by M J Lee
Jayne let out a long sigh. 'Thank God. Could we look at them?'
'You're supposed to give three days' notice, but as you're here…' The archivist checked his watch, '…Our people are at lunch at the moment, but just fill in the form and I'll get them to dig it out for you.'
'Thanks a bundle, Peter,' said Jayne reading the man's name tag. 'I don't want to be a bother but when do you think they'll get it?'
'Just as soon as they can, Ms Sinclair.'
Jayne realised it was futile and rude to push any harder. 'Thanks, Peter.'
They returned to their desk and notes. Jayne sighed, ’Now, we just sit and wait.'
'It might not be there anyway. And even if it is, there's little chance he put the marriage certificate in the notebook.'
'We just have to hope, Mark.'
'Hope is not a plan.'
'But without it we have nothing, do we Mark?'
The minutes passed remorselessly. Jayne couldn't help herself, she glanced at the clock on the wall every five minutes.
'2.30 and it's still not here,' whispered Mark. 'Let's go.'
'Just a few minutes more, Mark, be patient.'
There was movement behind the archivist's desk. He came out carrying a large box and walked to another table, placing it down in front of a young researcher.
As he walked back, he glanced in their direction and shrugged his shoulders. He mimed making a telephone call. Jayne nodded back to him.
Again, she looked at the clock. Only a minute had passed since she last inspected it. The second hand seemed to be moving more slowly now, taking years to sweep around the dial. Jayne checked her own watch to confirm the time. The clock on the wall was two minutes slow.
'It's 3 p.m., Jayne, even if it comes now, by the time we've done the research it will be past five o'clock and the government office will be closed.'
Just as Jayne was about to give up hope, the archivist came running from the back room with a large box. 'Here it is, they're busy today. These are the documents brought by Lieutenant Crawford from the German field hospital. There's one missing, it's on display in the exhibition.' He placed the box on the table in front of them. 'Gloves please.'
Jayne and Mark put their gloves back on. Jayne opened the lid of the box. Inside were a stack of small brown books in plastic bags. She removed the top one from its wrapping. On the cover in block capitals were the words:
ARMY BOOK 64
And beneath it:
SOLDIER'S PAYBOOK FOR USE ON ACTIVE SERVICE
Inside was a flap and a long section, detailing in bullet form the instructions to a soldier. She turned the page. At the top, written in pencil were the words: 4th Battalion, Derbyshire Fusiliers. And further down, the soldier's army number, his rank and finally his name. In this case, Michael Kelly.
'He must have been in your great grandfather's regiment.'
'One of the men who survived or one who died?' asked Mark.
'We'll never know.'
Jayne closed the book. Mark reached in and took the next one on the pile.
'We don't want these. They are AB 64s, enlisted men's paybooks.' She began to remove each of the plastic bags from the box, placing them carefully on the table.
Eventually, she saw one that looked different. It was blue and on the cover was the title:
OFFICER’S RECORD OF SERVICES
ARMY BOOK 439
Jayne opened it carefully. Inside a few yellowed pages marked Army Courses and Languages Spoken were loosely attached to the top. In the centre was the name Robert Higgins with his rank as second lieutenant and the places he had served.
She showed it to Mark. 'Not our man, but at least he's an officer.' She dug deeper into the box. There were three more blue service books and then she saw it, a brown leather notebook, hinged at the top and bound with an old rubber band. On the cover the initials D.R. were embossed in gold letters.
Gingerly, she reached in and took it out of its plastic bag. 'I think this is it, Mark.'
She showed the book to him. He stopped what he was doing and looked up. For a second, she saw a look of fear in his eyes, as if he had waited for this moment for so long and now it was here, he couldn't bear to find out the truth. 'Do you want to open it?'
He shook his head.
Jayne removed the rubber band, placing it in the plastic bag. She opened the leather cover. On the inside page in faded brown ink, the words Capt. David Russell and a date of 12th February, 1916 were written in a beautiful cursive script. This wasn't an army issue notebook, but something far more personal.
'It's his.'
Mark breathed out. 'My great grandfather's book. He must have held it, written in it. So long ago…' His voice trailed off.
Jayne turned the page. Inside, written in a variety of inks and pencil were pages of dates and training instructions, notes to himself, addresses including Rose's in Wibbersley Hospital and a printed list of army instructions for officers. Halfway through, after the date July 1st 1916, the pages were blank. Jayne quickly flicked through the rest of the book.
All blank.
Nothing.
'No mention of Rose or a marriage?'
Jayne shook her head. 'Nothing.'
As she lifted up the book, a sheet of paper folded into a small square drifted down onto the table. It was a page torn from the notebook.
Jayne picked it up and stared at the words written in pencil on the yellowed paper, before finally reading them out.
In the event of my death, I, David Russell, leave all my property, effects and belongings to my wife, Rose Russell nee Clarke, Ward 5, Wibbersley Hospital, Flixton, Manchester. Signed David Russell, Capt.
Jayne's whole body collapsed and she sighed. 'Finally, he acknowledges he's married to her. The signature matches the one on the letters and the hotel register.'
'But it's not proof, it's not official.'
'But don't you realise, it's better than that.'
Mark frowned. 'I don't understand.'
'It's a will, Mark.'
'I still don't get it.'
'He's leaving everything he owns to his wife, Rose.'
'But it's written in pencil on a bit of paper. There's no lawyers or witnesses.'
Jayne laughed. 'It doesn't matter. It's a soldier's will. They were recognised as legally binding after the war. The men had to write them before going in to battle, David must have written this one too. And even better, he's signed it.' She stood up. 'Come on, we need to get this photocopied. It's four o'clock now. We need to get to the Bona Vacantia offices on Kemble Street before they close.'
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Government Legal Department, London. April 4, 2016.
The archivist moved quickly when he saw the urgency in Jayne's face. Mark texted his father to meet them outside.
Within ten minutes they were in a taxi and heading across London.
'Kemble Street? Nah, I could take Westminster Bridge and then you would see the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey, but this time of day, it's going to be full of tour buses. Those buggers haven't got a clue how to drive. Or I could go by Waterloo…'
'That sounds nice, see the sights,' said Mark's father.
'Go whichever way is quickest, we're in a rush.'
'Aren't we all. It's the modern life. Rush here, rush there, missing the beauty of the world.'
Just what Jayne needed, a taxi philosopher. 'We need to be at Kemble Street before five.'
'Nah worries, I'll take Waterloo, should be clear at this time. You going to the Government Legal Department?'
Jane saw a pair of eyes staring at her in the rear view mirror and nodded.
'You'd better get a move on. Them lot close up shop on the dot at five. Civil servants don't work a minute past then. Nah, you take me, for instance, I start at 3.30 and work until…'
Jayne switched off as the cab driver went into excruciating detail of his working life. The modern, functional buildings of South London slipped past in a blur of medio
crity. Red, open-topped tour buses waited to pick up their sightseers outside Waterloo Station. The traffic thickened as they approached the river, pedestrians being jostled by cyclists as they dodged and weaved in between the stationary traffic. Jayne remembered one of those arcane facts that occasionally stuck in her mind; traffic in London now moved at exactly the same pace as it had back in the 1900s, back when Rose and David were living and loving.
She looked down at her watch. 4.30.
'Will we make it in time?' Mark asked.
'Nah worries, mate, we'll have you across the river in two shakes of Tommy Cooper's fez.'
The brutal slab of concrete known as the National Theatre zoomed by on the right and they were over the river, the boats drifting downstream beneath them as they had for centuries.
'Won't be long now, we'll take the underpass to avoid all the buses along the Strand. I was stuck there for 30 minutes last week, hell of a jam.'
The taxi suddenly accelerated through the traffic. Jayne was thrown against Mark and Richard Russell. It headed downhill into a dark, concrete tunnel beneath one of London's busiest thoroughfares.
Jayne checked her watch again. She could have been taking life easy, enjoying a carefree weekend with Paul, seeing a show, doing some shopping along Regent Street, enjoying the sights. Instead she was stuck in a taxi with an old man and his son and she wouldn't have swapped it for the world.
The taxi accelerated to a stop, the driver beeping his horn loudly. 'Bleedin' Arabs, should be driving a camel not a Bentley.'
The taxi swung left past the slow-moving vehicle as they both began to emerge from the dark, turning sharp left and then left again.
'Here you are squires, Kemble Street, Government offices on the left.'
Jayne reached into her bag to pay the cabbie but the old man had beaten her to it, giving him a 20-pound note saying, 'Keep the change.'
'Fanks very much, guv.'
The old man beamed. The last of the big spenders.
Jayne and Mark stood in front of the tall, round tower. 'Come on,' she said, 'no time to lose.' She hustled Mark and his father through the revolving doors into the lobby. It was a classic 70s building inside; all marble and chandeliers, but strangely dowdy, as if none of it had ever been cleaned properly.
A pair of security guards stood watch behind a desk. 'Where are you going?'
'The Bona Vacantia Division of the Government Legal Department.'
'Do you have an appointment?'
Jane shook her head.
'I'll have to ring up to see if they are available.' The man slowly began to enter the number. He reminded Jayne of a sloth the way his movements were so slow and deliberate. Behind his head, a clock on the wall ticked over to 4.40.
'The phone is ringing,' the guard said.
He held it away from his ear so she could hear the ring.
No answer.
He was just about to put it down when Jayne heard a faint voice at the other end. The guard put the handset to his ear, slowly, and began nodding his head.
Finally, he replaced the phone. 'You can go up now. ID please.'
Jayne fished in her bag, looking for her driving licence. Eventually she found it next to the wrapping of a bar of Valrhona. She handed it to the man and waited patiently for a visitor pass.
Mark and his father shuffled impatiently next to her as the man spent a lifetime sorting through the box on his desk. Taking three visitor passes he handed them to Jayne and pointed to a bank of lifts on the left. A stream of people were already flowing out of the door, leaving work early.
Jayne rushed to catch a departing lift. She bundled Mark and his father into it and pressed the number for the floor.
The lift doors closed, slowly. It ascended creaking like an arthritic pensioner. Jayne checked her watch again. Mark was also looking at his. The old man was staring at the numbers above the lift door.
'There's no number thirteen. You wouldn't think a government office full of lawyers would be superstitious, would you?'
Jayne checked her watch again. Just twelve minutes before five. The lift doors opened and they rushed out to meet the receptionist.
'Can I help you?'
'We'd like to file a claim against one of the estates on the list.'
The receptionist answered in a slightly bored voice. 'Please put your documents into the tray, somebody will look at them as soon as they are available.'
Jayne leant forward, getting as close as she could, and immediately attracting the attention of the woman. 'You don't understand, the claim becomes forfeit at 5 p.m. this evening. We need somebody to look at it straight away.'
The woman seemed to think. 'This is unusual, most claims come by courier.' And then her eyes widened, 'Tom's still around, I'll get him to look at it.'
She vanished into the office. Jayne, Mark and his father were left standing in the reception area, a steady stream of people filing past them on their way home. Jayne looked at her watch again. Why was the second hand moving so fast? They were running out of time.
A large, chubby man with a red face came out of the door and stood behind the desk. 'How can I help you?'
'It's Tom, is it?' Jayne turned on the charm she had never really learned in the Police.
The man nodded.
'We have a claim against an estate. Unfortunately, it runs out in ten minutes.'
'You've left it a bit late. We keep the files open for 30 years and you only come forward now?'
'Sorry, we've just found the documents.'
The man sighed but held out his hand. Jayne handed over the folder with all the signed and completed documents. 'We only found the proof this afternoon at the Imperial War Museum.' Jayne indicated the photocopy of David's will.
The man pored over the family tree and the supporting documents of the Russells. 'And you are?'
'Richard Russell.' Mark's father pointed to his name on the family tree.
The man returned to reading the documents, finally shuffling them into a neat pile, inserting them back in the folder.
'Well, it's most unusual, but as you are in time, I will forward these to our senior for review.'
Jayne and Mark smiled, patting each other on the back. The old man let out a whoop of triumph.
'Thank you, you don't know how pleased we are that we managed to make it,' said Jayne.
The man held up his hand. 'Unfortunately though, your claim will probably fail.'
Everybody went quiet. Jayne noticed a clock behind the man's head tick jerkily to ten minutes to five. Why were there so many clocks? It was the first time she had noticed how many clocks existed in offices. As if people had to be constantly reminded of the time they were wasting.
'You see, the document from the War Museum, the soldier's will, has not been officially notarised. There's no proof of provenance. It could have come from anywhere.'
'But there was no time to get it notarised…'
The man shrugged his shoulders. 'I would have thought 30 years is long enough. The rules are clear. The claim must be submitted before 30 years have expired, otherwise it is forfeited and the estate passes to the Treasury.
'But… but…' For once Jayne was at a loss for words. Mark and his father stood there, open-mouthed.
'There is one other document missing. A proof of marriage between Rose Clarke and David Russell, Lord Lappiter.'
'But David's will states that Rose Clarke was his wife.'
'Ah,' the man held up his finger and spoke with the certainty of a solicitor, 'we don't know which Rose Clarke he means, do we?'
Chapter Eighty
Outside Government Legal Department, London.
April 4, 2016.
'So that's it?' Mark's shoulders slumped forward.
They were standing outside One Kemble Street. A stream of besuited civil servants flowed past them, paying no attention to the forlorn group standing on the pavement, intent on catching the 5.13 from Waterloo to the leafy suburbs of Maidenhead.
'I'm afr
aid that's it, Mark, nothing else we can do.'
The group fell silent. Jayne checked her watch one last time, seven minutes to five. So near, yet so far.
The old man smiled. 'Why are we so unhappy? Look, with Jayne's help we managed to prove my grandmother wasn't a liar, she told the truth. She married David Russell, Lord Lappiter. They had a child, my father, and you are their living descendant.' He prodded Mark in the chest.
'But we failed, Dad, we didn't get the evidence in time. There'll be no inheritance, no money.'
'Money, schmoney. Who needs it?' The old man seemed to think for a moment before answering his own question, 'Well, we do. But money isn't everything.' He put his arm around Mark's shoulder, having to reach up on tip toes. 'We've got each other, Mark, and that's more important to me than anything else.'
Mark resisted for a moment before smiling and lifting his dad up into the air. 'And you've still got your Elvis quiff.'
'Never lose it, Mark, he was king, you know? And besides, the girls could never resist the quiff. Pulled more totty in my time than you've had hot dinners.’
‘Too much information, Dad.’
Jayne's phone rang in her bag. She was tempted to ignore it, thinking it could only be Paul and she didn't want to speak to him right now.
'Let's go for a good Italian and splash out on a bottle of Prosecco to celebrate,' said Mark.
The phone continued to ring.
'The best idea you've had since this morning,’ said his father.
The phone carried on ringing. Jayne searched in her bag, eventually finding it. She didn't recognise the number. Who the hell was it?
She pressed the answer button.
'Jayne Sinclair?' a voice asked tentatively from the other end of the line.
Jayne hoped it wasn't somebody trying to sell her double glazing. She would rip their throat out if it was. 'Speaking,' she replied curtly.
'I have the results of your request, Mrs Sinclair.'
The voice was vaguely Scottish. 'What results? What request?'