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

by M J Lee

  'Hurry up, throw some more.'

  Rose reached into her bag, grabbed another brick and threw again. This time, the missile smashed through the window bringing the glass down with a loud crash.

  The neighbouring doors began to open. More people came to their windows to look out. And, in the distance, the high-pitched trill of a police whistle pierced the air.

  'Let's get out of here,' said Amy, starting to run away from the sound.

  Rose reached into her bag. 'Just one more.' She pulled out her brick and, taking careful aim, threw it at the only remaining unbroken window on the first floor of the house. She watched as it smashed through the glass, landing with a heavy thud in the front parlour.

  The sound of the police whistles was getting closer. Amy was already 20 yards down Dean Trench Street, shouting 'Come on, come on.'

  Rose glanced back at the broken windows. The Home Secretary would get the message this time.

  A policeman appeared across the square. He spotted them and shouted something Rose couldn't hear. She wasn't going to wait to find out what he wanted.

  Amy was running already, her skirts pulled up to her knees with one hand while the other held onto her hat.

  Rose pulled both skirts up and ran after her. The hat flew from her head. For a second, she turned to pick it up, saw the policeman running towards her and decided to leave it lying in the gutter.

  She ran down the street after Amy. It was long and straight with tall, three-storey Georgian houses on either side. A motor car drove past her, blowing its horn. Rose ignored the man driving it and carried on running, the police whistles louder in her ears.

  Amy turned right at the corner, not waiting for her. She was heading up Tufton Street. It was what they had arranged last night. By heading this way, they could lose themselves in the crowds near Westminster Abbey.

  Rose ran around the corner. As she did, she glanced behind her. The policeman was much closer now, his long legs covering the ground between them quickly. She could see his face. It was the gruff, old policeman she had met on the street.

  She increased her pace, must get away, she couldn't face another three months in prison.

  Amy was still ahead, crossing Great Peter Street, narrowly avoiding a horse-drawn cab.

  Rose looked over her shoulder, the policeman was even closer. She could hear the metallic scraping of his hobnail boots on the pavement, getting nearer and nearer. Up ahead, she could see the tower of Westminster Abbey, a wet grey sanctuary faintly visible through the drizzle.

  She wasn't going to make it.

  A loud whistle just behind her, followed by a shout, 'Stop her, stop her.'

  He was too close. An alley opened on the left. It ran for a short distance before branching left. She ran down it, the ground beneath her feet changing from paving to cobble stones. She stumbled, almost tripping on some rubbish thrown on the ground.

  The policeman stopped at the entrance to the alley, deciding which woman to go after. The one in the alley was nearest and she was younger. He ran after her.

  Rose took the left-hand fork; the alley became narrower and ran between two tall buildings. She ran down it to the light at the end. She could hear the boots and their staccato rhythm behind her. Which way to go? There seemed to be a street at the end of the left fork, whilst the right fork took her deeper into the maelstrom of buildings.

  She ran towards the light, always towards the light. The sound of her teacher's voice came to her. 'It's the quality of light that sets an artist free, Miss Clarke, remember, the quality of light.'

  She ran towards the light at the end of the tunnel hoping it would set her free.

  Nearly there, nearly at the street.

  The sound of the boots was getting louder and louder, closer and closer.

  She was nearly there.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder, she wriggled out of its grasp and entered the light. It was a small street with an opening at the end where there were people. She must lose herself down there, with them she would be safe.

  Two arms circled her waist 'Oh no, you don't.'

  She could smell the stale sweat of his uniform and the bitter note of alcohol on his breath. He lifted her up and carried her back into the narrow alley, covering her mouth with his hand.

  She kicked out with her heels and bit down on the hand.

  He threw her against the wall. Her coat flew open revealing the purple, white and green silk bows and silver medallion with its stern picture. 'Suffragette bitch,' he said as he sucked the flesh of his thumb, a row of red teeth marks livid against the pale skin.

  Then a sardonic smile crossed his face and he launched himself at her, pinning his hand over her mouth and leaning all the weight of his body against hers. She struggled but he was too strong.

  'Seen your kind before, I has.' His mouth was inches away from her face. She could see the hairs of his ginger moustache bristling against his top lip. She smelt alcohol again, stronger this time.

  His spit landed on her cheek and she tried to lift her arms to wipe it off, but couldn't move. He ripped the suffragette badge from her shirt and threw it onto the wet cobblestones.

  'Led me a merry dance, you did. 'Fought I wouldn't catch you, but I did. Now it's time for my reward.'

  She tried to bite the hand across her mouth but he was cleverer this time, keeping his fingers and palm away from her teeth.

  'I always cops a feel from the little suffragettes. My little reward for a job well done, I thinks.'

  She felt his hand on her breast, groping for her nipple through the cotton fabric of the shirt. She struggled against him but his body pressed heavily into hers.

  'A feisty one. You're gonna make a man very happy one night.'

  His hand began to reach down between her legs, pulling her skirts up.

  She closed her eyes. Not this, not this.

  Suddenly, she felt the pressure off her body and his hands no longer grasping and clawing at her. There was another man standing there silhouetted against the light.

  He grabbed her hand. 'We have to get out of here, there'll be others soon.' She looked down at the policeman lying at her feet. She kicked him between the legs, hearing a loud groan as he curled up into a ball.

  'That's done it, we have to run now.'

  He bent down and picked something off the floor, grabbed her hand and together they fled down the streets towards the shops. Behind them, the sound of a policeman's whistle, softer now and not as powerful.

  Chapter Eleven

  Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.

  Jayne rubbed her eyes and switched off the computer. The clock ticked over to 11.30. She went to pour herself another glass of wine but realised the bottle was empty. Where had it all gone? Next to it lay the remains of the packaging of the bar of Amano. A few crumbs of chocolate lay mournfully on the counter. She licked her finger and dabbed them up. 'Waste not, want not.'

  She had spent the last three hours trying every permutation of Rose Alexandria Clarke's Christian name and surname, gradually reducing the filters until she was searching the whole of the UK.

  Still no marriage details.

  At one moment, she thought she had found her in Billericay, Essex, but it turned out this Rose Clarke was 47 years old, already married three times and marrying a fourth husband in the sprightly shape of a 63-year-old. The triumph of hope over experience, she thought.

  Then she had moved on to David Russell. Not an easy name in genealogical terms, but she was glad it wasn't a Smith or a Jones. A simple marriage search in the UK for 1916 had led to six results, none of which had involved a Rose Clarke. She expanded it to cover the years of the First World War, 1914-18, and it came back with 33 results, none of which corresponded to her man and none in Scotland. She had searched through each result laboriously, checking and rechecking the names, hoping a Rose Clarke or any sort of Miss Clarke would appear.

  Nothing.

  Not a sausage.

  Nada.

  She woul
d probably have to widen the dates up until the old woman entered the asylum in 1923, just to be on the safe side, but the thought of wading through more names defeated her.

  Mark Russell was convinced his great grandmother had married at Gretna Green in Scotland. Perhaps the records had been lost or misfiled and that's why they didn't appear on any online search.

  Perhaps a visit to the Public Records Office in Scotland and Gretna Green would help. There may have been other records kept by the Justice of the Peace or the registrar which weren't available online. She would have to check.

  And then there was David Russell himself. Mark had said his great grandfather was a soldier when he died. If it were true, she would have to look at the army records.

  She was tired, tomorrow she would finish it off.

  She stood up, stretched and switched off her laptop. Paul suddenly popped into her head. Was he thinking of her, wondering what she was doing? Or was he fast asleep, snoring with his mouth wide open as he usually did?

  She thought it was probably the latter.

  The cat made a figure of eight through her legs. 'Okay, okay, I know. Time for your night-time rambles.' She walked over and opened the patio doors. Mr Smith darted out through them and vanished into the night. 'Where do you go to every night, Mr Smith?' she said aloud. And then quickly shut the door, locking it and closing the curtains.

  The neighbours would think she was some mad cat lady, talking to her familiar before she cast a wicked spell. She placed the empty glass in the sink and the bottle on the counter. She would wash one and put the other in the green bin, tomorrow.

  One last look around the kitchen to check all was well. Again, she couldn't shake off her old police training. The ability, instilled in her for the eight years she was a detective, to look at a room and sense where something was wrong or out of place. Her colleagues used to joke she was better than one of the sniffer dogs at finding stuff.

  Her instincts had failed her when Dave died. Why didn't she know there was somebody behind the door? It had seemed like a normal enough day. Just following up on a series of burglaries that had happened in the neighbourhood. They had received a tip-off the goods were being kept in this walk-up in Moss Side. Dave had gone first, knocking sharply on the frosted glass of the door. She had stopped for a moment to tie her laces.

  An ordinary day.

  Nothing special.

  The blast, when it came, had ripped through the glass and taken Dave in the chest. She had jumped up and pushed herself against the wall. Another blast came soon after, hitting him in the back as he lay on the floor. The door had opened and she saw the shotgun peering out.

  She had grabbed it, the hot barrel searing her hands. She had hit the man with the butt again and again and again. But however hard she hit the bastard, Dave still lay on the dirty concrete of the corridor, blood pooling around his body.

  'ENOUGH,' she shouted, 'enough.'

  Before she switched off the light, she glanced across at the picture of the woman topped by its faded ribbons of purple, white and green. Who was she and why was she framed in a silver medallion?

  She yawned and rubbed her eyes once more. With luck, she would find out tomorrow.

  Chapter Twelve

  Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.

  Outside on the street, Herbert Small watched as the lights went out on the downstairs floor in the woman's house. A black and white cat crossed the street in front of his car, jumped on top of a wall and vanished into the garden opposite.

  Herbert Small poured himself some warm milk from his flask. He could go back to his hotel tonight but he preferred sitting outside in his car, watching.

  The lights had gone out upstairs now. 'Good night, Mrs Sinclair. Enjoy your dreams.'

  Herbert inhaled the gentle aroma of the warm milk, sipped a little, feeling the warmth slip down his throat and settle in his stomach.

  That felt better. Milk was the only drink his stomach would tolerate. Over the years, he had come to appreciate its soft, soothing caresses.

  His mother would have consoled him. 'There, there, poor Herbie,' she would have cooed as she poured the warm milk from the pan into his cup, 'tummy not feeling good again?'

  He would sit there silently at the kitchen table, never acknowledging her words. She never seemed to mind, it was what she was used to.

  She had died from stomach cancer two years ago. Of course, he had run off to the doctor to have himself checked as soon as she told him of her diagnosis. After a series of exhaustive tests and even more exhaustive payments, he had been proclaimed as clear. But what did doctors know? He knew there was something wrong with him, they just couldn’t find it. One day, they would, and he would be proven right.

  He took another sip of milk. The tree-lined street was quiet in front of him. 'Quite a nice place to live, Mrs Sinclair.'

  His own house was in a long terraced row. He had been born there and was going to die there. He could afford something much better, the genealogy work was rewarding and his costs were as small as his name, but what was the point of moving? After his father had left when he was five, he and his mother had continued living in the house, removing every trace of the other man who had once been there.

  There was always just the two of them. Until she had left him too.

  He settled down into the old leather of the car, twisting the cap back on the flask to ensure the milk remained warm. It was going to be a long night with only the roaming cats for company, but Herbert didn't mind.

  He enjoyed watching, it's what he did best.

  Chapter Thirteen

  London. April 25, 1913.

  'There was no need to kick the policeman when he was down.' David Russell leant into her so none of the other passengers could hear. They had leapt onto a tram at the end of the street just as it was pulling away, without looking where it was going. The last thing they had seen from their seats at the top of the tram was a group of policeman running into the street still blowing their whistles like demented football referees.

  'Excuse me, it was you who attacked him in the first place.'

  'You needed rescuing.'

  'I did not…,' she shouted.

  The passengers in front of them turned round to stare. He smiled back at them sheepishly, whispering an answer. 'No policeman should treat a woman in such a way, even if she…'

  'Even if she is a suffragette?'

  'I was about to say, even if she had broken the law. What did you do anyway?'

  'I broke a window.'

  'Not so bad.'

  'It was in the house of the Home Secretary. I threw a brick through the glass.'

  'Not so good. The man probably deserved it, but still not so good.'

  The heavy tramp of the conductor’s boots reverberated up the stairs. 'Tickets, please. Let's be havin' your tickets.'

  Rose reached down beside her. Her bag, where was her bag? Then she remembered the policeman's rough hand on her breast and the bag sliding off her shoulder. 'My bag,' she said out loud.

  'What?'

  'I left my bag back there.' She turned towards him. 'We have to go back. My purse… my money…'

  The conductor was standing in front of him with his board. 'Your ticket, miss.'

  'Where's the terminus?' David asked.

  'This tram's goin' to Smithfield Market.' He looked at them suspiciously. 'Why'd you get on board if you don't know where it's goin'?'

  'We're exploring London.' David's accent had changed to the broadest Derbyshire drone.

  'Nuthin' to see in Smithfield, 'cept the market.'

  'The market it is, then.'

  The conductor took out two tickets. 'Four pence each.'

  David gave him a shilling and received change plus two tickets. The man moved forward, swaying from side to side with the rhythm of the tram. 'Tickets please, let's be havin' your tickets.'

  'Thank you,' whispered Rose, 'I'll pay you back as soon as I can.'

  'There's no need.' David waved his
hand as if the money were no consequence. 'Just answer me one question. Why on earth were you throwing bricks through the windows of the Home Secretary's house?'

  'I'm a suffragette…'

  'So I gathered.'

  'We were protesting the Cat and Mouse Act…'

  'And what's that when it's at home?'

  She leant away from him and looked shocked. 'You don't know?'

  He shook his head. 'I really don't know.'

  'You don't read the papers?'

  'Don't trust them.'

  'Neither do I, but I still read them with a critical eye.'

  'Not much call for reading in my line of work.'

  'Which is…?'

  'I thought I was supposed to be asking the questions?'

  'You were. But here I am, a young woman sitting next to a strange man whom she has never met before, on the top of a tram…'

  As if to confirm its presence the tram lurched and rattled as it crossed some points and turned left. Rose was thrown against David. Quickly she pushed herself away and smoothed down her dress, reaching up to adjust her hat and realising it wasn't there.

  'As I was saying, I am sitting next to a man whom I know nothing about. You could be Jack the Ripper for all I know.'

  'Old Jack was prowling the streets over 20 years ago. I may look old but I'm not quite so old.'

  She laughed.

  It was the first time he had seen her laugh and he loved her for it.

  'You're staring. Don't you know it's not polite to stare?'

  'Sorry, sorry.' He looked down at his hands. Large hands with the scar from the sword vivid on the skin. 'There's not much to say really. I'm a soldier with the Derbyshire Fusiliers, seconded to the War Department. I'm from near Bakewell originally but went to boarding school in the South.'

  'Hence the ability to do the accent.'

  He nodded. 'And you are?'

  She thought for a moment. 'A suffragette, protesting the Cat and Mouse Act by throwing stones through the windows of the Home Secretary.'

  'I meant what's your name.'