The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  She walked into the day room. A group of old women were playing bridge at a table in front. They made no sound as they placed their cards gently onto the green baize of the table. On the left, an old-fashioned TV was tuned to the Jeremy Kyle show, the audience braying with disbelief as a 15-year-old denied he was the father of a woman's baby. Two women and three men were set around the TV, not really watching nor listening but just aware of the sound.

  Her father was in the far corner, alone, in front of the window facing the beech tree, holding a book in his hands.

  She stood behind him. 'What are you reading?'

  He looked back at her, his eyes taking ages to focus on her face. For a moment, she thought he hadn't recognised her, before he said, 'Oh, it's you. I thought it might have been the nurse with my meds.' He checked his watch, 'She's late this morning.' He closed the book. She saw the cover, Rubicon by Tom Holland. History, always history.

  Her father had been obsessed with reading history books as long as she could remember. Biographies, political histories, economic histories, diaries, military history, the history of history. As long as it was set in the past he would read it.

  It was her father who had first interested her in genealogy. Dragging her back from the dark days after Dave's shooting into the past. Their past. Researching his family and his antecedents.

  She had always called him Father even though he was really her step-father. He had married her mother when she was three years old. She had never taken his surname, keeping her mother's name as her own. Her mother would never tell her who her real father was. Even when she lay dying, her body ravished with cancer, she had remained silent.

  One day, Jayne would find out who he was. But not today. Today was a day to spend with the only man she had ever known as a father.

  She sat down beside him. 'How are you today?'

  'Good. Better than yesterday, worse than tomorrow.'

  She loved him when he was like this. When the disease infesting his mind had cleared like a fog lifting to reveal a bright blue sky on a sunny day. Today was a good day.

  'I've got a new case.'

  'Interesting?'

  'An American. Adopted when he was four from a home in Ilkley. Wants to know who he is.'

  'Don't we all. Should be easy. He's done the checks with one of the adoption referral services?'

  She nodded.

  'He's got his original birth certificate?'

  She nodded again.

  'So what's the problem? Piece of cake.'

  She loved his old-fashioned idioms. Occasionally, he would surprise her with one she had never heard before. 'The problem is, the man named as the father on the birth certificate died in the war seven years earlier.'

  Her father pursed his lips. 'That is a problem.'

  She reached into her bag and pulled out the folder, opening it and removing the picture.

  He took it from her, searching for his glasses at the same time. 'Where are they? I had them a minute ago. Always losing the bloody things.'

  She reached across and lifted the glasses from his chest, where they hung from a cord around his neck.

  'Here they are, Dad. They're always here.'

  He looked down at them as if seeing them for the first time. 'I know. It's just that I forget.'

  For a second the words hung between them. The unsaid words. They never talked about his illness, as if discussing it would bring it back, here and now. If they ever did, it was referred to as 'Mr Jones.' A way they both used of distancing themselves from the horrible Germanic hardness of the word Alzheimer's, making it a joke between them both, their shared secret.

  Her father coughed slightly, putting the glasses back on. 'This is him?' He peered at the old photograph. 'Fierce little chap, isn't he?'

  'You should meet him now. He could chew the back end off a bus.'

  'Nice kid but not a nice man, then. Parents screw them up you know.' He twisted his head and looked at her like a blackbird looking at the ground, searching for a tasty morsel. Then shook his head making a joke of it and returned to examining the picture. 'Well-dressed, the coat has an expensive look to it. Shoes are well made, not tat.'

  'You're doing the investigation for me?'

  'Just looking at the evidence. Anything else?'

  'Just the book he's holding in the photo.' She passed the book over to him.

  'The Lives of the United Irishmen. Sounds good. Wouldn't mind reading it.'

  'I don't think I can leave it with you, Dad.'

  He opened it up, read the inscription and flicked through the pages. 'That's it?'

  'That's it.'

  'Not much to go on. You've checked the records of the children's home?'

  'Not yet. But I'm pretty sure they don't exist. The place burnt down in 1932.'

  'Could've been transferred before then.'

  'I'll check.'

  He picked up the picture again, examining it closely. 'Good quality clothes. Not the sort of stuff working people would have been able to afford.'

  'They could have been given to him by the orphanage.'

  'How long was he there for?'

  She picked up the adoption certificate. 'He was admitted to the orphanage in February 1929 and released for adoption in October of the same year.'

  'Pretty quick. Bureaucrats don't usually work that quickly in my experience.'

  She loved his mind when he was like this. So sharp, so precise. He would have made a great detective, a much better detective than her. Instead, he had spent his life selling insurance. 'That's a good point, Dad.'

  'Have you seen the lapel?'

  'What lapel?'

  He jabbed the photograph with his finger. 'There, can you see it?' He brought the image up close to his eyes. 'Something's on the lapel.'

  'What is it? Let me see.' He handed the picture over to her. She checked both lapels. On the left one, a small bronze mark stood out against the green wool of the overcoat. 'Looks like a badge or something like that. I'll get it blown up. Might be something.'

  'Or might be nothing. The 1929 equivalent of the Tufty Club.'

  'The Tufty Club?'

  'Before your time, young 'un. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. 'Not a lot to go on, but I'm sure you'll do your best, kiddo. Time I took a nap.'

  'Isn't it time for your lunch?'

  'We call it dinner, here, Jayne. Don't you be putting on airs and graces with me. And yes it is dinner time, but today it's suet pudding. I can't stand suet pudding.'

  'Shall I tell the nurse you're feeling tired?'

  'Do that, and help me back to my room.'

  'You will eat this evening, Dad?'

  'Course I will. Monday is pie and chips. Never miss my pie and chips.'

  'You promise?'

  'Cross my heart and hope to die.' For the second time that day, there was a moment of silence between the two of them.

  'Help me up, Jayne, the old knees are not as good as they used to be.'

  'You'll be dancing the waltz this afternoon.'

  He looked at the old women sat in the chairs watching in front of the television. 'Not with these old biddies, I won't. Two left feet this lot.'

  One of the old women looked up quickly from her knitting. Saw Ian Tomlinson staring at her and quickly looked down again.

  'Be good, Dad.'

  'And if you can't be good, be better. I know all about that. Remember it was me who told you.'

  'Every day, Dad, every day.'

  Chapter Ten

  Didsbury, Manchester. November 15, 2015.

  Jayne Sinclair sat down in front of her Mac in the kitchen. The drive from her father's care home near Buxton had been tedious but she was used to it. It was a time when her mind could mull over the problems of the investigation, leaving her body to somehow drive the car. Often, she found herself parking in front of the house unable to remember how she had got there. As if the car, like some old donkey on a beach, knew exactly which route it should take to get home.
/>   A quick brew of tea and she was ready to start. She pulled her pad towards her and wrote out a list of things to do. Without her lists she was lost. They were all dated and numbered and, as she finished one item, it was crossed off in red biro.

  The first item was clear. Call the library. She logged on, found the correct website, checked the details and called the first number.

  The phone rang three times, then a rich baritone voice answered. 'UCD...sorry, I'll get that right one day, NUI Dublin Library.'

  'Hello, my name is Jayne, Jayne Sinclair.' She still stumbled over her name, constantly wanting to say DI Jayne Sinclair. 'I'm afraid I have a rather strange request.'

  'We are a university library, madam, we often receive strange requests. How can I help you?'

  The voice had that musicality that could only be Irish, like listening to Seamus Heaney reading his poetry.

  'I've been given a book of yours...'

  'Published by the faculty or belonging to the library?'

  Precision, she liked that. She would have to be exact with this man.

  'The second... the latter,' she corrected herself. 'I think it was borrowed from the Library before 1929.'

  There was a small cough at the end of the line. 'If it wasn't returned within a month, I'm afraid the fines could be quite sizeable. If I were you, I would just drop the book in the returned box on campus. We promise we won't follow up.'

  'I wonder, could you check it out for me?'

  'Madam, after 86 years, I do think it's too late to extend the loan of the book.' She detected a hint of amusement in the voice.

  'No, no, I don't mean that. Could you check your catalogue for it?'

  'Give me a second.' She heard the rattle of computer keys. 'Title?'

  'The Lives of the United Irishmen by James Cameron Esq.'

  'Sounds like a bestseller.' Again the hint of humour. She was beginning to like this man. She heard the rattle of keys on an old computer. 'We have three editions in the catalogue, published in 1888, 1914 and a more modern edition, published in 1992.'

  'I've got the 1914 edition.'

  'Ah, it should have the old ex-libris sticker in the back.'

  'It does.'

  'Beautifully designed that one. My favourite.' More rattles of keys. 'According to my records, that copy is still here. In storage, but still here.'

  'How could I have it then?'

  'Two ways madam. It has been sold and we haven't deleted the records.'

  'How would we know?'

  'On the title page, there would be stamp in big, blue letters saying, 'Discarded by University College, Dublin.' We can be very subtle us librarians when we don't want a book anymore.'

  She checked the title page once again. 'Nothing.'

  'Then, it's the second option.'

  'Which is?'

  'Stolen. Probably by one of the students. Anti-theft technology has improved a wee bit since 1914, but students always seem one step ahead. I'm amazed we have any books left in the library.'

  'Does the library allow people to write inscriptions in its books?'

  The man thought for a moment. 'No…that would be most unusual, unless of course the book was donated to us.'

  'Was this book donated?'

  'I’ll just check, hold the line.' Again, the distant rattle of computer keys. 'Hello, are you still there?'

  'Still here.'

  'Good, the line had gone as quiet as a priest in a brothel for a moment. You're not ringing from here so.'

  'Actually, I'm calling from Manchester.'

  'Sure, it's a long way to go for a library book. Anyway, we bought the book new, it wasn't a bequest. The only thing inside it should be the ex-libris sticker. Not forgetting the words, of course.'

  'Thank you, Mr...?'

  'O'Malley. Damien O'Malley.'

  And then an idea struck her. 'One more question, if I could?'

  'You've solved the mystery of the missing library book of 1914, madam, how could I refuse.'

  'If I were looking for former students of the university, say someone who studied at UCD from 1914 to 1929, where would I start?'

  There was silence from the end of the line. 'Well, you've got me there so. You could try the alumni office. They would keep the records there I think, but I don't know if they go back that far. The dean's office may also have graduate records from the period. Either of those, I suppose.'

  'Nothing online?'

  'Ah, that would be a rare chance now wouldn't it? But I doubt it. Microfilm possibly but not digitised.'

  She loved the way he said Microfilm with an extra 'u' between the l and the m, so it came out filum. 'Thank you for your time, Mr O'Malley.'

  'My pleasure, madam. Do drop the book off, won't you? It would be nice to say hello to it again after all these years. And I promise there won't be any late charges. We'll let you off for good behaviour. You can't say fairer than that now, can you?'

  Jayne was beginning to feel guilty. 'I will talk to the owner, Mr O'Malley. Thank you once again.' She disconnected the call quickly before he could ask her again.

  The phone call had been useful. She had confirmed that the book came from the library and hadn't been sold. The inscription suggested it was given to MD by DF. Possibly, it was stolen from the library by one of the students, but why? And were MD and DF both studying at UCD at the time? Perhaps, the register of graduates would be able to tell her.

  And how did it come to end up in the possession of a young boy in an orphanage? That was more important. That was what she had to find out.

  She added another item to her list. Find out about graduates from UCD for the period.

  Now for the next phone call. Something closer to home. She didn't need to look up the number.

  'Hello...' The voice was irritated, interrupted in the middle of something.

  'Good afternoon, Rob. I can hear that you are in a fine mood on this beautiful day.'

  'DI Sinclair, good to hear from you again.'

  'Not a DI anymore Rob, just plain Jayne Sinclair.'

  He laughed. 'You were never a plain Jayne, nobody could ever say that.'

  'Less of the sexism, DC Tanner. You'll have the PC Police breathing down your neck.'

  'It's DI Tanner now, get it right. But you already knew that, didn't you Jayne?'

  'A little bird whispered in my ear down the pub. Well done, my old mate, you deserve it.'

  'What can I do for you, Jayne, I'm sure all this buttering up is going to lead somewhere, sometime.'

  'You can read me almost as well as you can fiddle a timesheet, Rob. There is something you can help me with...'

  'Here it comes.'

  'Does the lab still have the photo enhancement software?'

  'It's been upgraded, cheaper than replacing all the CCTV cameras around the city. We can spot a burglar on the end of a ladybird's nose.'

  'I was wondering, if I sent you across on old photograph, could you put it through the lab?'

  'One of your investigations?'

  'An American looking to find out who he is.'

  'Aren't we all?'

  'Why does everybody say that?'

  'Maybe because it's true. It'll cost you.'

  'The usual?'

  'Valrhona, will do.'

  Jayne had infected Rob Tanner with her love of chocolate when they worked together during the Madchester days. 'No problem, but Rob...'

  'Yes?'

  'Could you put a rocket up their arse? This one is urgent.' Jayne felt a presence behind her. She wished Paul wouldn't creep up on her like that, he had been doing it more and more often.

  'One rocket, armed and ready.'

  'Thanks, Rob, you're a star.'

  There was a moment of silence down the phone. Jayne thought he had already hung up. 'When are you coming back, Jayne? The lads miss you.'

  'Never, Rob. My days are done. Time to let the next generation of coppers fuck it all up.'

  'Thanks to your training, we're making a fine job of it.'
>
  Jayne could hear Paul putting the kettle on behind her. 'I'm glad to hear it, Rob, wouldn't have expected any more...or any less.'

  She heard a laugh down the phone. A laugh that suggested Rob didn't do very much laughing anymore. 'I'll get back to you later, Jayne. The lab will try and fob me off but I know one of the girls...'

  'She's fallen for your charms?'

  'Don't they all...except you.'

  Again, an awkward moment of silence. 'Thanks for your help, Rob, I owe you one.'

  'One packet of Valrhona, as I recall.'

  'Have a good day, and watch out, there’s a lot of bad people about.' A stab of pain went through Jayne's chest as she repeated the words they always used before going out on the streets.

  'And if you can't watch out, don't leave no marks. Bye, Jayne.' Rob repeated the usual answer but after Dave Gilmore's death, it always sounded hollow, as if the words didn't ring true anymore.

  'Bye, Rob,' Jayne whispered. The only reply was that plaintive buzz to show the line was dead. God, she hated that sound.

  'Want a cuppa?'

  'Lovely. You're back early.'

  'Thought we'd go out to dinner together. How about the Albert?'

  'I can't Paul.' She pointed to her laptop.

  There was an audible sigh. Here it comes, she thought.

  'The plan was to spend more time together when you retired from the police. Seems I see you less now than when you were a full-time copper.'

  'It's work, Paul. A client. I only have eight days...seven days now,' she corrected herself.

  'So no time to take an evening off.'

  She shook her head. 'Sorry, if I don't do the basics now, I'll never know the right direction to go in. It's a rush job.'

  'You're always in a hurry. No time for anything. No time for me.'

  'That's not true, Paul.'

  'It is and you know it.' He put on his jacket. 'I'm going down the pub. I fancy some company.' He walked towards the door, turning just before he went out. 'Oh, I forgot to tell you. Jack Davies and his wife are coming for dinner on Friday.'

  'That awful man and his pretentious wife?'

  'The one and same. Unfortunately, he also happens to be my boss.'