The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  And then one other thought hit her.

  Paul's bloody dinner with his boss. She looked at her watch. 12.30.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Didsbury, Manchester. November 19, 2015.

  It was 8.30 in the evening before she reached home. She had missed her plane and had only managed to get on the 5 pm flight by a mixture of charm and pleading. Of course, it had taken off late and then spent ages circling over Manchester Airport deciding whether to land or not. The captain's voice, with its mellow Irish burr, so relaxing on her flight to Dublin, now became as irritating as a toothache.

  'You may have noticed that we are circling the lovely city of Manchester. According to the air traffic control, we are number eight in the waiting list to land. So, I'm afraid we'll be a wee bit late arriving. With a bit of luck and Irish charm we'll have you on the ground in twenty minutes.'

  She had rung Paul as soon as she exited the plane. The call went straight to his voicemail. An infuriatingly calm voice asking her to leave a message after the beep.

  Of course, it was rush hour in Manchester when she landed, getting a cab had taken years. She had finally rushed back to their house, opened the door and found it was eerily quiet.

  Paul had left a short note on the table top in the kitchen.

  'I've taken them out for dinner at the Eagle.'

  That was all. No threats. No written disappointments. Nothing else, not even a signature.

  She went to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of wine and the rest of the chocolate. Not a great trip. Her laptop had been stolen, she had been kidnapped by the IRA, she was sure she was being followed and now, to add icing to the rest of the shit cake, she had managed to piss off her husband. Way to go, Jayne.

  She poured herself a glass of wine and took a large chunk of chocolate and popped it in her mouth. This time though, she didn't enjoy the taste. Everything was going wrong. She had left the police force because she couldn't handle the stress of being responsible for someone's life. Dave Gilmour had died because she didn't react quickly enough.

  And now, she was responsible for another person, John Hughes. He had less than two months left to live, and she had to find out the answers for him in the next few days.

  She put her head in her hands. Why did people rely on her so much? Why couldn't she just have an easy life? Stay at home, be the dutiful wife, cook a bloody dinner for Paul and his obnoxious boss, a Stepford Wives smile pasted across her face.

  She could ring Richard Hughes now and tell him she was giving up the case. He would understand, after all, he asked her not to pursue it in the first place. The old man wouldn't be happy but she couldn't help that. There were plenty of other professional genealogists he could ask. People who could do the job just as well as her.

  She picked up her mobile and scrolled to the number. As she did so, the cat rubbed its body against her legs, mewing quietly. She reached down to stroke its soft black fur. The message board on the wall caught her eye. A square piece of paper was pinned next to an electricity bill.

  LEAVE IT ALONE stared back at her, its black block capitals stark against the white paper, shouting out its message.

  How dare some bastard throw a brick through her window? How dare he threaten her? Nobody was going to frighten her. Not the thugs of Moss Side or Salford, and certainly not some bastard who thought he could get her off a case.

  She hadn't been scared as a police detective and she wasn't going to be scared now.

  She took a large mouthful of wine. She had made progress in this case, she hadn't left it alone. She wasn't going to give up now despite everything. No bastard was going to scare her off.

  She thought about ringing Richard to find out the condition of John Hughes, but she couldn't face any more questions that evening.

  She grabbed her wine and stomped upstairs to the study, clicked on the desktop computer that perched on a table. It was an old PC and nobody in the house used it anymore, but Paul kept it up-to-date. 'Just in case,' he always said.

  She accessed her notes on the case in the Cloud, copying them into a new file on the desktop. She used her mobile to send the pictures she had taken of Miss Fitzgerald's photos and of her father's memoirs to her email account.

  Good, up-to-date now. Leave it alone? Fat fucking chance. What next? Time to find out more about John Clavell.

  She logged on to the archives of The Times newspaper. What was the date of his killing? She checked her notes, June 8, 1921.

  She typed in the date. A page came up. She scanned it and typed the name Clavell in the search section. There it was. An article on page three.

  BRITISH OFFICER KIDNAPPED BY IRISH IRREGULARS

  She read the article. Declan Fitzgerald's memoirs contained far more detail.

  She opened the next link.

  BRITISH OFFICER'S BODY FOUND

  Shot dead. Family in mourning.

  Captain John Clavell to be returned to Bradford.

  The body of the slain British Officer, Captain John Clavell, was transported yesterday to his home town of Bradford. The coffin was escorted by a detachment of his regiment, the Royal Kent Fusiliers. Captain Clavell’s body was discovered in the mountains south of Dublin last Tuesday. He had been kidnapped the week before whilst on a hunting expedition with Irish friends.

  The body will be interred with full military honours at Heaton Methodist Church in Bradford on June 18th.

  The murder of Captain Clavell occurred three days before the truce was signed between the British government and the so-called Irish Sinn Fein. At one point, it was believed that the murder would affect the negotiations between the Crown forces and the representatives of Sinn Fein but an agreement was finally reached.

  All wreaths and notices of condolence should be sent to the family at the Old Dene, Queensbury, Bradford, Yorkshire.

  There it was again, the same family name as the mother of John Hughes. At least now she had an address to work with.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Manchester, Didsbury. November 20, 2015.

  The following morning all was not well in the house. Paul had come back late and, from the noise he made banging upstairs and falling over in the bathroom, very drunk. He had stayed in the spare bedroom. She thought about going to see him and apologising but it all seemed too little and too late. Better to let him sleep it off, they would talk in the morning.

  But they hadn't, of course. She woke up early and went down for her coffee and breakfast, feeding the cat before herself. The poor thing just mewed contentedly as it devoured its pork and rabbit pate.

  He came down later, apparently still not fully recovered.

  'Good morning,' she said as he came through the door.

  A cold, unshaven stare. No response.

  She went back to drinking her coffee. He banged around in the cupboard apparently looking for a mug but actually venting his anger on a piece of inanimate furniture.

  She opened her mouth to say the words of apology. She knew the dinner was important to him and she should have been back for it. She thought about telling him the truth about what had happened in Dublin, but the words just wouldn't come out. It was like when she was a copper. The last thing she wanted to do when she went home was talk about work. What do you say over the cornflakes? I saw a dead body yesterday. A pregnant woman knocked over by a car, her brains spilling out on the roadway. Or I nabbed a 12-year-old this morning for thieving. Wanted money for his dealer. Or worse. Nothing happened today. I helped nobody, I did nothing except fill in time sheets and logs and all the time-consuming bureaucracy that comes with being Police. So she had made a conscious decision never to talk about work except with colleagues. Only they knew what it was like.

  But this morning she knew she had to make an effort. 'Look, I'm sorry about last night. I screwed up, ok.'

  Silence. He just sat there drinking his coffee and reading his paper.

  'Are we going to talk about it, or are you going to p
lay silly buggers?'

  Silence.

  Silly buggers it was.

  She was too busy and too stressed to deal with him and his silences right now. 'When you want to talk about it, let me know. In the meantime, I'm going to see my dad.'

  She went upstairs to take a shower and get ready. He didn't come and see her. As she was putting on her coat to go out, he finally spoke.

  'He offered me a promotion last night. European Sales Manager, based in Brussels. I'm flying there today to check it out.'

  'Sounds good, it seems like he's not such a fool after all.' She hoped the backhanded compliment would make him smile.

  She was wrong.

  'If I take it, we'll have to move to Brussels for three years. It's based there, close to the European Commission.'

  'What about my father? What about my job?'

  He just looked at her and shrugged his shoulders.

  'Is that all you have to say?'

  He turned back to his newspaper. She stood there in her coat and her bare feet. She could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Cheap bastard thing from Ikea. She wanted to throw it across the room. But she didn't. All she noticed was the headline on the paper. 'Celebrity Big Brother. New Scandal.'

  She pointed to the door. 'I'm going to see my father. We'll talk about it when I get back.'

  'I won't be here. I'll be in Brussels.'

  'Well, we'll talk about it when you get back.' She packed up her files and her notes in her bag. 'I'll see you later.'

  There was no answer from him.

  * * *

  'How's the weather today? Mrs Trainor?' Jayne had psyched herself up to be chirpy before stepping into her father's home. Funny, how she thought about it that way. His home with a small 'h' rather than the Home, with all the institutional baggage that the word brought with it. It was his home, probably more so than any other home they had lived in.

  'It's good, Mrs Sinclair. He's missed you the last couple of days. Had a bit of a relapse on Wednesday but came out of it again. He'll be happy to see you. He's in his usual place in the annexe.'

  'Thanks.' She walked through the fire doors and down the corridor. He was sitting facing the garden, staring out through the large picture windows. She wondered what he did all day. Unlike the others, he didn't seem to spend time watching TV or playing cards. He must just read and stare out of the window, keeping himself to himself.

  'Hello, Dad.'

  He continued to stare out of the window.

  'Hello, Dad,' she said a little louder.

  Slowly, he turned his eyes towards her. Vacant eyes, seeing but not seeing. 'Who are you?' A blank look on his face. 'I don't know you.'

  She sat down next to him, taking his hand. 'It's me, Dad, Jayne.'

  'I'm not your dad. I'm...' The voice trailed off as he searched for who he was.

  She gripped the hand tighter. 'Dad, it's Jayne, I've come to see you.'

  'Who's Jayne? I don't know no Jayne.' Then a smile spread slowly across his face.

  She looked at him and saw the glint in his eyes once more. She slapped his hand. 'Dad, don't mess around. It's not funny.' A tear escaped from her right eye and ran down her cheek.

  'Had you going, though, didn't I?'

  She wiped the tear away. 'Promise me you won't do that again, Dad. Promise me.' She wiped her face again.

  'We are fragile this morning. Lost our sense of humour, have we?' She stared at him. 'Ok, Ok, I promise. No more jokes about Mr Jones.'

  Mr Jones was what they called his disease. The Alzheimer's that was creeping up on him, slowly infesting his mind. Mr Jones was another person who had no memory and no past. He was a faceless person, the man in a crowd. When he forgot something, he was having a Mr Jones moment. When a day passed and he couldn't remember what he had done, it was a Mr Jones day. When the frustration got the better of him and he felt the rage coming on, it was the time of Mr Jones.

  'Please, Dad. You don't know how much it hurts.'

  He touched her hand. 'I promise.' He looked down at her bag, changing the subject. 'How's the case? Have you found the old man's father?'

  'Not yet, but I'm getting close.' She took him through the events in Dublin, omitting the theft of her Mac and her kidnapping. He couldn't understand and he couldn't help anyway. She showed him the printout from the Fitzgerald memoirs and The Times article.

  He pinched his bottom lip with his index finger and thumb. 'Looks like you have to go to Yorkshire, lass. But have a care when you're there. Tight as ducks' arses are Yorkshire people.'

  'There speaks a true Lancastrian.'

  'Aye, and proud of it. But that's where you'll find the truth. This Michael Dowling man and the woman are linked somehow. And from the condition of your client, you better go soon. He's worse than me.'

  She remembered that she had forgotten to call Richard Hughes. She would do it when she left the home. 'I'll go today, Dad. I've only got three days before I have to report back to him.'

  'If he lasts that long. And talking about deadbeats, how's Paul?'

  She didn't answer. 'I'd better be off, Dad. The bright lights of Yorkshire beckon.'

  'Aye, the unbearable lightness of being in Halifax. Wasn't that a TV programme?'

  'Should be if it wasn't.' She picked up his hand, noticing how paper-thin the skin was, translucent like the finest sheer silk. 'It's not good with Paul, Dad. He wants to move to Brussels. A new promotion.'

  Her father was silent for a long while. 'You do what you think is right, Jayne. I've always told you. Do what's right.'

  'I got sick of hearing it when I was at school. Like a broken record, you were.'

  'It's as true then as it is now.'

  'But what's right isn't what's easy.'

  'Never was, lass. Never was. And if it were, it wouldn't be right, would it? Stands to reason. So the right thing to do now is...?'

  'Go to Yorkshire.'

  'That's my girl. You can work out what you're doing when he gets back. Meanwhile, do what's right now.'

  She leant forward and wrapped her arms around his thin body.

  'Don't go all soppy on me now, girl, not after 42 years, you don't.'

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Bradford, West Riding of Yorkshire. June 10, 1923.

  Michael stood in front of the house. Above the door, the numbers 1641 were carved in stone. Funny, he thought, this house was built when England was on the eve of a Civil War just as his home was in the middle of one now. Devalera and the anti-treaty side had announced a ceasefire in May, but he didn't know if it would last. He didn't care about it anyway. Not anymore. He missed Fitz and the friendship they once had. But Fitz was lost to the cause, lost to Ireland, rotting in some jail in Athlone, put there not by the British but by his former comrades.

  The same men who had executed so many of their former comrades. Stood them against a wall and shot them dead for rebelling against the Free State. Civil Wars were definitely not civil, pitting brother against brother, Irishman against Irishman. This one was following the lead of all the others, becoming more brutal, more vicious on both sides as time went on. Had history taught them nothing? Apparently not. It had devoured Ireland's leader, Michael Collins, shot dead in some ambush on a quiet country road in the county of his birth, Cork.

  He would have no part of them or their killing. And no State could call itself 'free' when it was killing its citizens.

  Wars devour their young.

  Calm yourself, Michael. Now is not the time to become agitated. Ireland and her troubles are behind you now. They are in the past, you have something else you need to worry about now.

  He took three deep breaths and walked up the driveway.

  It had taken him a long time to get here. After the announcement of the truce with the Brits in 1921, he had fallen apart. The knowledge that if they had waited three days, John Clavell would still be alive. If they had requested new orders from HQ. If he had been moved to another location. If they had decided to do it later in the
week, he would still be alive and still breathing.

  Instead, he lay in some grave in Bradford, a bullet hole in the back of his head.

  Too many ifs clouding Michael's mind at that time. Fitz had urged him to pull himself together, to continue fighting for the cause. But, for Michael, that part of him was dead now. As dead as John Clavell. He had drowned all his belief in a United Ireland in the bottom of a whiskey bottle. For a year he had drunk himself stupid, ending up in doss houses or sprawled out in the gutter, his body aching from the guilt, while Ireland had wrenched itself apart through recrimination and squabbling.

  He knew now that he had to go through all that. He had to get to the very bottom before he could rise again.

  It had happened one night. He had been drinking in some bar in Dublin Quays. He couldn't remember how long but it seemed like an age and a day. He had staggered out of there, not knowing where he was going or where he came from, the whisky propping him up as he swayed from side to side on the pavement.

  He had walked, or staggered, for hours. It was still dark when he stopped in front of a derelict house. The bricks and the charred wood and the dirty wallpaper had been cleared away, but he recognised it straight away. The blackened walls where the flames had eaten the poor life of the family that lived there were still vivid on the walls. And off to one side, a small cairn of bricks marked where the child had lain, her dead hand clutching the silk ribbon.

  He stood there for hours. Gradually, the sun broke through the grey shield of a Dublin day and still he stood there. People walked around him. A policeman tried to move him on. But still he stood there, staring at the cairn of stones.