The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  'You invited him?'

  'Yes. And don't roll your eyes like that. Can you handle it or shall we take him out?'

  She thought for a moment. Today was Monday, plenty of time to prepare. By then she should have cracked this case...or not. 'I can handle it,' she answered him finally.

  'Your beef bourguignon and gooey chocolate cake would be perfect.'

  'Beef and chocolate, a bit heavy don't you think?'

  'He's not a light person.'

  'Neither is the wife.'

  'I'm off down the Swan. Sure you won't join me?'

  'Give me an hour or so, and I'll come down.'

  'See you later.'

  She listened as he banged his way out of the door. Why did he always make her feel so guilty about her work? When he was on a project, working all the hours under the sun, nothing was said.

  She turned back to her Mac. I haven't even started on the woman yet, his mother. She logged onto findmypast.com again and typed the name in the search field. Emily Clavell, clicking the name variants box just in case. She checked the birth certificate. 29 years old at the birth of her child in 1925, so that would give her a date of birth of 1896. Better try plus or minus five years just in case. Women were notoriously inaccurate about such things, particularly if the husband were younger than them. Not much has changed, she thought.

  144 results.

  Perhaps if she restricted the search to Yorkshire as the birth certificate showed a Bradford address? The edit came back with 27 records. Clavell must have been a popular Yorkshire name. Slowly, painstakingly she went through each of the results, looking for a possible link to her client.

  On the thirteenth search, she shouted 'Got you’ out loud. It was definitely her. Same name, same address. Parents Martin and Anne Clavell. Two brothers, the eldest also called Martin, and the youngest with the name, John. It was a start.

  Now for births, marriages and deaths. After the third search, she came up trumps again. Emily Clavell, born in Queensbury, West Yorkshire in 1894. She checked the names of the parents: Martin and Anne. It was the same woman. So she had told a little while lie about her date of birth, shaving a couple of years off her age. Vanity, vanity, thy name is woman. Who wrote that? Probably a man.

  Finally, she clicked the link to the register of marriages. Here it was. Emily Clavell married Charles Trichot between October to December 1924. She would have to request the actual marriage certificate to find out the date and the witnesses. She pulled out her pad and added another item to her lengthening list of things to do.

  She was making progress, good progress. But still the central question remained: how could Emily Clavell marry a man who had been dead for seven years?

  She closed her computer. Time to join her husband down the pub and drink the shocking Ribena-like liquid they called wine. Pity they didn't stock good bars of chocolate. Any pub that sold good chocolate would have her as a customer for life.

  She heard the wind and rain beating against the window. A typical November day in Manchester. Wet and wild with the murky grey skies that sucked the colour and life out of everything. Despite that, there would be a few hardy souls hunkering down in the shelter of the doorway of the pub, sucking the life out of their cigarettes. Thank God she had never indulged in that vice. Plenty of others, but never that one.

  She put on her coat. The wind and rain redoubled its efforts to break into the house. She didn't really want to go, but she would never hear the end of it if she didn't. Paul would nag remorselessly for the next week, playing the victim with all the nuance of Bette Davis.

  God, why was marriage so difficult?

  Chapter Eleven

  Wicklow. October 25, 1915.

  'Happy Birthday, Father.' The cake was covered in white frosting and on it sat a single candle. His sister had carried it into the study, followed by Michael, their mother, his younger brother, Martin and the cocker spaniel called Davy, who ruled the house.

  Their father looked up from his newspaper, The Freeman's Chronicle. The headline trumpeted a significant advance by the British forces in some place in Turkey called Gallipoli.

  Michael could see his father's mouth frown at the interruption, but his eyes gleamed. Secretly, he was happy his family had remembered. 'How old are you now, Da?'

  'Too old to remember and too young to forget.'

  'Ach, you're not that old,' said his mother.

  'Brian Boru was still king of Ireland when I was born.' He coughed, a slow wracking cough.

  'Don't be telling your fibs, now John Dowling. I remember you saying it was Niall of the Nine Hostages who was being the king when you were born.' His mother sat down on the arm of his father's chair. 'Now will you be having a slice of cake or shall I give it to the tinkers?'

  'The tinkers will not be having my cake, not today,' his father said as forcefully as he could.

  These days, the old man didn't move much from his chair and, if he did, it was just to stumble into his bedroom for a lie down. Michael was shocked at his appearance. He had only been away in Dublin for a couple of months but in that time the tall, strong man he had known as he was growing up had shrunk to this feeble creature, swallowed up by the cushions of an armchair. The will was still there, Michael could see that, but the flesh was weak, the cancer having eaten away all the strength his father had once had. A will that had frightened Michael as a boy, remorselessly pushing him to live a better life than his father had enjoyed.

  His sister placed the cake on the table, lighting the single candle.

  'Only the one?'

  'Sure, if I put more, I'd never hear the last of it.'

  'Make a wish,' Michael said.

  His father closed his eyes, then leant forward and tried to blow a stream of air through his grey moustache onto the candle. But all that came out was a shallow puff. The candle wavered in the breeze before recovering its strength and continuing to burn brightly. Michael leant forward and blew it out.

  There was silence for a moment before his mother began to clap and they all joined in. Even the dog wagged his tail and barked.

  His mother took a knife and sliced into the moist dark sponge, glistening with currants and dried fruit.

  'You've done me proud, Norah, there's enough to feed all Ireland here.'

  'Away with ye, John, flattery will get you nowhere.' His mother had never lost the soft sounds of the Central counties, Abbeyleix was still there in every sentence.

  His mother cut the cake quickly, giving Michael an extra large slice. 'He's a growing lad. Needs more to help him fill out.'

  'What about me?'

  'You too, Martin.' His mother passed another large slice to his younger brother before finally taking a much smaller piece for herself.

  They sat in silence for a while, the only sound that of fork against the best bone china. Finally, their father spoke. 'War's going well. Looks like they've made some sort of breakthrough.' He pointed to the paper. Their father followed the news every day, knowing where and when each battle was fought. He had even marched in the streets of Dublin protesting the rape of the Belgian nuns before the cancer had left him unable to leave the house.

  'Ach, more claptrap from the press. It's the same as it ever was.'

  'Michael Dowling, I will not have such language in my house.' His mother made the sign of the cross, bowing her head towards the picture of Jesus on the wall.

  His father sighed. 'It's not the same as it ever was. The Hun is a stalwart soldier. It will be a long and challenging fight but the British Empire will prevail in the end.'

  'You sound like Churchill, Father. And what's it to us, Ireland will still be Ireland whether they win their war or not.'

  'When the war is won, Ireland will be free. You know what they promised Redmond and Dillon. If Ireland does her bit, then, at the end of the war, in the fullness of time, she will get her Home Rule.'

  'Just words, father. Promises they have made for generations, and never delivered. The only way Ireland will ever be free
is if the Irish people fight for their freedom. Freedom can't be given, it must be seized.'

  Michael could see his mother trying to calm him down with her eyes.

  'You've been listening to that madman, Eoin O'Neill again. One of your professors, isn't he?'

  'He does teach history at UCD.'

  'Him and the rest of the fools who signed that damned proclamation…’ His father collapsed in a fit of coughing as if the mere mention of the man's name made him ill. 'Him and the rest of those fools…' he eventually said through clenched teeth.

  'The Provisional Committee.'

  'The Provisional Committee.' His father mimicked his words 'Pearce, Cannt, Clarke, Connolly, and the rest. All of them fools and traitors. How could they stab Redmond in the back like that?'

  Michael sighed, it was like explaining to a five-year-old. 'The Brits promised us Home Rule and went back on the promise.'

  'There's a war on, don't you know that?' His father slammed the plate with its cake down on the desk, and followed the noise with another bout of coughing.

  'Calm yourself, Patrick. We all know there's a war. No need to shout.' His mother patted his father's back, helping ease the cough.

  Michael couldn't help but notice a crumb of cake lodged in his father's moustache. He was tempted to lean over and wipe it off, but he knew now was not the right time.

  'I've got some news.' It was his brother who had spoken for the first time. They all turned toward him. 'I've spoken to UCD and they've agreed to defer my enrolment.'

  'You're not coming up? But I've arranged digs for you.'

  Martin placed his hand on his brother's arm. 'I've joined the Leinsters. I start training in Birr next week.'

  His mother's hand went to her mouth. His sister stood still. Even the dog seemed to know that something had happened.

  'You've joined up?' Michael could barely get the words out.

  His brother nodded. 'Off to fight. After training, of course. It's a good regiment. Myself and three others from school joined together.'

  Michael didn't say a word.

  His father was smiling. 'It's the right thing to do, Martin. I'm proud of you.'

  Chapter Twelve

  Holiday Inn, Northampton. November 15, 2015.

  David Turner hated waiting.

  He knew it was his biggest weakness. He tried all sorts of techniques to control it. Deep breathing, chewing gum, counting down from 100. Anything and everything to take his mind off the one thing he couldn't stop thinking about.

  Waiting.

  Even out in the Iraqi desert, covered by a tarpaulin, huddled next to his mate and oppo, Charlie Tennant, he'd hated the waiting. They were in one of the SAS squads tasked to keep a lookout for weapons for the Shiite militias smuggled in from Iran, calling in airstrikes if anything moved. Or even if it didn't. They had huddled beneath that tarpaulin for days on end, only coming out at night to take a leak and grab a quick bite of what the Army laughingly called rations, perhaps because they gave them so little of it.

  He preferred a 30K yomp over the Brecon Beacons in the middle of winter to waiting.

  The phone rang. Its noise seemed extra loud in the small room he had taken in a Holiday Inn off the M1. A boring, bland hotel where nobody would remember him, not even the bored front desk staff.

  He let it ring two more times before picking it up. 'Turner.'

  'Mr Turner, I believe you are expecting my call.'

  'I was contacted in the normal way. You have a job for me?'

  'That is correct. A woman. I want you to follow her and report back.'

  'Not on the phone, sir.' Turner always liked to call his clients 'sir'. It gave them a false sense of superiority. It was the same way he handled the officers in the Regiment. Public schoolboys full of derring-do, but not a lot else. Call them sir and they felt you had given them respect. Then just do what you were going to do anyway, whatever they said.

  'How?'

  'Here's a one-off email address, write it down then destroy the paper, you won't need it again. Tyrion47@gmail.com. Got it?'

  'Yes, but that's from Game of Thrones, isn't it?'

  He was getting sloppy in his old age. Have to tighten up. 'Well spotted, sir. Makes it easy to remember.' Again, the bland flattery he used with the officers. Always praise them for their intelligence, even though they didn't have a functioning brain cell to share amongst them.

  'Ok, I'll send the details. But be careful with this one, she's an ex-police woman.'

  'Thank you for the information, sir. Please head the email 'Office move'.'

  'How do I contact you again?'

  'You don't, sir. From now on, I contact you.'

  'I've just sent the information to that address.'

  'Thank you, sir. I'll be in touch.' He put down the phone. No need to meet this client. No need to meet any client. Meetings were dangerous. Turner prided himself on his ability to keep a low profile, to blend in with the crowd. Nobody noticed the innocent looking man in the everyday clothes until it was too late.

  This was his strength and his calling card. Blandness. If he could only rein in his lack of patience, he would be the perfect operative.

  He would work on it but he wasn't hopeful. Now to open his laptop and access the information, after it had been bounced around the world on his VPN. Can't leave a trace, any trace, virtual or physical. That was the whole point of being a professional; being invisible. Go in, do the job, and get out, without being seen. He was good at his job. One of the best, with a track record second to none.

  His speciality was terminations. He hoped this would eventually lead to a termination. He liked the cleanliness of termination, the finality of it. One minute a person was alive, thoughts and feelings running around in their head, the next they were dead, no thoughts, no feelings, nothing. There was something very satisfying when nobody knew a termination had been performed. An invisible job. No leads. No investigations. No questions asked. Just another unfortunate accidental death.

  He had started to film his terminations a year ago. His own private snuff movies. Sometimes, he watched them again and again, a never-ending loop of death. If it was a hit and run, he switched on the dash cam. For everything else, he used a Go Pro Black Hero 4 attached to his jacket. It gave the best pictures, stunning clarity of his handiwork. Scorcese would be proud of him. Shame the director would never get to see his work.

  The films showed he was good at accidents. Creative in his planning and execution of them. He laughed to himself. 'What an unfortunate choice of words,' he said out loud.

  The beige walls of the Holiday Inn Northampton didn't answer back.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Didsbury, Manchester. November 16, 2015.

  The phone beside the bed rattled its displeasure. She caught it as it fell over the edge. 'Hello,' she answered.

  'Good morning, Jayne. And how are we on this dull and dirty Manchester day?'

  She checked herself. That vague wasted feeling from having drunk too much bad pub wine last night infested her body. She shook her head trying to rid it of the cotton wool that was stuffed in her brain. 'I'm all right, what do you want, Rob?' she croaked.

  'You don't sound well at all, Jayne. And it's not what I want but what I can give you.'

  She sat up in bed. 'That's quick.'

  'They're on overtime at the moment. I slipped it into the night shift, asking for a quick turnaround.'

  'In my day, it would have taken a week.'

  'You don't have my charm, Jayne, never did.’

  'Yeah, yeah, yeah...'

  'You're in luck. Looks like some sort of badge he's wearing. I'll email over what I've got and send the printout round by courier. You still living in the same place?'

  'I haven't moved, Rob. Still here.'

  'Sounds like a heavy night last night?'

  'Actually, a light night, it was the company that was heavy.' Jayne thought about last evening in the pub. Another argument. This time, because she was late. She
reached over to the other side of the bed. Cold and empty. He had gone to work without saying goodbye. What was she going to do? She had to do something, it couldn't continue on like this.

  'Three raw eggs in milk. Clears the head like molasses my dad always used to say.'

  'Sounds disgusting.'

  'It is and was. He died of a brain tumour by the way.'

  'Thanks for the recommendation. I'll file it under UITBI.'

  'A new file for us?'

  'Useless Information to be Ignored.'

  'Gotcha. YOMC.'

  'Another file name?'

  'Nah, you owe me chocolate.'

  She put the phone down and jumped out of bed, immediately swaying on her feet as a wave of nausea hit her like the back end of a Manchester bus. 'Take it slowly, Jayne.'

  She slipped into her normal working outfit; sweatshirt and training pants, put on some slippers and went downstairs. She caught sight of herself in the hall mirror. Ugh! She raced past without looking again. She needed coffee and quickly.

  Into the kitchen, booting up the Mac and the Nespresso machine at the same time. She selected the dark blue capsule, the book said it was the strongest and slipped it into the hole in the top. Out poured a thick dark espresso that smelt divine. Shame it never tasted as good as it smelt, but never mind, she needed the caffeine at the moment.

  She logged onto Gmail. There was Rob's message. She opened it up and saw a blow up of a round bronze badge against a green fibre background, almost as if it were lying on a carpet rather than against a coat. The badge was obviously already old when the picture was taken, with bits of the bronze already showing a few flecks of green patination. The overall shape was like a sunburst but interspersed were star points. She counted them. Eight points. Was it like a compass?

  In the middle, she could just make out words but the script was strange, not like any typeface she had ever seen before. Cyrillic? Something from Russia. She squinted at the words. A circle with a line over it, followed by RONG. Then a space with a triangle, a T and then another triangle. What was next? She moved her head closer to the screen. The letters CLIA followed by something else but she couldn't make it out.