The Somme Legacy: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery (Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mysteries Book 2)

by M J Lee

  'If you want me to continue to research your case, Mr Russell, you must pay him what you owe, is that clear?'

  The other end of the phone remained silent.

  'Otherwise, I will forget I ever met you or your father.'

  'But, Mrs Sinclair, we only have seven days left…'

  'Those are my terms, Mr Russell, take them or leave them.' Jayne didn't like Herbert Small but his treatment by the Russells had been shoddy.

  'I agree, Mrs Sinclair. I'll sign a cheque and send it to him right away. Will you continue with the search?'

  Jayne thought for a moment. Am I getting myself into a well of trouble? Are these people worth the hassle? But the case intrigued her. Why would a woman insist she was married unless she was? And why was there no record of the marriage?

  'Hello, Mrs Sinclair?'

  'I will continue with the search for seven days, Mr Russell. If at the end of that time we haven't found the answer, then we will stop.'

  'Agreed, Mrs Sinclair.'

  'And one more thing, Mr Russell, I’ve changed my mind. There will be no bill from me for expenses, or anything else. Clear?'

  'As rainwater, Mrs Sinclair. Thank you.'

  Jayne put the phone down. She wondered if she were making a big mistake. But the image of that poor woman locked up in an asylum for 50 years came back to her. What if the same thing ever happened to her father?

  Chapter Eight

  Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.

  She wasn't going to treat him in such a shabby manner. Nobody talked to Herbert Small in that way and got away with it. He slammed his hand down on top of the steering wheel of his Toyota.

  Who does she think she is? He had been doing this job for over 20 years. His clients always paid him what he asked. No client ever sacked him, he was the best in the business. What was she but some jumped-up ex-copper with a couple of years' experience? She wasn't going to take his clients from him.

  Not her. Not anyone.

  An 'ambulance chaser', him. She had a cheek. Well, he knew what he was going to do with her. He hadn't been in this profession without learning a trick or three.

  If the Russells thought he could be discarded like a used tissue, well they had a surprise coming to them too.

  A smile spread across his face. He could kill two birds with one stone. Or in this case three old birds.

  He picked up his phone and dialled the number. 'Hello, Mr Dunphy? Mr Eamon Dunphy?'

  A deep, resonant voice came from the other end of the phone. 'Speaking.'

  'Hello, Mr Dunphy, you don't know me, my name is Herbert Small. I have information which may be extremely useful regarding your proposed development in Derbyshire. I suggest we meet at your office tomorrow morning. Shall we say 10 a.m.?'

  'I'm sorry, Mr…?'

  'Small, Herbert Small.'

  'Yes, Mr Small, I'm a busy man and…'

  'You have invested four million pounds in this development already, Mr Dunphy, you wouldn't like it to go to waste, would you?'

  'Well…'

  'It is in your own interest, Mr Dunphy. I am able to save you a fortune.’

  'Well, I can give you 15 minutes at 2 p.m. Don't be late.’

  'I won't, Mr Dunphy. And just for the record this information is free. But I'm sure once you have heard it, you may believe a small finder's fee is the correct way of rewarding the bearer of such important news.'

  ‘2 p.m., tomorrow, Mr…?'

  'Small, Herbert Small.'

  The end of the line went dead and Herbert Small smiled like a cat who had just had the cream.

  Double cream.

  Chapter Nine

  Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.

  After deciding to stick with the case, Jayne returned to her research with a new-found determination. She wasn't going to let one of those heir hunters spoil her relationship with her new client, or her mood.

  A glass of wine and the rest of the Amano chocolate helped her find out everything she needed about the Russell family and the Lappiter title.

  The whole lot of them were a strange mixture of madness and duty, alternating from generation to generation. The first Lord Lappiter had come from nowhere, manufacturing ball bearings and becoming a confidante of Prince Albert. He was ennobled after the Great Exhibition of 1851, having been one of its leading lights. The second Lord had been a wastrel, spending his time gallivanting around the fleshpots of Paris in the company of Edward, Prince of Wales. He had died of an overdose of absinthe in one of the sleaziest bars of Montmartre. Toulouse-Lautrec had even portrayed his likeness in a famous poster.

  After him, the family returned to duty again with the third Lord Lappiter, David's father, becoming an academic and a member of both the Royal Society and the Royal Geographical Society and having three species of Asian butterfly named after him.

  According to Burke's Peerage, David Russell had only been Lord Lappiter for three days before dying on the Somme. She made a note to herself to check his death notice in the London Gazette later.

  After his premature death, the family had gone downhill. Toby, the fourth Lord, David's brother, had been one of the fast set in the 1920s, discovering an insatiable taste for wine, women and song, and wasting the rest of his money. He had died in 1935 in a car crash. The fifth Lord, James, was more sober, carving out a career in the army and perishing at Dunkirk. The madness in the family skipped a generation as his son, Thomas, spent his whole life in the Colonial Office, specialising in the legal ramifications of Independence. He died in 1978, leaving the last scion, Ronald, the freedom to enjoy life to the fullest, dying in the arms of a Filipino prostitute.

  What a strange family, she thought as she sipped another glass of wine. She had done the usual checks, working backwards through the Russell line, researching both the matriarchal and patrimonial sides of the family. There seemed to be no surviving relatives anywhere. 'The Russells weren't a productive lot at all,' she said to Mr Smith. The cat just ignored her, intent on licking his paws, preparing himself for his nightly prowl. 'Too much inbreeding, I think.'

  She poured the last dregs of the bottle of Rioja into her glass. Was she drinking too much since Paul had left?

  Probably.

  She glanced across at the acetate folder lying next to her computer. The two envelopes lay inside. Why had Mark given her these envelopes? And why was his father so protective of them? Herbert Small had not mentioned them at all. Did he know they existed?

  She picked up the envelope with its beautiful copperplate writing and opened the flap at the back. Sandwiched between an old blank sheet of writing paper folded in half was a medallion with a woman's face on it, topped with three small hand-tied bows in purple, white and green silk.

  The picture was of on older woman, in her forties at least, with a silk scarf wrapped around her neck and her hair tied back and parted in the centre. The face was strong and forthright, with an aquiline nose, sharp, piercing eyes and a determined clench of the mouth and jaw. This was a woman not to be tangled with.

  Jayne examined the silver frame. At least, she thought it was silver. It was no more than one inch in diameter with a well-worn message engraved on the back.

  To Rose from E.

  The silver seemed too thin and shiny, as if it had been touched or rubbed many times during its life.

  Who was E? If the engraving said 'To Rose' then this couldn't be a picture of Mark's great grandmother, could it?

  Jayne looked again at the picture of the woman. The clothes and the hairstyle were Victorian not Edwardian. If Rose was born in 1892, then this woman was far too old to be Rose. Was it her mother? But her mother's Christian name was Marion. Why didn't it read, 'To Rose from M.?'

  She put down the medallion and picked up the other envelope. This was more modern, with the word Conqueror etched into the weave. Inside was a yellowing sheet of paper folded into four. She opened it carefully to reveal a head and shoulders drawing in pencil of a young woman. The face wasn’t beautiful,
but the fine nose and jawline gave the image an inner strength. She was wearing a starched white collar over what looked like a pinafore. But it was the eyes that Jayne was forced to look at. Somehow the artist had drawn them to show they sparkled with happiness. A wonderful, deep-felt joy radiated from these eyes like rays from the sun.

  Jayne instantly liked this woman, was drawn to her as if she were a close friend. Could she be Rose Clarke? There was nothing written on the drawing to indicate who it was. But, if it were Rose, who had drawn the picture of her?

  She picked up the locket again. Mark had said these were the only effects his great grandmother had kept with her during her long years in the asylum. A life in two objects. Is that all that remained of Rose Clarke?

  Jayne took another sip of wine. As she did so, a thought struck her. One person might be able to help. Jayne picked up her phone and checked her contacts. There she was. It had been over a year since they had last talked, but Maeve might be able to help. Or at least she would know somebody who could. There were some advantages to being part of a woman's network.

  She called the number and they arranged to meet at 11 a.m. tomorrow morning.

  'Another meeting in a coffee shop, Mr Smith. I'm going to have to go on a caffeine detox when this investigation is finished.' The cat carried on licking its fur, still ignoring her.

  The phone rang. She picked it up immediately without looking at the screen. 'You're not going to cancel on me, are you Maeve?'

  'I don't think so,' a male voice answered. 'It's Paul.'

  She hadn't seen her husband for two months since he had gone to Brussels to work. He still rang her a couple of times a week. They chatted politely about the house, or the weather, or the cat. Occasionally, he asked her about her work, but even those questions had become fewer and fewer recently.

  'Hello, hello…'

  'Hi Paul.' Jayne tried to put as much enthusiasm in her voice as she could.

  'I'm coming back to Manchester at 5.00 tomorrow. Can you pick me up from the airport?'

  Jayne thought for a moment. 'Sure,' she finally answered.

  'You don't seem too enthusiastic.'

  'It's short notice, that's all.'

  'I thought you'd be pleased to see me.'

  There it was. The little-boy-lost whine in his voice. A sound that irritated the hell out of Jayne.

  'I am, it's just…'

  'It's just you have an appointment with Maeve…'

  It was so like Paul. The whine followed by aggression. The man could play passive aggressive with the best of them. 'Actually, the meeting is in the morning. So, yes I can pick you up from the airport.'

  'Oh good.' The sarcasm was clear in his tone. Then there was a beat and he seemed to recover himself. His voice dropped a register. ‘I’ve some news.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me now?’

  ‘Let’s keep it until I see you. I prefer to tell you in person.’

  She wanted to scream. Why did he always do this? Just bloody tell her, don’t tease or tempt or hint or bloody suggest. Just say it.

  But she said nothing.

  The line went quiet at the other end. ’We need to talk, Jayne.'

  'We are talking.' Jayne knew the words were wrong even as they came out of her mouth.

  'No, we need to talk about us.'

  'Right. Let's talk about us.'

  The time had come, Jayne knew it would one day. She had hoped it would be a while before they had this conversation. In her life, her job with the police, and now her genealogical work, she had never been afraid of confrontation, physical or verbal. As they taught her in police college so many years ago: get your retaliation in first, Cadet Sinclair, don't ever let the bastards get the upper hand.

  But, in her personal life, she found it very difficult. It was as if this was another her. A different person. She found it hard to talk about personal things. Her mother had been the same, hiding her cancer until it was far too late, only letting Robert and her know about it when the end was unstoppable.

  'Hello, hello…'

  'Paul, let's talk when you get back.'

  'About us, Jayne, what we're doing and where we're going.'

  'About us.'

  'I'm on Brussels Airlines, SN 2177. Check to see if it's delayed, you know what they're like.'

  'I will. See you tomorrow.'

  The line went dead in her hand. Tomorrow it is. She didn't know what he was going to say to her. But worse, she had even less idea what she was going to say to him. Would she realise how much she missed him when she saw him again? Or would she know it was all over?

  She picked up her wine glass and stared through the deep ruby red of the Rioja swirling in the bottom. At the moment, she didn't know what she wanted and it annoyed the hell out of her.

  Jayne looked at the picture of the stern woman, encased in her silver frame. 'I bet you wouldn't put up with this shit, would you?'

  Chapter Ten

  London. April 25, 1913.

  The paisley bag felt strangely heavy on her shoulder. It wasn't hers of course, she’d borrowed it from one of the other women in the group. She had checked the label inside as she was filling it.

  Liberty of London.

  She had been inside the store only once. Such a beautiful place with wonderful fabrics from all over the world. So different from her father's shop. Such choice and all so modern. She had once tried to persuade her father to stock more fashionable items, but his answer had been firm and unwavering.

  'We stock what our customers want, Rose. Nothing more and nothing less. And this…,' he pointed to the old-fashioned clothes displayed on the mannequins, 'this is what our customers want.'

  She knew it was useless to try to change his mind. Like all men, once it was made up, he was as unmovable as Stonehenge.

  She glanced across at Amy Rhodes on the other side of the street. Her head held high, her shoulders back, like the good actress she was, not looking to the left or right. Just another middle-class woman window shopping.

  The bag was digging into her shoulder; she moved it so the strap lay closer to her neck. Up ahead, two policemen, wearing their capes buttoned up against the soft drizzle, were walking towards her, the badges on their helmets glistening in the rain. She pulled her coat tighter around her body, making sure her suffragette medallion was covered.

  She moved the bag again, holding it tightly against her body. As the police drew level, one of them touched his index finger to the point of his helmet. 'You shouldn't be out in weather like this, miss.'

  'I've not far to go, forgot my umbrella,' she answered, adding what she hoped was a winsome smile. Another fragile female.

  'You should ‘urry up,' the older, gruffer policeman said, 'this ‘ere rain is going to get ‘eavier or my name isn't Charles Beckett.’

  'Thank you, Constable Beckett, I'll hurry home.'

  The younger one touched his finger to his helmet again. 'Good evening, miss.'

  She hurried past them, picking up her pace. Amy was crossing the road to join her.

  'What did they want?'

  'Worried about my health.'

  'They couldn't care less a year ago.'

  Rose thought back to the time in Holloway. The smell of stale urine hanging over the place like a shroud, the rancid kiss of the rough clothes against her skin. And, all the time, the threat of force-feeding looming over her if she had the temerity to go on hunger strike. The others told her what they did. Forcing the tube down a girl's nose as they held her, sometimes needing six men to keep the prisoner subdued. None of the women who suffered force-feeding were ever the same again. It was as if something was taken from them, never to be returned.

  And now they were protesting the latest move in their war against a stubborn Parliament full of stubborn men: The Cat and Mouse Act read into law that very day in the House of Commons. It was funny, the British often gave the quaintest names to their most draconian laws. It was as if they could lessen severity with banality.

 
Amy leant closer to her and whispered, 'The target is just around the corner. No.36.'

  'Let's get it over and done.' Rose felt a shiver tremble down her spine. She wasn't sure she could face prison again, not ever again.

  The two women picked up the pace and rounded the corner. Number 36, the house of the Home Secretary, Reginald McKenna, was just across the street, the number in black letters against the dark blue of the door and the painted white stone surround. It was a modern building created by Lutyens in 1911 to match the neighbouring elegant Georgian townhouses.

  Rose admired the lines and symmetry of the windows and composition. The artist in her wanted to sit down and sketch it there and then. The woman in her revolted at all it represented; a bastion of male privilege and power.

  They crossed over to stand in front of the house. Amy glanced up and down the street.

  Empty.

  'Let's do it,’ Amy said.

  Rose reached into the Paisley bag and grabbed one of the half-bricks wrapped in a poster from the movement. She had wrapped them herself last night, making sure the words VOTES FOR WOMEN in big black letters could be seen clearly.

  Amy was ready to throw, her arm reaching back just as they had practised. Rose copied her.

  'One…two…three.'

  They both shouted 'Votes for Women!’ as loudly as they could and launched the bricks. Amy's flew high into the first-storey window above the door, smashing a hole in one of the panes of glass. Rose drew back her own arm and let fly. The stone wrapped in the suffragette poster flew in a perfect arc to the front window and hit it, bouncing back and dropping down to the pavement.

  The glass shivered but stood firm.

  'You have to throw harder, like this.'

  Another brick was already being launched by Amy. It smashed through the window on the right of the door. All round, they could see people looking out through their windows, trying to see what was going on.