to his daughter. ‘As for you, Rachel, with your lovey-dovey actor friends and political beliefs gained from the pages of the Guardian, I begged you not to take part in that programme but you insisted. “It would be good for my career” you whined. What career? Playing damsels-in-distress rescued by knights in shining armour from Islington?’ He paused for breath and pointed at himself. ‘It was I who guarded this family and its reputation whilst you two frittered it away. Yes, we have black ancestors – we were slave merchants, for God’s sake. Look around you, what do think paid for all this? Half the aristocratic families received money to free the slaves; the Camerons, the Gladstones, the Earl of Harewood, the banking Barings, two Lord Chancellors, even that champion of socialism, George Orwell – his family received money. And now you want to find out who your black ancestor was? What a waste of time. You have many black cousins, most of whom are still alive in the West Indies.’

  ‘And it was you who visited the Liverpool archives last week?’ Jayne asked.

  The old man nodded. ‘Once I had seen what the Carruthers box contained, I asked the archivist to restrict access to the records, but she refused. “They are in the public domain,” she said pompously, as if the public ever had a “domain”.’

  David spoke. ’You said we have cousins in the West Indies, but how could that be? I have no African ancestry, Father. Remember, my DNA was tested.’

  Jayne stared across at Sir Harold Marlowe. ‘Are you going to tell him or shall I?’

  The owner of Wickham Hall stared open-mouthed at her.

  She turned back to face David. ‘There can only be one answer for your lack of African DNA if everybody else in the family possesses it.’

  ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘You have had your DNA tested, haven’t you, Sir Harold?’

  The old man slowly nodded his head. ‘I did it as soon as I heard Rachel was definitely going to appear on that damn-fool programme.’

  ‘And you have African ancestry?’

  ‘From the same region of Africa as Rachel, apparently.’

  ‘I don’t understand. If Father has it and so does Rachel, why don’t I?’

  ‘How did you know?’ Sir Harold asked of Jayne.

  ‘It was the only logical conclusion. It’s true there are a few cases where children inherit all their DNA from one parent, but I don’t think it happened in this case, so there can only be one answer.’

  ‘What’s going on? What answer?’

  ‘Are you going to tell him?’ Jayne asked once more.

  The old man took a deep breath. ‘David, you are adopted.’

  Chapter fifty-seven

  Thursday, August 22, 2019

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  ‘What?’

  ‘You have to understand, your mother and I had been trying for so long. We married late and became desperate. The family line had to continue. I found the notebook in the library and it gave me the idea. I went to one of the orphanages in Liverpool. They were always happy to arrange adoptions, especially with an esteemed family like mine. I met all the children and chose you.’

  ‘Like picking a prize bull at a market. You were looking for good breeding stock. Sorry to have disappointed you.’

  ‘You never disappointed me. You were always the son I wanted. A little wild in your youth, but that was to be expected, and gambling has always run in this family. What do you think I’ve been doing all my life? Except in my circles it’s known politely as stock-market investing. It’s simply gambling, that’s all.’

  ‘But that means we aren’t brother and sister?’ David pointed at Rachel.

  ‘Not blood relatives, but you are both my kin just as much as anybody else.’

  There was a loud knock on the front door that could be heard even in the library.

  A few moments later, two plainclothes policemen entered the room. The taller and fatter of the two approached Sir Harold and said. ‘Sir, I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit burglary and grievous bodily harm. You are not required to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.’

  ‘What about John Goddard?’ asked Sir Harold.

  ‘He has already been taken into custody and admitted all the charges.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  The detective placed a blue plastic glove on this right hand and walked over to where Jayne was still sitting. ‘We could hear everything loud and clear, but I’m afraid we have to take this as evidence.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I have another,’ said Jayne.

  He picked up her phone and placed it in an evidence bag, signing and sealing it. ‘Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind coming with us.’

  ‘John had nothing to do with this, it was all my idea.’

  ‘Be quiet, Father,’ David shouted, ‘don’t say a word. I’ll get on to our solicitors and we’ll have you out this afternoon. And detective, the Chief Constable will hear of this outrage.’

  ‘He already knows, sir. Who do you think approved it?’

  Chapter fifty-eight

  Thursday, August 22, 2019

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  As David rushed out after the policemen and his father, Jayne was left alone with Rachel.

  They both stayed silent for a moment before Rachel spoke. ‘I wish I’d never started this bloody thing.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s best to leave family secrets buried. I did warn you.’

  ’It’s too bloody late now. We’ve destroyed the fami
ly and we’re still no closer to knowing the truth.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, because of his age your father will probably receive a suspended sentence. However, John Goddard has a record and he’ll undoubtedly be sentenced to prison.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? You’ve destroyed my family’s reputation and my brother will probably have to resign from his party.’

  ‘These days, breaking the law doesn’t seem to disqualify anybody from being an MP.’

  Rachel heaved a long sigh. ‘All this and we still haven’t found who my African ancestor was.’

  Jayne stood up and pointed to the computer sitting on its table in the corner of the library. ‘May I? There’s a possibility I know who it is.’

  Jayne walked over to the desk, followed by Rachel. ‘There are some Caribbean records at Familysearch.’ She entered the website and began typing. ‘If we search for Emily Roylance’s birth certificate in 1806, it will give us details of her parentage.’

  Rachel leaned in closer to the screen.

  ‘There is a hit for a Dolores Sharpe.’ She clicked the page and an image began to form with beautiful copperplate handwriting for St Joseph’s parish church, March 1806. It was a register page divided into three columns for Births, Marriages and Burials.

  Jayne scanned down the page, reading the entries for births aloud.

  ‘March first. Alexander Hagan, slave of Mr John G. Eastmouth.’

  ‘But this is a birth. Does that mean as soon as they were born these people became slaves?’

  ‘And the property of their owner.’ Jayne carried on reading. ‘March second. Phoebe, Jane and Rachel, mulatto slaves of Mary Dowding.’

  ‘Three children owned by a woman?’

  ‘Slave ownership was gender neutral. March third. Mary Jane, daughter of Sarah Simpson, a free negro.’

  ‘They seem to be pointing out the racial status of each of the births.’

  ‘Remember, it was a society based on race and social status. This woman was free. Hold on. March fourth. Emily Roylance, daughter of Jeremiah and Dolores Roylance, Perseverance Estate.’