When Beggars Dye

by Peter Hey

  Jane sat back and thought. She had found something, but she had found nothing. It was largely conjecture. She tried to put herself in the mindset of the time. Coal was essential for keeping industry and transport running; mining was a dirty and dangerous job. There was a strong argument that Reuben was doing his bit. In World War II young men, the so-called Bevin Boys, were actually conscripted to work down the pits. Reuben’s sister might be full of bitterness because she’d lost her three sons, but would his daughter really consider it an unspeakable disgrace 80 years later?

  Jane knew she had to keep going, dig deeper, further. If the answer was there she was determined to find it.

  First encounter

  Jane had collated a file holding the results of all her work. She’d expanded the tree significantly but was far from convinced she had achieved her principal objective. As well as Reuben Dye’s questionable wartime cowardice, she’d now found at least two illegitimate births amongst remoter cousins. Even at the time, these were not as uncommon as people sometimes thought, so could hardly be classified as scandalous.

  She considered asking for Tommy’s help, but she knew there were still things she could do on her own. And part of her wanted to impress him with answers rather than questions. As a compromise, she emailed him another brief update and planned her next steps.

  There were a few extra certificates she needed. They would contain information not available online, though she expected them merely to confirm what she already knew. The quickest way of getting them was to go to the relevant register office, in this case Chesterfield in Derbyshire, and pay for them to be copied there. It was not the cheapest way, but Julian Stothard had agreed to cover such expenses and Jane felt justified in spending his money. Indeed, it gave her a certain childish pleasure and she knew it wouldn’t bankrupt him.

  She made an early start and arrived at the register office as it was opening. The staff were friendly and efficient, and just over an hour later Jane was back behind the wheel of the Mazda, its hood up against threatening clouds. Her ultimate destination was Margaret Stothard’s bungalow in Matlock Bath. Having made the appointment for early afternoon, Jane had time to take a small detour and visit the village of Dowley. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but thought it might help to see where so much of the story she was immersed in had taken place. Perhaps the ghosts of the past would whisper their secrets in her ear.

  Jane pulled into an empty car park whose tarmac had been rippled and broken by the roots of ill-kempt, bushy trees. The village was not what Jane had expected. If its origins were rural, of farmers and markets, at some stage in the 19th century it had been hijacked by the industrial revolution. That circle had turned and now Dowley appeared to have been cast loose again, unwanted and spent. There was an overall air of gloom that could only partially be blamed on the weather.

  The car park was in the centre of the village. To one side was an open grassy area dominated by a pit winding wheel standing half-buried in the ground. Jane assumed, correctly, it had come from the headgear above the now-defunct local mine. Jane had driven past where an old map had told her the mine was located, but the buildings were demolished, the land reclaimed and the site now indistinguishable from the fields that surrounded it. It was the houses that were the main monument to the place’s past: Victorian, red-brick, two-up two-down terraces, their uniformity broken only by their varying states of disrepair.

  Facing the entrance to the car park was the village church. Of similar vintage to the housing, its Gothic Revival windows were set in buttressed yellow stone, though it eschewed a tower in favour of a simple bell turret crowning the central gable wall. The churchyard was entered by a wooden-framed lychgate with a pitched, slated roof. It was a feature of ecclesiastical architecture originally intended for the shelter of coffins before burial, but by the time this example was built its purpose was more decorative than functional. That said, in the 20th century it had found a role: it housed the memorial to the young men of the village who perished in first one, then another great war.

  Jane crossed the road to the gate and was saddened by what she found. The list of names cast in bronze had gone; a replacement had been installed, this time set slightly lower down, cemented into the wall that formed the base of the lychgate. At first sight, Jane was horrified at the thought that the new plaque could be made of cheap glass fibre, but it was cold to the touch and she realised it was polished stone, probably granite, whose purple-grey shine would mellow with time. The story was immediately obvious. She had read of war memorials being vandalised for the sake of a few pounds worth of scrap metal. She wondered what a previous generation would have done to the perpetrators of such crimes and lamented that today’s punishment would probably be little more than the ticking-off of community service.

  Jane began reading the engraved gold letters. She soon reached the three Oakley brothers and found herself unexpectedly beginning to cry. She imagined their mother standing in this same spot, year after year after year, ageing slowly whilst they could not. Jane pictured a broken woman, head bowed and alone with her thoughts, repeatedly asking why and trying never to think of how.

  Jane breathed deeply, and through the tears, continued scanning down looking for another name. There were a trio of Wilsons and Jane wondered if they too were brothers, or perhaps a father and sons. As on every other war memorial she’d seen, the casualties in the first conflict outnumbered the second. Jane knew that whilst the worldwide suffering was worse in World War II, four years of slaughter in the stalemate of the trenches had killed a far greater number of British servicemen in World War I.

  The name she was searching for was at the very bottom, but when she first read it, it seemed wrong. She reached into her bag for a tissue to wipe her eyes, and as her vision shifted focus, she was suddenly distracted.

  On the far side of the street, climbing into a white van that had been there when she arrived, was a man. Jane had the distinct feeling he’d been watching her and had turned away when she’d noticed him.

  She only saw his back, but he was tall and powerfully built with unkempt black hair falling down to near his shoulders.

  For the second time in a week, Jane was transfixed as she watched the van drive away. This time her rational mind’s plea that it couldn’t be him was more muted. Her heart was racing and she began to tremble as her emotional gauges spiked, resentful despair fighting a child-like want.

  This man could be the right age.

  The hair was streaked with grey and it seemed more lank as if its life had sapped away. The body too, though still huge and intimidating, was heavier round the middle. The man’s movement, the effort as he climbed up into the driver’s seat, had seemed more deliberate, perhaps more tired. The years were taking their toll.

  Those years rolled back as Jane was transported into the memory that haunted her. She was the small girl on a quayside, under the looming bows of a vast grey ship, squinting in the sunshine as she stared up at the tall silhouette bent over her, saying goodbye and not understanding what it meant.

  After the van disappeared from view, it took a least a minute for Jane to regain any control. She was still crying, but no longer out of sympathy for a long-dead woman.

  She began to curse herself for being so foolish. ‘That’s twice in the space of a fucking week, you stupid fucking bitch!’

  She mouthed the words more than spoke them, and only the harder syllables made any sound. Despite there being no-one within sight or earshot to question the outburst, Jane immediately shrank back into the shadows of the lychgate, as if judgemental eyes were burning into her from all directions.

  Silent now, her thoughts sought balance and calm. Of course it wasn’t him, she told herself. It was just a larger than average, middle-aged man in need of a haircut. A builder, probably, judging by his size and the white van.

  This was a fixation Jane thought she’d left behind. She was beginning to worry that she was getting ill again.

 
Jane normally had a strict zero-tolerance policy on drinking and driving, but she needed something to steady her nerves. She reasoned she’d be okay with one glass of wine, particularly if she had something to eat. She forgot about the war memorial and searched around for a pub.

  She didn’t have to look far. There seemed to be two, fifty yards away and facing each other on opposite sides of the road. When Jane got there, she realised that the New Inn must have closed down in the relatively recent past. The door was locked. One of its panels had been roughly repaired using chipboard, which was also fixed into place behind all the ground floor windows. The green paint on the sills was peeling, but the blackboard screwed next to the entrance was still promising ‘Every Thursday, Bingo from 8:30 pm’. ‘Today’s’ beer prices had been written on one window pane using a chalk pen. Jane wanted to calculate how long ago ‘today’ had been, but realised she didn’t know how much a pint of John Smith’s would cost there and then, never mind six months or a year ago.

  The White Hart across the road was still in business, freshly painted and with picnic tables laid out on its tarmac forecourt. There was a banner over the door offering ‘Sky Sports’. But If the pub had ever needed to compete with its neighbour and advertise the cheapness of its beer, those days were gone.

  Jane walked through the door and looked around. It was just before midday, but there were a few stalwarts already spread around the pastel-walled room. Two elderly gentlemen in flat caps sat at separate tables, each silently cradling a half-pint glass. One had a copy of the Daily Mirror laid out in front of him; the other was just staring into space. The large flat-screen TV on the wall was switched off and the only noise was coming from a pair of younger men in one of the corners. Jane studied them briefly. They were slightly built, wore similar hooded jackets, and had the same closely clipped haircut and thin, pointed, rather weaselly faces. They could have been brothers, but something about their features suggested otherwise. Jane found herself instantly pegging them as petty criminal lowlife and had to stop herself. They could easily be roofers or tilers or binmen taking an early lunch. They were certainly none of her business: her days as a policewoman looking for a potential miscreant or a grass were over.

  Jane turned quickly away when one of the men spotted her looking in their direction. He said something to the other which she couldn’t hear and then they both laughed salaciously.

  The landlord, a tall man with a beard, was standing behind the bar and greeted Jane with a broad smile. He checked his watch and then spoke.

  ‘Good morning, duck. What can I get you?’

  ‘A glass of white wine please. A small one.’ She emphasised the word small. ‘What do you have in?’

  ‘I think we’ve got a Sauvignon Blanc in the fridge at the moment. That okay?’

  ‘That’s perfect. Thank you. And do you do food?’

  ‘We just do rolls during the week. There’s cheese and pickle or ham.’

  He pointed to a shelf behind the bar with pre-prepared rolls wrapped in cling film. Jane asked for ham and waited as he got her order. She paid with a £20 note, and when he handed over her change, the landlord continued chatting.

  ‘Not seen you round here before. Just passing through?’

  Jane was still feeling agitated and not in the mood for small talk. ‘Yes. I’m on my way to Matlock. Look, maybe you can help me. There was a man, a big man, sixtyish maybe, long dark hair, getting in a white van, just up the road in front of the church. Do you know him?’

  Jane saw the landlord’s expression harden. Perhaps he didn’t like the police and her past had betrayed her. Whatever the reason, he clammed up abruptly.

  ‘Lots of blokes with white vans round here, duck. Doesn’t ring any bells. Anyway, enjoy your roll.’ With that, he turned and walked into the room behind the bar.

  Jane sat down in the corner furthest from the two men she’d mentally labelled the weasel brothers. She kept her gaze down but could feel them staring at her. It made her uncomfortable, so she reluctantly decided to finish her lunch as quickly as she could.

  She’d taken the second bite from her slightly stale ham roll when there was another snort of ribald laughter. She couldn’t quite hear what he was saying, but the louder of the weasel brothers appeared to be getting more animated as if egging himself on to come over to talk to her. In her current state of mind, it was the last thing she needed. She felt an anger begin to ferment and fizz within her.

  Fortunately, at that moment, she saw the landlord reappear at the bar. He looked sternly towards the two men and they quietened. Jane smiled at him in gratitude; the response was a simple nod.

  There were two weasels in a bar...

  When the woman had finished her lunch and left the pub, Dean turned to Steve and smirked.

  ‘Well, she was a pleasant distraction. And I don’t mean her orange, glow-in-the-dark jacket. She wasn’t exactly pretty, but she was fit. Well fit. I’ve had better looking, but all her bits were in the right place. If you know what I mean. All she needed was a touch more makeup, some nice high heels, and she could have taken me home for a bit of afternoon rest and recuperation.’

  ‘I think she was a bit out of our league, Deano.’

  ‘Fuck off! Out of your league, maybe. You and your “mild learning difficulties”, which we all know is code for “thick as a brick”.’ Steve shuffled uncomfortably, but Dean carried on obliviously. ‘I told you, I’ve had better than her. I turn on the old Smith charm, give ‘em a bit of old chat, wow them with my prestigious intellect and wham, bam, thank you very much, ma’am.’

  Dean was on his third pint of lager and it was making him cocky. Even so, he wouldn’t be so effusive with anyone but Steve. His friend and sometime accomplice was the one person in Dowley who would be bothered to listen.

  Dean took another swig of beer and returned to the subject they’d been discussing before Jane had provided them with a brief interlude. He looked around and lowered his voice.

  ‘I’m skint. I need some money. In the past we could have gone out and found ourselves a bit of lead off a church roof, or we did those war memorials for a while, remember? Trouble is, the low-hanging fruit has gone and the law are clamping down on the scrap business these days.’ He took another pull at his pint. ‘So, you need to nick some stuff from the site. Power tools would be favourite. Always a market for them. Professional ones cost a bomb, and there’s always some chippie or sparky willing to slip you a few quid, no questions asked.’

  Steve nervously shook his head. ‘I told you. I don’t like to, Deano. Michael did me a big favour giving me a job again and he’d kill me if he caught me. He’s not a man you want to cross.’

  Dean brought his face up close to Steve’s. ‘I’m not a man you want to cross neither. Maybe I’ll give you a kicking too. And don’t forget, thicko, you owe me. I did time for you.’

  Dean gave Steve a sharp slap on the side of the head to suggest its emptiness. Steve cowered submissively but continued his pleas.

  ‘I told you. I don’t like to. And besides, you didn’t do time for me. You did it to cover your own arse. If I ever told—'

  ‘Shut the fuck up! You ain’t telling no-one or you’re dead. I’ve warned you before. Fucking dead.’ Dean was whispering now. ‘Don’t fuck with me, Steve. No other fucker takes me seriously, but you know what I’m capable of when I get pushed too far.’

  The wedding album

  Jane parked up in front of the bungalow. Opening the car’s small boot, she lifted out a yellow leather tote bag. It felt heavy. Whilst she knew most the weight came from her ageing laptop, the volume of paperwork she’d accumulated added psychosomatically to the strain.

  Tommy’s response to her email had been a text gently reminding her that: ‘With time and distance, shame and disgrace become colour and interest. A nastily violent criminal ancestor transported to Australia becomes Ned Kelly.’

  It had been Jane’s starting point but she already knew she’d lost sight of it. She’d let hers
elf be drawn into the genealogical process and methodology. It had been interesting and it had been consuming. She’d been successful expanding Margaret’s family tree; she’d gone back further and much wider, but it was almost certainly a distraction. It was time to refocus. She needed to talk to Margaret in more detail about her closer family and unearth some better kind of clue, something nearer to home.

  As before, the door was answered by Margaret’s live-in helper, Caroline, and Jane was shown into the sitting room. Margaret was delighted to see her again and fascinated when the younger woman gave her a brief overview of the scope and number of relatives she’d been able to find.

  ‘My dear, you’ve done so well and it’s been so quick! Isn’t the Internet wonderful! Well, I’m sure you’re wonderful too. I’m sure Julian will be very pleased that he found you.’

  ‘Unfortunately, my contract with your son was to find some kind of scandalous omission, and I don’t think I’ve been successful, despite all my efforts so far.’

  ‘Are you saying he won’t pay you for all this work?’

  ‘In short, yes. But I accepted the contract, so I can’t complain.’

  Margaret looked sad and concerned. ‘So you won’t let me keep what you’ve found? I’d love to go through it all properly.’ Realising she was sounding selfish, her tone became apologetic. ‘Julian takes after his father, I’m afraid. He was a shrewd businessman too, albeit on a smaller scale. Always drove a hard bargain. Wouldn’t give anyone “owt for nowt”, as he would say.’

  Jane shook her head and smiled. ‘No, of course you can keep it. I can honestly say I’ve enjoyed working on it. And it’s of no use to me.’