by M J Lee
'I work alone. And anyway, why would this be my fault?' She pointed out the mess in the kitchen.
'Have you annoyed any of the neighbourhood gangs or kids?'
Jayne rolled her eyes to the ceiling. 'Noooo. And kids round here wouldn't do this.'
One of them just coughed. The other continued anyway. 'You said you were away last night…?'
'I was in Scotland. I spent the night in Gretna Green. The Gretna Green Manse, if you'd like to check with them.'
'A runaway marriage?' One of them laughed, but immediately stopped when he saw Jayne's face.
'No. Work.'
The other one coughed again. 'And what work do you do, Ms Sinclair?'
They obviously knew Jayne had once been in the force. 'I'm a genealogical investigator. I track down family mysteries.'
'Is this a dangerous line of work?'
'Not normally, no. Occasionally, one comes up against people who don't want their secrets to be revealed.'
'Could this be the case here?' The one who kept coughing at least had the beginnings of a police brain. Could this be to do with the case?
She thought immediately of Herbert Small and his visit the other night. That slimeball must be responsible. Only he would take the acetate folder with the drawing and the medallion.
If he was the one who did this to her, she wasn't going to tell the police, she was more than capable of handling him. 'To be honest, I don't know,' she answered, realising that starting a sentence with 'to be honest' was a giveaway to any copper.
The smart one wrote in his notebook.
The joker carried on regardless, going through his usual list of questions. 'To your knowledge, is anything missing?'
‘No,’ she lied.
'Have you checked?'
'Of course I've bloody checked. The place has been trashed. Nothing has been stolen.'
That stumped them. They were used to dealing with robberies and burglaries, not this.
'Who do you think could have done this?'
Should she tell them about Herbert Small?
No, these bozos would only screw it up and then she would never get the Russells’ items back. 'If I knew, I would have told you the second you walked through the door,’ she lied once again, hoping they wouldn’t notice.
They didn’t.
In the middle of the interview, she heard Paul let himself in. She had called him before calling the police.
'And this is your husband?'
'Yes.'
'You weren't at home tonight, sir?'
'No, he wasn't,' she answered for Paul as he looked around at the mess that was the kitchen.
'Are you okay, Jayne?' he said ignoring the police.
'Fine, Paul, I came home to this.'
He came across and gave her a hug. 'It's okay, don't worry, it will be okay.'
For a moment, hearing his words, Jayne felt a flood of emotion surge through her chest.
The detective joker repeated his question. 'You weren't at home last night, Mr Sinclair?’
‘My surname is Jones. We wife kept our own names when we were married. And no, I wasn't at home, I was staying in a hotel.'
The smart detective stared pointedly at the joker. 'And why was that, sir?'
Jayne interrupted. ’Because, detectives, myself and my husband have recently split up. Is that enough personal information for you both?'
The smart one held his hands up. 'Jayne, you know the job, we have to ask the questions to cover our arses. You know what the forms are like.'
'It's not a domestic, okay? Paul would never do this.'
'They think… I…' Paul spluttered as he looked around the trashed kitchen.
It was Jayne's turn to calm him. 'It's standard procedure. Incidents like this are usually the work of an angry husband or lover.' She turned back to the detectives. 'Any more questions?'
They looked at each other. 'No, I think we're done here. We'll get the fingerprint boys to come over just as soon as they can. We've got a murder in Withington at the moment.'
'Don't bother.'
'We have to, Jayne. You've called it in, we have to follow up. In the meantime, I would get that fixed if I were you.' The smart detective pointed to the smashed lock on the front door. 'It suggests a break-in for reasons unknown. Your husband has a key, I presume.'
Jayne nodded.
'See, we're not as stupid as we look.' He pointed to the other detective. 'We'll follow up, Jayne. You know the drill. If you think of anything that could help, let me know immediately.' He handed over his card. 'We look after our own, Jayne, even when they are no longer one of us. I'll make sure the street lads come down here more often over the next few days.'
The fingerprint team finally came over, dusting the place down and finding nothing.
With Paul's help, she tidied the place up just enough to make it habitable.
He spent the night in the spare bedroom. She was glad to have him around, even though she knew if there were trouble, she would be the one who sorted it out.
When he had gone to bed, she checked the box files. All her notes on the Russell case were missing. Even worse, she couldn't find the acetate file with the envelopes anywhere.
She didn't sleep a wink, wondering who had done this and why? Was Herbert Small responsible? Was it linked to the Russell case? Was he giving her a warning? Telling her to stay away?
It had to be him, nobody else had any interest in the case. But they had found nothing yet. Why would he destroy her home? The more she thought about it, the more she became convinced that only Herbert Small would do this to her. When she met him, she would give him such a kicking he would remember it for the rest of his life.
Eventually, she fell asleep to be woken by a loud banging. The locksmith had arrived on the dot at 8.30.
After he had gone and Paul had left for work, she couldn't bear to be in the house on her own. Even as she tidied up the mess, she knew she had to get out. There was only one person she wanted to see right now.
Her father was sat in his usual place facing the window, the Guardian open at the crossword. His head was back and his mouth open, a gentle snore the only sound.
She touched him on the shoulder and he awoke instantly.
'Hello, lass, good to see you.'
'You were napping?'
'I prefer to call it thinking with my eyes closed. Napping is for old people.'
'And you, a stripling of 72.'
He flexed his muscles. 'Plenty of life in the old dog yet.'
'Are you still terrorising the staff?'
'Not this week. I'll give 'em a break. Time off for good behaviour. How's the case?'
Jayne's face fell. 'Not good. No records in Scotland, but a hotel register in Gretna Green with Rose Clarke's name in it for the exact date she said she was there.'
'So what's the problem?'
'There's also an entry for a Captain and Mrs David Russell.'
'Could be her. She checked in first and he checked in later.'
'But why is there no record of their marriage?'
'You checked the original records in Edinburgh?'
'I checked the microfilms. No records. I've ordered the originals.'
He sucked in his breath through his teeth. 'If they are not on microfilm, it's unlikely they would be in the original records.'
'My feeling too. And there are a few other things…'
'Like?'
'I've just been sacked by my clients. Paul and I have broken up. And my house was broken into last night. Just a normal screwed-up evening for Jayne Sinclair.’
He put his arms up to give her a hug. She bent down and felt his thin arms wrap around her.
’The clients don't deserve you, lass.'
‘Probably true.’
‘You and Paul have been heading for a cliff for a long time.’
‘Probably true.’
‘And you’ll find whoever broke into your house.’
Jayne thought for a moment. ‘Definitely
true.’
Her father pulled out of the hug and stared at her for a long time. 'I recognise the set of your jaw. I used to watch you as a kid when you couldn't do something; you'd grit your teeth and keep going till you made it. You're not giving up on this case, are you?'
Jayne smiled. Her father knew her so well, but until that moment, she hadn't even admitted it to herself. 'We're so close. There's something I'm missing. You know the feeling, when there's something you've forgotten but can't remember what it is.'
Her father stared out of the window.
Jayne kicked herself. How thoughtless could she be? 'I didn't mean it in that way, Dad.'
He smiled. 'I know you didn't, lass. But it's happening more and more often now. Some days I wake up and I just don't know where I am. It's even worse when I can't remember who I am, like my name is on the tip of my tongue and I can't quite remember it.'
She reached forward and gave him a hug. 'I'll always be here to remind you.'
He pushed her away. 'Don't go all soppy on me. What are your next steps?'
'I don't know. For once I'm stumped, Dad.’
'I've been thinking. I do it occasionally when I get tired of listening to the old biddies over there.' He turned and waved at three women watching TV. They waved back at him. 'Gagging for it, all three of them.'
'Dad, you can't say things like that.'
'Well, it's true. Drop their knickers in a shot that lot would. Anyway, what was I saying?'
'You've been thinking,' she reminded him.
'That was it. You told me Rose Clarke ended up in an asylum like this place, didn't she?'
'It's not that bad, Dad.'
'I know, there's always the Golden Girls over there.' He waved again and they waved back. 'Well, I remember you said it was in Hatherton. The village isn't far from here, near Bakewell. And I checked on Google, Holton Hall, the Russell’s old residence, is just a couple of miles further on.'
'You checked on Google?'
'Somebody has to do some thinking around here. Perhaps they have records of her time there. It's a long shot, but as I see it, you've nowt else at the moment.'
'I'll go this afternoon as long as you promise me one thing.'
'Of course, anything for you, lass.'
'You'll leave the Golden Girls, and their knickers, alone.'
Her father just smiled.
Chapter Forty
Holton Hall, Derbyshire. April 28, 1916.
'He married her?' Lady Lappiter screamed at the top of her voice. 'After I expressly told him such a union was forbidden.'
Toby nodded his head.
Sir James Russell, David's father, looked up from his entomology book. 'Well, that's it then. Nothing to be done. We'll welcome the gal.'
'Welcome her? We'll do no such thing.' Lady Lappiter's voice rose the angrier it became. 'I'm having no gold-digging strumpet in my house.'
'Don't worry, Mother, I've made sure you won't have to welcome her.'
The book closed with a loud bang. 'What have you done?' The watery blue eyes of his father stared straight at him; the face was beginning to redden, the nostrils flaring.
Toby looked to his mother for help. 'I removed the record from the register.' He pulled out a page from the marriage registry in the Gretna Green blacksmith's shop. He gave a childish giggle. 'It was pretty easy, nobody was looking. I also arranged for the record in Edinburgh to vanish when it arrives. It was surprisingly inexpensive.'
'Good, so when David comes to his senses and realises what a ridiculous fool he has been, there will be no record of any marriage.' She smiled like a Derbyshire cat. 'For once, you haven't disappointed me, Toby.'
His father threw the book across the room, narrowly missing his son. 'You stupid, stupid, boy. What will you do when David finds out?'
His father struggled to get up from the chair, his face red and his moustache bristling with fury. 'What will you do then?'
Toby looked across at his mother.
'We will cross that bridge when we come to it, James. Do be quiet and go back to your ants and bees and spiders. You've let me run this family and this household for the last 30 years, why break the habit of a lifetime?'
Sir James Russell slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the bone china cups. 'Because you have gone too far this time, Marjory. I'm going to write to David telling him what you've done.' Sir James took two steps forward and collapsed over the table, the cups and saucers crashing onto the floor.
Lady Marjory was beside her husband in a second, loosening his tie. 'Toby, call Walters now, your father's having a heart attack.'
Toby just sat in his chair, staring at his father struggling for breath, his face redder and redder.
'TOBY!' Lady Lappiter screamed.
The door opened wide and Walters the butler rushed in, took one look at Sir James lying on the floor and rushed out again.
Toby just sat there, watching his father struggle for breath on the floor, his mouth opening and closing like a goldfish out of water.
'Help me!' his mother screamed at him once more.
He just sat in his chair, gripping the armrests tightly with his fingers.
By the time the doctor arrived from the village, Sir James Russell, Lord Lappiter, was already in a coma. The doctor ordered an ambulance to take him to the hospital in Bakewell.
Lady Lappiter collapsed and was carried upstairs to her room, where the doctor administered a strong sedative.
Afterwards, the doctor spoke quietly to Toby. 'Between the two of us, I don't hold out much hope of a recovery, I'm afraid. The heart attack was massive. We'll do our best of course, but, if he recovers, and I doubt he will, the shock to the system was so great…' The doctor tailed off.
Toby just stood there, barely comprehending what the doctor was saying.
'You need to write to your brother. In Scotland, isn't he?'
Toby nodded, 'I think so.'
'I would warn him what's happened. He'll have to come back and sort out the estate. Would you like me to ask the lawyer to come?'
Toby snapped out of his inertia. He had to take control now. ‘Please ask him to come tomorrow.'
'Would you like anything for the shock? Seeing your father so ill…'
Toby shook his head. 'It's not necessary, Doctor.' He walked towards the door and the doctor naturally followed him. 'Thank you for your time. I'm sure you did the best you could for my father. There will be no criticism of your treatment.'
The doctor stood up straighter. 'Your father had a long history of heart problems, it was only a matter of time…'
'Yes, yes, as I said there will be no criticism of your treatment. I'm sure I can trust you to keep news of my father's illness quiet for the moment. We wouldn't like people to be distressed, would we?' His eyes looked up towards the upper rooms where his mother was resting.
'Of course, you can rely on me.'
'Thank you, I don’t want my mother more upset than necessary. I'll contact my brother in due course. As you know, he's doing important war work at the moment. Walters will see you out.'
The doctor put on his hat. 'Good day to you, Mr Russell.'
'And to you, Dr McBride.'
Toby closed the door and leant against it. A smile crossed his face. He wouldn't write to his brother yet, not yet, let David go back to France and his fighting.
First, he had to make sure of his ground. Father might recover, and then again, he might not.
Chapter Forty-One
Holton Hall, Derbyshire. April 2, 2016.
Jayne took the A6 out of Buxton, turning left two miles after Bakewell on to a long tree-lined lane. She checked her satnav again; Holton Hall was another two hundred yards on the right.
She drove slowly, taking an unkempt turn-off and parking the car beneath a large sycamore just coming into leaf. In front of her, two padlocked iron gates guarded a short gravel driveway leading to an old stone hall. The windows were boarded up with metal shutters. The roof had three tall plants g
rowing from one of the chimney stacks, while pale blue paint was peeling from the door in sharp, pointed flakes.
So this is where David Russell grew up. It certainly was a privileged life, different from a haberdasher's in Shoreditch.
She stood in front of the gates and for a moment, felt the past come to life. A Rolls Royce gliding down the driveway, young women in long dresses swishing elegantly through the grounds, the sound of a tennis ball being stroked on a court, the clink of glasses and ice in frosted jugs. And at the edge, hidden in the shadows, an immense and fragile sadness waiting to step out into the open air.
They didn't come often, these 'moments' as she liked to call them. But ever since she was a child, they had visited her at the strangest times, usually brought on by a smell or a sound or the taste in her mouth. It was like the past had come alive and she was surrounded by it.
Her father used to tease her about it. 'Your “moments” are nowt but a bit of imagination, lass. You have to stop reading all those history books.' But she knew it was more than that. It was as if she had tapped into a memory buried in the stones themselves, like a recording etched into the vinyl of an album. Somehow, she was the needle that brought it back to life.
She shook her head and was returned to the present. To a dull, dilapidated, desperate present.
Above her head, at the join where the two iron gates met, a small notice was displayed.
Holton Hall. To be sold by public auction on the 15 April, 2016. For further enquiries, contact Johnson Brothers Property Valuers and Auctioneers, Bakewell.
And, all at once, a wave of immense sadness washed over her, filling her with fear.
This was not a happy place. It had never been a happy place.
Chapter Forty-Two
Hatherton, Derbyshire. April 2, 2016.
After her dispiriting visit to Holton Hall, she travelled back towards Buxton to find the small village of Hatherton.
It was a beautiful part of England; rolling hills penetrated by deep dales and sharp-edged granite rocks. She remembered coming here with her father as a child, walking through Lathkill Dale listening to the sound of the water flowing down the shallow river and exploring the shafts of the old lead mines lining the sides of the valley.