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

by M J Lee

  There was just her and David, alone, together.

  She had been worried at first about the sex, but being a nurse had made the mysteries of the male body clear to her. And, for some reason, she and David just felt so right. The night and the following morning seemed to flow into each other, one eternal time of joy.

  She had been ravenous at breakfast, helping herself to more toast and scrambled eggs. Her appetite had received knowing looks from the waiter but she couldn't care less. All that mattered was David was here with her.

  His brother, Toby, had stopped by their breakfast table to wish them well. 'I've already checked out, David, I'm off to Edinburgh for a couple of days to see some old friends and then back home to Mother.'

  'Give her my love,' said David.

  'I will. And I'll also tell her what a beautiful daughter-in-law she now has.'

  Rose touched his arm. ’Thank you, Toby, you're so kind. A true brother-in-law.'

  'It's all you deserve, dearest Rose.'

  He waved goodbye and walked out of the door.

  The rest of the day was spent walking in the surrounding countryside. A beautiful area, with soft rolling fields and braes, dotted with the white painted cottages outlined in black, part of the landscape, as if they had been there since time immemorial. The weather had been kind; fleecy white clouds racing against a deep blue sky. At the top of a nearby hill, they stopped and rested for a moment.

  Rose took his hand in hers. ’Tell me you will always love me.'

  'I will always love you, darling Rose.'

  'I wanted to hear the words.'

  David put his arm around her shoulders. 'I will always remember this one moment when the only thing in our lives was each other.'

  She looked up at the sky. 'One day, we will remember this time, you and me, sitting together on top of a Scottish hill, knowing all that mattered in the world was love.'

  'Everybody should have a moment like this.'

  They stayed just as they were for the next hour, not speaking, not saying anything, just holding each other close.

  After a while the breeze blew stronger and the darkening clouds scurried across the sky.

  David said, 'Shall we go back before the rains come?'

  Rose was reluctant to leave the top of the hill, but finally nodded, gathering up her things, wishing the day would never end.

  They returned to the hotel, missing dinner and staying together in their suite holding each other, as if the world was only them and nobody else existed.

  Next morning, the sour-faced woman gave them their certificate when they checked out. 'From the blacksmith preacher,' she announced, rolling her 'r’s' like they would never end.

  'Thank you. I'll keep this, Rose. The army may want it as proof of marriage.' He folded it precisely and placed it in his wallet. They took the same cab to the station as had driven them to their marriage.

  'I hope you have a wonderful, long and happy life together,' said the cabby before clipping the horse into a trot.

  Rose and David sat quietly in the back, holding each other’s hand, not wanting to let go.

  On arrival at the station, the cabby doffed his cap to them. ‘You two walk through to the platform, I’ll bring the suitcases.’

  Rose and David walked arm in arm to wait for his train.

  ‘Do you think his words will come true?’

  ‘I’m sure they will, Rose. We will grow old disgracefully together.’

  She laughed and reached into her bag. ’I have two presents for you. I hope the first will be useful in France.’ She gave him a heavy black box.

  'But I've given you nothing.’

  'You've given me yourself, and it's the best present I could ever receive.'

  David opened the box. Inside was a brand new wristlet watch.

  'It's one of the new types, with luminous dials so you can see the time in the dark. I hope it's useful. I even had it inscribed on the back. See?'

  'David turned it over. 'To David, April 25, 1916,' he read out loud.

  ‘The second is something to remember me by.’ She gave him a square of paper folded into four.

  He opened it out and there she was, or at least, there was her likeness. ‘It’s beautiful, Rose, it captures the glint in your eye and that hidden smile on your lips.’

  ‘I drew it at the hospital. Something to remember your nurse by when you’re at the Front.’

  He kissed the picture once, folded it back into a square and placed it carefully into his wallet. Then, he reached out for Rose and pulled her to him, hugging her as tightly as he could.

  They stayed there, two people standing together as one, until the train arrived in a flurry of smoke and opening doors.

  The parting was quick, neither wanted to make that awful time last longer; a few words, a final kiss holding each other close, a last hug. There was a cheer from some soldiers as David ran to board the train just as it pulled away from the station. A wave and another kiss and the train hurried north to Glasgow in another cloud of steam.

  And he was gone.

  Rose stayed on the platform, watching him fade away into the distance, his face framed by the window of the train.

  They say parting is always difficult. For Rose, it wasn't so much that he had gone, it was that she had been left behind, alone on that bleak station platform, waiting for her train south to Manchester.

  Would she ever see him again?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Edinburgh, Scotland. April 1, 2016.

  Jayne and Mark left the hotel after an early breakfast and drove across Scotland to Edinburgh. Throughout the two hours of the journey, Mark was silent.

  'I've booked a seat at the Scottish People's Research Centre in the Reid Room.'

  Finally Mark spoke. 'This is a long shot, isn't it?'

  Jayne realised it was the time to be honest with him. 'If the records are not online in either Find My Past or The Genealogist, they are unlikely to be available to the readers at the centre.'

  'So why are we going then?'

  'We have to be certain. Look, your great grandmother was definitely in Gretna Green on the night she says she was. I'm pretty certain the records had been cut from the register.'

  'But who would want to do such a thing? They were just another couple enjoying a quick wedding during the war.'

  'That's what we have to find out.'

  Mark became silent again, before speaking once more. 'I can't help thinking about what you said.'

  'And what did I say?'

  'About my great grandmother being the World War One equivalent of a stalker. Could she have cut the records showing David Russell marrying another woman?'

  'Why?'

  'Jealousy. Envy. Possession.'

  Jayne shook her head. 'From all I know about Rose Clarke, I can't believe that. She was a proud, independent woman. I can't imagine her ever being so desperate as to follow another man all the way to Gretna Green on the night of his wedding. I think we must look for a more obvious solution.'

  'Which is?'

  'Rose Clarke and David Russell were married on April 25 in Gretna Green. We just have to prove it.'

  Jayne parked the car around the corner from New Register House. It was a long time since she had visited Edinburgh and the only knowledge she had of the modern city came from Ian Rankin's Rebus novels. They seemed to concentrate on a darker, more alcoholic side of the city.

  The building was made from the same honey-coloured stone as the rest of Edinburgh, and had the look and appearance of many of the government buildings of the time; solid, dependable, trustworthy.

  The young receptionist was a woman of Chinese descent who spoke with the broadest Scots accent.

  'How can I help you?'

  'A seat reservation in the Reid Room for a Mrs Sinclair.' For a second, Jayne hesitated over the word 'Mrs'.

  The woman checked her computer. 'I have it here. You'll have to get reader's tickets, I'm afraid. A strange local rule from the Scottish P
arliament down the road.'

  They passed over two driving licences.

  The receptionist entered their details into the computer. 'And what would you like to see?'

  'The marriage records for Gretna Green in 1916.'

  'A wartime romance? No problem. Those records will be filed under Dumfries and Galloway.' She opened a metal filing cabinet and slid out the drawer, selecting two microfilms. 'Here you go.'

  The young woman showed them to their seat in the Reid Room. 'Can you work the reader or would you like me to show you how to do it?'

  'No, I'm fine. Just one other thing. If I understand correctly, each local registrar sent the records once a year to the Central Registry in Edinburgh?'

  The young woman smiled at Jayne. 'That's correct.'

  'These records were then collated and entered into the main register for Scotland.'

  'Again, correct. Obviously, this was done by hand in those days, now, as with everything, it's all on a disc somewhere.'

  'So if we wanted to look at the original records, how would we do that?'

  'Well, it's most unusual as most of the records are held in the microfilms. The originals are not kept here but in a depository. You can order them but it will take at least five working days for them to get here.'

  'If they exist…'

  'That's right, if they exist.'

  'Well, we'll take a look at these first and see if we need to check the originals.'

  'No worries, give me a shout if you need me.'

  Jayne threaded the microfilm though the reader and quickly whizzed through to the correct date and place: 'In 1916, there were four places where marriages were performed in Gretna Green.'

  ‘You’ve been doing research.'

  Jayne stopped at April 25. There were four weddings. None of them had the name Rose Clarke or David Russell. 'Look, the other venues sent their returns in but nothing from the blacksmith's shop.'

  She moved the machine backwards two days and forwards two days. All four venues had returns for weddings, including the blacksmith's shop, but no Rose Clarke or David Russell.

  Mark slumped down into his seat. 'What shall we do now?'

  'I will request to see the originals sent by the blacksmith preacher and we can return to take a look at them. But to be honest, Mark, I would be surprised if we find anything.'

  His shoulders seemed to sag even further. 'I suppose it's the end then. We'll never prove they were ever married.'

  'But doesn't it strike you as strange we have a record for a Captain and Mrs David Russell staying in the honeymoon suite, but no record of their marriage?'

  'They could have been married elsewhere?'

  'Then why go to Gretna Green?' Jayne switched off the microfilm reader. 'It certainly seems bloody strange to me.'

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Didsbury, Manchester. April 1, 2016.

  The long journey back to Manchester seemed to last much longer than driving up.

  Before they left the building, Jayne had filled in a form to see the originals, more out of curiosity than anything else.

  The Chinese lady behind the counter had helpfully suggested checking with the blacksmith's shop in Gretna Green itself, but Jayne had explained they had already performed a search. Even this lady's chirpiness seemed to be dampened by the news.

  The woman examined the form carefully. 'You're looking for a marriage between a Rose Clarke and a David Russell in 1916?’

  'Correct. We think it was in Gretna Green but it's not on the computer records.'

  'That's strange. I had a similar request about three weeks ago from a man.'

  Jayne's eyes widened. 'Is that so?'

  'Was he another relative? A small, dapper man, wore a trilby.’

  Jayne shook her head. 'Not a relative, I don't think. Did he find anything?’

  'I don't know. He seemed to be in an awful hurry all the time. Impatient little man he was.’

  'Could you ask them to find the documents as soon as possible? We are under a little time pressure.’

  'No worries, I'll send the request into the depository and stamp it express.' She leant forward and whispered to Rose. 'I'll also get them to send everything the rude little man found too. We should get it back in a couple of days. If you give me your number, I'll give you a call when it comes in.'

  Jayne pulled out a business card from her wallet, writing her mobile number on the back.

  'I'll also ask them to dig around for it, records often were misfiled during the war years.' She wrote a note at the bottom of the form. 'Thanks for coming. I hope we can find it for you.'

  Mark had said nothing since leaving Edinburgh. It was only as they came off the M60 to go to his house he began to speak. 'My father will be gloating. I told you so. Waste of time.' He mimicked the whining voice of his father.

  'You could show him the entry in the hotel reservations book. At least it proves both she and David Russell were there.'

  'But not as man and wife.'

  'It's not proof, I know, but…'

  'I think we should give it up, Jayne. Mark shook his head. ‘It's a wild goose chase, a waste of your time and mine. What can we do in three days?'

  'Don't give up so easily. We must have missed something.'

  'What, Jayne? You're the expert, you tell me what we missed.'

  Jayne didn't have an answer.

  Mark tapped the top of the dashboard.’Just take me home.'

  Jayne dropped him outside his door. Once again, she saw the old man peeking out from behind the curtains. Mark didn't say goodbye as he left the car.

  Men, why did they always act like boys? Not finding anything was an obstacle in the investigation, but obstacles were there to be overcome. It was the same in the police force; grown men would be kicking the hell out of some poor defenceless locker just because a smart lawyer had thwarted them. Her advice was always work better, think smarter.

  It still hadn't helped her with promotion though. She wasn't one of the boys.

  She shrugged her shoulders and slotted an Oasis CD into the player. Wonderwall immediately boomed out from her speakers. She doubled the volume and put the car in gear, racing away from the problems of Mark Russell and his family. An American Cabernet was waiting for her in the wine fridge; she felt she deserved a decent drop tonight. And there was probably a meltingly smooth Valrhona hidden somewhere in the kitchen.

  A part of her hoped that Paul would be at home so they could sort it all out. Another part of her hoped he wasn’t.

  While Liam Gallagher was belting out Don't Look Back in Anger in his Manchester whine, she realised how tired she was. It was a long drive back from Edinburgh. Even in the BMW, her back and shoulders were beginning to ache.

  She cut off Liam in mid-snarl and parked the car. The house was quiet, no lights anywhere to be seen. At least Paul wasn't there. She wouldn't have to endure a long conversation about their marriage and why it had gone wrong.

  Not tonight. She couldn't face it tonight.

  She opened the front door. Immediately, the hairs on the back of her neck rose. There was a strange feeling about the place. Something was wrong. She switched on the light.

  The pictures in the hall were lying on the floor. She ran into the kitchen. The computer lay smashed on the floor, a useless piece of junk. Pots and pans were scattered around the room. The Ikea clock was smashed. Milk and eggs and cheese were strewn everywhere. The stench of wine filled her nostrils as she crunched glassware and fragments of china beneath her feet.

  The place had been trashed.

  The cat? Where was Mr Smith?

  A plaintive miaow answered her from beneath the island table. She reached down and hugged him to her.

  Who had done this?

  She ran upstairs, still carrying Mr Smith. The upstairs bedrooms were untouched, still as she had left them the day before.

  Perhaps whoever did it was still in the house? She took an old cricket bat of Paul's and checked every room.

 
; Nothing.

  She ran back downstairs. The box files for all her cases lay strewn on the floor and there was no sign of the acetate folder. She searched high and low but it was gone.

  Jayne picked up the stool and placed it next to the counter. She put her head in her hands. A terrible end to a terrible day. Who had done this to her beautiful home, the one place where she felt safe and secure?

  Just as that thought was running through her head, the mobile rang. She picked it up expecting it to be Paul.

  'Er, Mrs Sinclair, it's Richard Russell here. I won't beat about the bush. Mark and I have decided to dispense with your services. We won't be needing you any more.'

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Buxton, near Manchester. April 2, 2016.

  It was Bono who accompanied her on the long drive out to Buxton. His plaintive croak on I still haven't found what I'm looking for seemed to be the perfect description of how she felt that morning.

  Of course, she had called the police. Immediately they realised they were dealing with an ex-cop and sent two young bobbies round to the house, with a couple of detectives following half an hour later.

  The young coppers were wonderfully supportive, checking she was okay and making sure nothing was touched before the detectives arrived. They looked so young both of them, perhaps the force was hiring babies these days.

  The detectives were a different matter. She knew both of them vaguely from her time on the force. When she was a Detective Sergeant, they were just nameless plods, given the thankless task of patrolling the city centre on a Saturday night. It was known as the graveyard shift in the force, as it was where they buried the thugs and the no-hopers. For some reason, these two had escaped, but to her they were still zombies.

  Their questions were routine, straight out of the police manual.

  'Has anybody threatened you recently?'

  'No.'

  'Have you annoyed anybody at your workplace?'