by M J Lee
The Somme Legacy
A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery
M J Lee
M J Lee
Martin Lee is the author of four previous historical crime novels. This book is the second one featuring the genealogical investigator, Jayne Sinclair. Her third adventure, The American Presidency, will be published in July 2017.
DEDICATION
This book is dedicated to my grandfather, Joseph Sheehan, who fought in World War One and was wounded twice. He was one of the many brave men and women who sacrificed so much in that desperate struggle. One of the many who suffered from the wounds received on the fields of Flanders for the rest of their lives.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter One
Hawthorn Ridge, the Somme. July 1, 1916.
Three hours from now, he might be dead.
Captain David Russell checked the luminous dials of his Mappin wristlet watch for the seventh time. Above him, white cotton candy clouds drifted across the sky lazily towards the German trenches.
The artillery had finally stopped firing in their sector after seven days of pounding the line opposite. A deathly quiet had descended on the trench. None of the men spoke, each one just staring at his neighbour.
Beside him, Crawford, normally so chirpy, pressed himself into the uneven duckboards, his head resting against a painted sign for Lux soap.
What had happened? Had something gone wrong? To his left he could see Malins, the Canadian cinematographer, standing above the fire step slowly cranking the handle of his camera.
He looked down at his watch again. 7.19 a.m. The second hand ticked on, silently tolling his life away. The watch was a present from his wife on their wedding day, inscribed on the back with the words, To David, 25 April, 1916.
He peered over towards the German front line, just 400 yards away on the chalk ridge. As he did so, the ground beneath his feet began to tremble. The tremors increased in power and a massive cloud of dust, dirt and earth thrust violently into the air, spuming forth like a vast, black volcano.
The sound followed a second later; a thunderous boom from the bowels of hell. He immediately clapped his hands over his head and ducked down beneath the rim of the trench. Clods of earth rained down on his men, rattling their new steel helmets.
'Bloody hell, what the feck was that?' one of them shouted above the noise of the falling debris.
'That was a lot of dead Germans,' replied Sergeant Flaherty.
Captain Russell raised his head above the rim of the trench. To his left, a plume of dust had risen high into the sky, reaching fingers of dirt into the white clouds. Beneath it, Hawthorn Ridge had vanished, replaced by a vast depression where the German trench had once been. The dust began to drift down across no man's land and an eerie silence settled down with it.
Why weren't the first line moving forward? Why didn't they attack now?
On his right, a fox bolted from cover and ran towards their own line, disturbed and frightened by the blast. Somehow it had survived all the shelling for the last seven days, but the mine had finally driven it out of its burrow.
Russell listened. A few birds had started to sing. Chaffinches, he thought. Even amongst all of this, they still proclaimed all the dirt, wire, shell-holes, and broken ground as their territory.
'Why don't the first wave go forward now before the Germans recover?’ he asked Crawford.
'They're waiting for 7.30. General Hunter-Weston's orders. Advance exactly at that time, not a moment earlier,’ answered Crawford, staring out from beneath the rim of his helmet.
'But the Germans will be shattered by the explosion; they should advance now.'
Still the first wave of troops waited.
The silence was broken by a loud explosion on the right, followed by two others. The German guns had finally woken up and were shelling the reserve trenches. David heard the plaintive cries of 'stretcher bearer' echoing across the lines.
He checked his men. They all had their heads down, keeping well below the trench.
Sergeant Flaherty edged towards him.
In front, the sound of a whistle followed by others along the line. He heard a faint cheer before it was blown away by the breeze towards the German trenches.
'Move the men forward, Sergeant,’ Russell ordered.
'Yes, sir.'
Lt. Crawford pointed to the left. ’I’ll chivvy along my platoon.'
'Good luck.' Russell stuck out his hand.
’It'll be a walk in the park, sir.'
'I hope so, Johnny, I hope so.'
Russell stood up and strode forward along the communication trench, keeping his body erect and his shoulders pushed back. Have to set the right example for the men.
He jumped onto a fire step as his men pushed past him to gather next to the ladders.
Ahead, across no man's land, a line of men were walking slowly up the slope, rifles held across their chests, burdened with packs, ladders, wire, shovels and all the other accoutrements for holding a position. A few shells exploded above their heads, creating gaps in the line which were quickly closed up as the men walked forward.
Four hundred yards away, the German lines were quiet, coils of barbed wire nestling proudly in front of their trenches, metal points standing out sharply against the blue sky.
Wasn't the artillery supposed to cut the wire?
Then the sound of the first machine gun. A staccato pop pop pop, like the sound of a sewing machine through canvas. Now joined by others on the right and the left.
The smell of cordite drifted across to his trench. An acrid, pungent smell, tinged with the aroma of death. He checked the men once more. They were pressing themselves into the side of their trench. A few were beginning to look nervous, the bravado of the last few days evaporating like rain on hot stone.
He stared out again across No Man's Land, looking for the line of the first wave, but couldn't see it anywhere. Where had they gone? Had they already reached the German front line?
7.34.
'Order the men to fix bayonets, Sergeant.'
'Yes, sir. FIX BAYONETS.' Sergeant Flaherty's voice cut through the sound of falling shells and the rat-a-tat-tat of the machine guns. It was followed by the sound of a hundred bayonets being pulled out from scabbards and the metallic clunk click as they were attached to the end of Lee Enfields.
'Remember men, walk don't run. We don't want you girls blown to smithereens by our own gunners.'
Captain Russell glanced at his watch one more. Just ten seconds to go. He peered over the parapet. Was that a man moving forward, waving his arm, encouraging his men to advance? He blinked his eyes and when he opened them again, the ghost in the mist had vanished.
Five seconds to go.
The whistle shone brightly against his muddied hands. He remembered another whistle not so long ago, blown by a policeman lying on the ground. How they had run that day, he and Rose.
He could feel the letter to her nestling in his jacket pocket next to his notebook. Too late now to post it, always too late.
The second hand reached the top of its circle. 7.35 on the morning of July 1, 1916.
He put the whistle to his lips, paused for a moment to draw breath, and blew.
Chapter Two
Buxton, near Manchester. March 28, 2016.
Jayne Sinclair rushed into the nursing home. 'Is he okay?'
The receptionist was as calm as ever. 'Robert is fine, Mrs Sinclair. He's had his breakfast and an extra cup of tea.'
Jayne had received a phone call that morning from the Matron of the home saying her father had suffered a relapse in the middle of the night. Without thinking she had driven from her home to Buxton, ignoring the speed limit despite the traffic. 'What happened?'
'He was found at three in the morning standing in front of the fir tree in the garden. You'd better speak to Matron.'
As if on cue, the Matron bustled through the fire doors guarding the entrance to the reception area. 'Ah, you're here, Mrs Sinclair, would you like to come through to my office?'
The Matron was short and round with grey, white and black hair giving her the appearance of a perpetually surprised badger. She wasn't in uniform, instead she wore a tweed skirt and a lavender cardigan over a white chemise. The voice was Scottish, or at least had been Scottish a long time ago.
Jayne followed her into a compact office with files ranging across one wall and a tall aspidistra in the corner. The leaves were a deep, shiny green with not a hint of dust. As neat and tidy as the woman facing her.
'Do sit down.'
She gestured to one of those institutional chairs designed by a team of Swedes with the personality of an amoeba. Jayne sat down and immediately felt uncomfortable.
'We had an incident with your father, Robert Cartwright, last night.'
'So I was told, Mrs Guthrie.’
'He was found in the garden by one of our security men, standing next to the fir tree,’ said the Matron, interrupting her thoughts.
'What was he doing?'
'Nothing much it seems. Just standing there talking to the tree.' The matron gave one of those fleeting smiles that passed for empathy. 'As you know we specialise in the care of Alzheimer's here…'
'It's the reason why Father chose your… facility.' Jayne avoided the word 'home'. She hated its falseness and sense of security. Her father's home was with her, nowhere else.
Another fleeting smile from the matron. 'As you are aware he was diagnosed with the early stages of Alzheimer's a year ago. Since his arrival here, we have been pleased with his adaptation to living in a new environment.'
The woman paused for a moment.
Jayne waited for the 'but' she was sure was about to come.
'But recently, he seems to have deteriorated. Last night was just one example.'
'There have been others? More midnight escapades?'
The matron frowned at Jayne's words. The tone of her voice changed and the Scots accent became more pronounced. 'He has become more aggressive lately to the staff and other patients.'
Jayne sighed. 'Not like my father.'
The matron held out her arms. 'I'm sure it isn't. But it is a sign the disease is becoming more pronounced.' She took a deep breath. 'I'm afraid if it continues we may have to consider transferring your father to our secure facility.'
In her previous life as a detective, Jayne had seen too many people in jail, seen what it had done to them, how quickly they lost hope and conformed to the rules depriving them of their own sense of worth. 'You mean locking him up?'
The matron opened her arms once again. ‘You have to understand, we don't want to do it, but it would be for his own good. And for the safety of the other patients, of course.'
It's for your own good. How often had Jayne heard that in the police interview rooms? How often had she used those same words when she wanted a man to confess to a crime? But one thing she knew, she wasn't going to condemn her father until she had spoken to him. 'Where is my father now?'
'I believe he's in the recreation room. He does keep himself to himself. We wish he would socialise more with the other guests, it would help I'm sure.'
'I'll go and see him. Please let me know if and when you want to move my father to the other facility.'
'We will try our best. We will be monitoring his behaviour closely over the next couple of weeks. I'm sure you will understand, the safety of the other patients must be paramount in our minds.'
There it was again. The royal 'we', loved by bureaucrats and all those absolving themselves of responsibility. God, how Jayne hated it.
Chapter Three
Buxton, near Manchester. March 28, 2016.
Her father was sitting in the far corner of the recreation room, in front of the large picture window, away from all the other people. They had chosen this place because of its reputation and the large gardens surrounding the main building. Her father had been an avid gardener all his life and, even if he couldn't grow anything any more, at least he would be surrounded by the beauty of the changing seasons.
Jayne walked over to see him, weaving through two tables of card players and three old ladies perched in front of a large television set with the sound barely audible. On TV, a large fat man sitting on a couch was extolling the benefits of his latest diet to a miraculously tanned man and even more tanned woman. Neither seemed to be able to move the muscles of their faces as they spoke.
Her father was reading the Daily
Mail and didn't hear her as she approached behind him. She watched him for a minute, seeing him turning the pages and muttering to himself, shaking his white-haired head and grunting as he did so. He wasn't her biological father; the man who had given her his surname had vanished just a few days after she was born, never to return. Her mother had married Robert Cartwright a few years afterwards. Jayne had never taken his surname. Her mother would never tell her who her real father was: even when she lay dying, her body ravished with cancer, she had remained silent.
One day, Jayne would find out, but not today. Today was a day to spend with the only man she had ever known as a father.
He looked up and caught her standing there. 'Have they been complaining about me, lass?'
She nodded her head and pulled up a chair next to him. 'Said they found you wandering the grounds in the middle of the night.'
'Couldn't sleep, that's all. Needed some fresh air. With all these old biddies here, it gets a bit smelly in the evening.' He gestured to the women still staring at the TV set.
'They said you were talking to the trees.'
'Aye, I was lass, make more sense than most of the people here. And didn't Prince Charles talk to plants? Didn't complain about him, did they?'
Jayne smiled. Her father was as sharp as ever. 'They also said you had been aggressive to the staff.'
'Aye, told one of them to bugger off.'
'Why did you do that, Dad?'
'She wouldn't order the Guardian for me. I have to read this bloody rag.' He held up the Daily Mail. 'Makes my blood boil this stuff does.'
'You shouldn't get annoyed over nothing, Dad. Have you been doing anything else?'
'What is this, the bloody Spanish Inquisition? You may have been a copper, Jayne, but you're not one any more so I don't have to answer any of your questions.' He held out his hands as if waiting for them to be handcuffed. 'Take me down to the bloody station if you want to ask me more stupid questions.'
Jayne held her hands up in mock surrender. 'Dad. I'm just worried about you, and so are they.' She indicated the matron and one of the staff looking at them from the far side of the room.