by Peter Hey
Tommy had used his expertise in search engine optimisation to ensure Jane’s website came high on the list of results when people googled professional family history researchers in the UK. He tried to explain exactly what he’d done, but other than picking a good name for the site, it all went over Jane’s head. Whatever he’d done, it worked: it was only a few days before the email arrived.
Jane, am interetsed in potential use of your services. Facetime me at above email address at 2PM YOUR TIME TOMORROW, WEDNESDAY.
Julian Stothard (Pittsburgh)
Jane scanned the text two or three times, the detective in her trying to read between the lines. It was certainly brief and to the point, business-like and effective. What was required of her was very clear. The capitalised specificity of the time and day avoided any confusion over time zones. But there was an arrogance there too. Interested was misspelt; surely that would have been highlighted by a spell-checker, but perhaps the author didn’t care. More significantly, the assumption that Jane was free at 2pm and had access to Apple’s FaceTime video-calling application spoke of someone who was used to saying what he wanted and getting it. Jane knew she was only one of many offering similar services on the Web. Mr Julian Stothard could easily go elsewhere if Jane didn’t fit in with his, clearly busy, schedule.
Fortunately, Jane was free at 2pm and had an iPad with FaceTime. Also, she reasoned, arrogance suggested success and success suggested money. It looked like she might have struck lucky at the first time of asking. This could be the wealthy American client she’d been hoping for.
With no background information in the message, Jane wasn’t able to do any real preparation for the video call. She googled Julian Stothard and the company name revealed by his email address, and established he was managing director of a business manufacturing mining machinery. It was based in Pennsylvania, but sold its products all over the world.
Jane decided to wear something neutral, on the casual side of smart. She wasn’t one for wearing much makeup, but she thought a hint of lipstick might make her look less anaemic on a video link. She tied her hair back in a simple ponytail. At precisely 2pm she took a deep breath, tried to look calm and activated the connection. It was answered almost immediately.
‘Jane. Thanks for being on time. Give me two seconds. I just need to finish with my secretary.’
It was 8am in Pittsburgh. Jane had assumed the time was chosen so she would be calling Julian Stothard at home before he left for work, but clearly he was already in his office. She was also wrong-footed by his appearance and accent. She’d pictured an overweight, balding plutocrat in his fifties or sixties. The face she’d seen, albeit briefly, was of a handsome man in his early forties with a neat mop of straw-blond hair casually swept back from his face. And, whilst there was a hint of mid-Atlantic twang, the voice was unmistakably that of a well-spoken Englishman.
There was a small window on Jane’s iPad screen in which she could see herself in the image being transmitted. Instinctively, she lifted the device to try to achieve a more flattering camera angle. After 30 seconds, Julian Stothard reappeared on the main area of the display.
‘Jane. Sorry about that. Let’s get down to business. Thanks for the FaceTime. I like to see the people I’m dealing with, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, Mr Stothard. It does help.’
‘Julian. Just call me Julian. Business is conducted on first name terms over here. It’s been a while since I left the UK, but I think it’s pretty much the norm there too now. Anyway, let’s get on with it. I’ve got an 8:15, I’m afraid.’
Jane nodded, but Julian had already continued talking. ‘I saw your website last night. Said all the right things, except I’m a bit concerned about your lack of experience. You have competitors who seem to have been around much longer.’
There was no rising inflection but there was a pause indicating that a question had been asked. It was one Jane had expected and she responded quickly.
‘I accept that my main experience is in the Met, but my associate was a lead developer on one of the main family history websites. His expertise is second-to-none. People consult him from all over the world. He’s remarkable, if I say so myself, but perhaps a little on the autism spectrum…’ Jane felt a pang of guilt as her assessment of Tommy slipped out. ‘What I mean is, I’m the people person. I’m also no novice at family history research myself. Between the two of us we make a formidable team.’
It was Julian’s turn to nod. ‘I would normally look for more in the way of references, but I’m also someone who trusts his judgement. To be honest, my assessment is that the genealogy element is going to be easy. My mother did her research pre-Internet. It took years, but these days it’s probably a five minute job – I’d do it myself if I had the time, but I don’t. Your website stood out for three reasons. You’re based in the right part of the country; you’re a woman and you’re ex-police. Call me old-fashioned, but I still trust the British police. You suited the uniform, by the way.’
Jane looked puzzled. She hadn’t put any photographs of herself in uniform onto the website.
Julian quickly resolved the confusion. ‘I did a bit of digging around online. You can find a lot about someone these days. Your Facebook was a dead end, but fortunately your picture got in the paper when you received that commendation. The article said you were praised for the sensitivity with which you handled the victims of that attack. I guess it told me two things – you are who you say are, and also you’re the type of person I’m looking for.’
Julian looked at his watch. ‘Okay, in the interests of time, let me lay out the complete story. My mother is still in the UK, half an hour’s drive from you. She’s registered blind and has a live-in carer. I want you to go over to see her. She worked on our family tree twenty-odd years ago, before the Internet took off and before her eyesight went. She got quite far, but it’s all on paper. She’s tried various accessibility aids but can’t get the hang of a computer. Anyway, here’s the thing. When her own mother was still alive, they were going through the tree together and her mother let slip that there was something wrong with it. She wouldn’t say what. It was something she clearly considered scandalous and she died with the secret. At the time, my mother was intrigued but had other things to worry about. Now she doesn’t. She spends a lot of time in her own thoughts and this has become the big unsolved mystery in her life. She’s contacted all her living relatives and they can’t help. It will make her very happy if you could just tap a few names into the Internet, check her research and see what she’s missed. It’s going to be a big disappointment, I’m sure. Great-aunt Ethel probably had a child out of wedlock. No more than that.’
Jane sensed the opportunity to interject. ‘What if it’s something genuinely unpleasant?’
‘I’d be very surprised, but my mother says she’s prepared for that. She may be blind but she’s emotionally robust. Always has been.’
‘Okay, but the other problem I foresee is, well, genealogy isn’t an exact science, Mr Stothard... sorry, Julian. There are gaps in the records, not everything’s written down. Far from it. It isn’t as easy as spending five minutes typing a few names into the Internet. At this stage it’s hard to know how long this exercise will take. Do you have a budget in mind?’
‘I’ve seen the rates on your website. Rest assured I’ll pay whatever it costs, within reason. What price a mother’s happiness, eh? But I’m a businessman. I pay on results, particularly when I’m dealing with an unproven supplier like yourself. If you can’t deliver, I won’t be paying.’
‘Mr Stothard, you’re asking me to look for something that effectively may not exist anymore. Once you get past living memory, family history, any history, isn’t the study of what happened – it’s the study of what was written down. I could potentially spend days, weeks of research. I’m sure I’ll be able to expand on what your mother found 25 years ago, but that’s not what you’re asking me to. You’re asking me to look for a needle in a haystack, but we�
��re not sure the needle’s there anymore. Perhaps we’re not sure the needle was ever there. Sorry, I don’t want to sound negative but I just want to set your expectations.’
‘Jane, thank you for the lesson on the nature of history, and I assure you I have realistic expectations. What I think we’re arguing about is payment of your fees. I don’t wish to be rude, but my next call is imminent and I need a yes or no.’
Jane considered briefly and then responded, ‘As I am in the process of establishing this business, I am prepared to progress on those terms. I must insist, however, that any expenses I incur – travel, ordering of certificates, etc – are covered by you irrespective.’
‘Agreed. My secretary will email a brief terms of reference and all the necessary details. Please handle administrative matters through her and update her in, say, two weeks. We’ll knock this on the head if you’re getting nowhere. I don’t want to waste each other’s time. Goodbye and good luck.’
The FaceTime session was ended, but Jane continued to stare at the screen wondering what she had just committed to. She’d told Tommy she might be willing to do her first projects on a ‘no ancestor, no fee’ basis but felt she’d been bullied into this one. On the positive side, it was a start to her new life as a professional genealogist, though she was fairly sure she was unlikely to make money from the deal. She was normally attracted to strong, forceful men but she was also fairly sure she didn’t like Julian Stothard.
Beneath the Heights of Abraham
Julian Stothard’s estimate of a 30 minute drive proved optimistic, but the sun was shining and Jane took the more scenic route avoiding the motorway. It was on days like these that she appreciated having a convertible sports car, top down and travelling at speed along the A6 as it twisted and turned with the meanders of the River Derwent. The car, a bright-green Mazda MX-5, had seemed so exciting when she and Dave had first bought it. Dave had decided on the specification but allowed Jane the choice of colour. The car spoke of childhood ambitions achieved and a fun couple enjoying the rewards of successful careers. They’d imagined themselves motoring around Europe with permanent grins and hair blowing in the wind. In reality, it was just a car. They used it for shopping and commuting to work. The boot was limiting and the lack of rear seats a regular irritant. On hot days, Jane would often drive with the hood up to get some shade. Longer motorway journeys would also be exhausting unless the top was raised against the buffeting of the wind. When she and Dave had split up, he hadn’t put up much of a fight to keep the little green Mazda.
When Jane arrived at Matlock Bath, though, there was a grin on her face. The weather, the car and the beauty of the steeply wooded limestone gorge all contributed, but her mood was buoyed by the happy memory of her previous visit. Her grandparents had brought her as a child, and they’d ridden the then new cable car that climbed Alpine-like over the river and trees to the so-called Heights of Abraham, looking down on the pretty spa town. Seeing it now, Jane was reminded of a passage from the novel Frankenstein which she’d later read at school. The eponymous doctor visits Matlock Bath en route to Scotland and his description of the local countryside resembling Switzerland, albeit without distant snowy peaks, rang true.
A tourist destination for 300 years, the town was little more than a village. Its mix of largely Georgian and Victorian buildings was hemmed in along one side of the river, expansion prohibited by the site’s geography. Parking could be a problem, but Jane had been told that Margaret Stothard’s house was set back from the road, with space for a car in front. As instructed, Jane turned by the bridge, forked right up a short hill and directly ahead was her destination, a neat modern bungalow hemmed in by terraces of older, stone-built houses. It was set back into the hillside, sitting on top of its garage, with a flight of steps twisting up through a tiny garden to the front door. Jane pulled into what passed for a driveway and killed the engine. She checked the skies, and reassured, decided to leave the hood down. She spent a few more moments gazing up the tall cliffs behind the bungalow to where she could see one of the cable car pylons rising out of the trees. On cue, a daisy chain of three gondolas climbed into view, along with three others on the downward journey. As they overlapped at the pylon, they stopped like old friends meeting in the street. They swung gently for perhaps a minute and then accelerated sharply away.
Jane looked at her watch and then took the steps two at a time. She rang the bell and almost immediately heard a muffled voice somewhere within. A few seconds later the door was opened by a middle-aged, grey-haired woman. She scanned Jane up and down before speaking.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Yes, my name’s Jane Madden. I’m the genealogist. I don’t know if it was you I spoke to on the phone? Are you Mrs Stothard?’
‘No, Margaret’s inside. We were expecting you. Please come through.’ There was little warmth in the reply.
Jane was shown into a comfortable sitting room with a wide picture window. Like mobile phone footage on a TV news bulletin, there was a narrow view of the bridge and the far side of the gorge, cropped between the houses opposite. Margaret Stothard was sat in a large, winged armchair with her back to the window. Appearing to be in her late sixties or early seventies, she looked up when Jane entered the room, but there was blankness in her eyes.
Jane spoke first. ‘Mrs Stothard, I’m Jane Madden.’
‘Ah yes, dear. Thanks for driving all the way over here. Caroline says it’s a lovely day out there. The village is probably heaving with visitors. I hope the traffic wasn’t bad?’
‘No, I had a very pleasant journey.’
‘Good. Now, two things – please call me Margaret, and would you like a cup of tea?’
Caroline was despatched to make the refreshments and Margaret chatted casually about her situation and background. She clearly liked to talk and her life story emerged with remarkable brevity. She and her husband had taken an early family holiday in the Peak District. They fell in love with Matlock Bath and had talked of eventually retiring there. He was older than her and built up a successful small business. He always worked too hard, smoked and suffered a fatal heart attack when he was sixty. Their two children, Julian and Jessica, had left home by then, so Margaret decided to move to Matlock Bath on her own. Her eyesight was already bad and she could no longer drive, so the nearby station and bus routes meant she could still get around. Jessica and her family lived in Derby which was just half an hour away by train. Julian moved to America, but was a ‘good boy’ who phoned regularly and was a great help financially. It was he who paid for Caroline. Caroline had lived with Margaret for several years and was more of a friend than an employee. She was very protective of Margaret, but any initial off-handedness (Margaret whispered at this stage) wore off when she got to know people. As to her own disability, Margaret explained she was now almost completely blind, being left with a very restricted and blurred field of view, like looking down a straw onto a foggy day.
‘But I can tell that you’re quite tall,’ she said. ‘Well, I think I can. Maybe Julian said you were tall. I think he was quite taken with you.’
‘Really?’ said Jane, openly surprised.
‘Well, he said you were very nice and I’m sure he said you were attractive. Or perhaps I just inferred that. Since he split up with that supermodel wife of his, I’m always trying to pair him up with somebody or other. Sorry, dear.’
‘His wife was a supermodel?’
‘No, that’s just me being naughty. She acts like she’s a supermodel. I can’t see it, of course, but I’m told she’s a real beauty… and clever… and successful. Still, I wouldn’t describe her as nice and that was Julian’s assessment of you.’
‘That’s kind of him, but we only talked for a few minutes. I could have a really nasty streak for all he knows.’
As soon as the words left her lips, Jane regretted them. She was supposed to be putting this vulnerable client at her ease. Fortunately, Margaret recognised their light-hearted intent.
‘You don’t though, do you, dear? I can tell you’re nice and I’m sure you’re attractive too.’
Somewhat pointlessly, Jane shook her head. ‘I think my mother was always disappointed I wasn’t prettier, I’m afraid. But then she was a bit of a beauty too.’
Caroline belatedly arrived with a tray on which sat two fine china cups, a small jug of milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of biscuits. Both cups contained tea, but one had milk already added. She placed that directly in front of Margaret, mumbled something about leaving them to it and left the room again.
Jane decided it was time to steer the conversation onto the business at hand. ‘Julian said you’d done a lot of work on your family tree, but there’s some mystery we need to resolve?’
‘Yes, dear. I’m not as clever as you, obviously, but I was a very enthusiastic amateur in my day. My day being in the steam age before computers, of course.’
Margaret carefully reached for her tea cup, her hand seemingly guided by heat. She took a small sip and continued. ‘I’d get the train up to London for the day and go to St Catherine’s House on the Aldwych. Then everything moved to Islington. Do you remember, dear?’
‘Before my time, I’m afraid.’
‘Well, they had the birth, marriage and death indexes in these huge books, one for each quarter. You’d heave them off the shelves, plonk them on the long table beneath and search through for the surname you were after. If you were looking for someone married around 1890, say, you might start with the first quarter 1885 and work your way through to the last quarter 1895 until you found them. That’s what? 40 books? Or is it 44? Anyway, it took ages, but was great fun. Then there were the census records. They were on microfilm. You had to operate these huge, whirring machines which were like big tape recorders. You’d fast forward, stopping and starting until you’d got to the right place. But the census is organised by address of course, not surname. You’d have to hope your ancestor didn’t move around very much to have any chance of finding them.’