by Rachel Ennis
‘That’s the plan.’ Claire caught Jess’s eye.
‘Give it away free?’ Viv’s brows arched. ‘Village would love that. Make sure you put something nice on the cover to catch people’s attention.’
‘I’ll put an advert in,’ Tina promised.
‘I will too,’ Jess said.
‘About distribution –’ Claire began.
‘Don’t you worry about that,’ Gill broke in. ‘I’ll talk to Sandra. We’ll have one display by the main till and another on the post office counter.’
‘That would be fantastic. I’m hoping that when people realise what an asset it is, local groups and clubs will want to have reports about their activities included. Jess, would you write an article about researching a family tree? It doesn’t have to be long. A couple of hundred words would be fine.’
Seeing the plea in Claire’s eyes, Jess hadn’t the heart to refuse. ‘OK.’
‘I’ll write something about the quilters,’ Gill offered.
‘That would be great,’ Claire said. ‘Annie, would you do something about the benefits of owning a pet? You know, company, lower blood pressure, a reason to get up, exercise if you have a dog, and meeting people.’
‘Seeing you know so much, how don’t you write it?’ Annie helped herself to a brownie.
Jess held her breath. Being a newcomer, Claire wasn’t yet used to Annie, who liked to test people.
‘Because I’ll be trying to decide the best order and layout, and juggling being Mrs Vicar with ringing local businesses to sweet-talk them into advertising their services, once I’ve worked out what to charge for quarter-, half- and full-page ads. Enjoying the brownie?’
Annie nodded.
‘Write that article and a couple more, and I’ll bring another tray to our next meeting – assuming I’m invited.’ Breath was held.
‘That’s bribery. And you a vicar’s wife too.’
Claire shrugged. ‘Whatever works. Do we have a deal?’
‘You better not forget.’
‘I wouldn’t dare.’
‘You’re done,’ Tina said to Gill, handing her the mirror.
‘Well I never! I wouldn’t have thought of that colour lipstick and eyeshadow but they look lovely. Softer than what I was using.’
‘I’ll write down the makes and colours before I go so you can buy them if you want to.’
‘My turn,’ Viv said, taking Gill’s place.
‘While you’re all here,’ Jess said, ‘DI Clemmow has asked me to find out if anyone remembers talk about someone going missing. Would have been around the wartime. Do any of you recall your parents or grandparents saying anything?’
‘That’s lifetimes ago,’ Gill said. ‘It’s all I can do to remember last month.’
Watching them shake their heads Jess had a thought. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake…’
‘What?’ Viv demanded.
‘Because the police assumed he was local, I did too. But he might not have been.’
‘Won’t that make it even harder to find out who he was?’ Mor asked.
‘Maybe not.’ Annie reached for another brownie. ‘Percy was telling me about the military bases along the top of Beacon Hill. There was an American camp and a British one with POW camps in between.’
‘And one for refugees,’ Gill said. ‘Poles, Ukrainians and Russian Jews. It’s long gone now. There’s just a stone marker in the hedge.’
‘Mother was watching something on telly the other night about life in the war years,’ Tina said. ‘The rationing, and the government telling people to dig up their gardens and grow veg.’
‘Jess, d’you think they refugees and prisoners might have worked on the farms?’ Viv asked.
‘I’ll find out,’ Jess promised.
‘Tell you who you could ask,’ Gill said. ‘Olena Panchyk, lives out along Back Row. She must be in her nineties. I know she don’t go out much. Your neighbour, Elsie, is friends with her daughter.’
‘Thanks, Gill. Anyone want another cup?’
Chapter Eight
Next morning she had switched on her laptop and was writing a To Do list when the phone rang, making her jump. Tom. It was too soon. Besides, if Susan was still there, what was there to talk about? After two more rings she lifted the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Mrs Trevanion? Raymond Jelbert here.’
‘Good morning, Doctor –’
‘Raymond, please. After all, you know more about my ancestors than I do.’
‘Then you must call me Jess.’
‘Right, Jess. How are you getting on with my family tree?’
‘It’s finished. I was about to phone you.’
‘Come to supper tomorrow evening. You can bring it with you. Patrick – Dr Burton, our forensic anthropologist – and his partner are staying for the weekend. They’re keen sailors and are considering moving their boat to Polvellan now prices on the Hamble are beyond ridiculous. You know my wife, Tracey, don’t you?’
‘Yes. I used to crew for her on Saturday afternoons.’ It had been fun. After primary school in the village Tracey had moved to Truro High while Jess went to Falmouth Comprehensive. On Saturdays while racing the course marked out in the estuary they would swap stories of school and boys. Then Tracey fell for Dan Stoneleigh and his racing catamaran. When Tom found out he invited Jess to join him on his dad’s workboat and their friendship had grown into something more.
‘Tracey loved that little Enterprise dinghy. Anyway, DI Clemmow told me she’s asked you to see what you can find out.’
Jess hesitated. She had enjoyed the makeover evening. Though hours of being upbeat and cheerful had cost, it had been worth the effort to see Mor so happy. She had also diverted the conversation away from Tom and herself.
‘How often do you get a chance to question a forensic expert?’
He was right. What would she achieve by staying at home brooding?
‘If you’re worried about shop talk over supper, Tracey’s used to it. Our son is in medical research and our daughter is a nurse. It’s the norm.’
‘In that case, I’d love to come.’
‘Excellent. Would you like one of us to collect you?’
‘No, thanks, I’ll walk up. But I’d appreciate a lift home.’
‘I have to ask, did you find anything interesting in my past?’
‘Would you call a pirate interesting?’
‘Are you serious?’ She could hear the pleasure in his voice. ‘How splendid.’
After several minutes’ uncertainty over what to wear, Jess chose navy linen trousers and a loose top patterned in lilac, pink, and navy. On top of the wine and chocolates in her basket she placed a raspberry pink pashmina and a folder holding additional information about Dr Jelbert’s pirate ancestor. In her other hand she carried the cardboard tube containing his full family chart.
Tracey answered the door. ‘Jess, lovely to see you.’ They exchanged a kiss on the cheek.
‘Hello, Tracey.’ Seeing her hostess’s long skirt and scoop-neck top, Jess relaxed.
‘It’s weird. We live in the same village yet it’s months since I’ve seen you. Thanks so much for coming. I was feeling seriously outnumbered.’
‘Thanks for inviting me. How are you?’
‘I’ve got a dodgy knee. Entirely my own fault for kneeling too long in the garden. Apart from that I’m fine. Oh, that is good of you,’ she looked at the wine, ‘This is a favourite of ours.’
‘I know. I asked Gerry Eustice in the shop.’
‘And chocolates. You know dark chocolate is terribly good for the heart?’
Jess grinned. ‘That’s my excuse too.’
Laughing, Tracey led Jess into a large room that opened into a conservatory where three casually dressed men stood holding glasses, chatting as they looked down over the village to the river. Was Tom’s yard visible from here? Thinking about him hurt, so she concentrated on her surroundings.
Though June was officially summer, recent evenings had
been cool and a fire crackled in the hearth. The furniture was a blend of modern and antique. Turquoise, primrose, and crimson cushions brightened a pale grey sofa. Armchairs upholstered in holly green velvet flanked an ebony chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. A dinner service decorated in cobalt blue and gold gleamed in a walnut corner cabinet. It was a comfortable, welcoming room.
Glancing at another cabinet in an alcove, Jess looked again at the assortment of ancient medical instruments.
‘Makes you glad we’ve moved on, doesn’t it?’ Tracey murmured. ‘Ray, Jess is here.’
He turned, smiling, his ruddy complexion that of a man who spent his leisure hours outdoors.
‘Jess, how nice to see you.’ His grip was warm. In his mid-fifties with greying hair and bushy brows, he was short and stocky. Laughter lines fanned from piercing blue eyes. ‘Let me introduce Patrick Burton, my go-to man for old bones. Patrick, Jess Trevanion.’
Offering her hand, Jess saw a tall, broad-shouldered man with curly brown hair and hazel eyes. ‘Dr Burton.’
‘Patrick, please.’
His long fingers would have suited a concert pianist and his nails were neatly trimmed. But calluses ridged his palms and she saw the faint white lines of old scars. They were a sailor’s hands and reminded her of Tom.
‘This is my partner, Dr Russell Simmons.’
‘Hello, Jess. May I call you Jess?’
‘Please do.’
‘I’m Russ.’ About her height, slim, and wiry, he had black close-cropped hair, brown eyes, and a firm handshake.
‘What will you drink, Jess?’ Tracey asked. ‘There’s whisky, gin, vodka, white wine, or fruit juices. Or,’ she added as Jess hesitated, ‘you could try the elderflower cordial I made last summer.’
‘I’d love to.’ She enjoyed a drink, but presenting her research clearly would need concentration.
‘Do you sail, Jess?’ Patrick asked.
‘I did when I was young. I used to crew for Tracey. I’m getting back into it.’
‘It’s a perfect antidote to the day job,’ Russ declared.
‘He’s a bone man too,’ Raymond Jelbert said. ‘But his work is as much an art as a science.’
‘I rebuild faces from skulls to aid identification.’
‘Are you working on the one found at Halvanna Farm?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m already involved on another case and that one is not considered high-priority.’
Tracey returned with a small glass. ‘Here, Jess. What do you think.’
‘Thanks.’ She sipped, tasting the subtle fragrance as the cordial slid down her throat. ‘Tracey, that’s delicious.’
‘And totally wasted on Ray. Supper’s ready.’
Jess was seated between Patrick and Raymond with Tracey and Russell opposite. During the first course, salmon mousse served with lemon wedges and thin toast triangles, the conversation moved from sailing and the rising costs of marina berths to the discovery of the bones.
‘Ask whatever you want, Jess,’ Tracey said as she collected the plates then wheeled in a laden hostess trolley. ‘Mealtime conversation in this house is certainly different from most people’s. But it’s always interesting.’
Jess smiled. ‘My elder son is a doctor. Dissection and diseases were par for the course as soon as he started taking biology at secondary school.’
‘What’s his speciality?’ Russ asked.
‘A&E. He’s working at the city hospital.’ She hadn’t heard from Rob for nearly a month. ‘You probably get asked this a lot, but are TV shows like CSI and Silent Witness at all like the real thing?’
Patrick laughed. ‘If only. From finding a body to apprehending the killer in sixty minutes? Entertaining, but sheer fantasy.’
‘As is the lightning speed at which test results are available,’ Russ added.
‘It took the CSI and me over twenty-four hours to find all the bones,’ Raymond Jelbert said. ‘Each one had to be photographed in place before being extracted from the muck. The one good thing about well-rotted manure is that it doesn’t smell.’
Rising from his chair he took the platters and dishes his wife handed him and set them in the centre of the table. Tracey passed out clean plates then pushed the hostess trolley back against the wall. ‘Please, help yourselves,’ she urged.
‘Once we got the bones to the mortuary,’ Patrick explained, ‘Ray and I reassembled the skeleton and photographed it.’
A platter of honey-glazed ham, thinly sliced roast beef, and turkey breast was passed round. Then everyone helped themselves to crisp green salad, ratatouille, potato rostis, and a variety of dressings and sauces.
Jess knew the preparation would have taken hours. But by remaining at the table, Tracey made it look effortless. The simple, tasty food and easy company helped her relax.
‘What happens then?’
‘The skeleton is measured to determine sex, height, and state of health,’ Raymond said. ‘Then all the bones are examined for any scratches, nicks, or fractures that might suggest stabbing or gunshot wounds.’
‘DI Clemmow mentioned a head injury?’
Patrick nodded. ‘The skull was fractured just above the temple. It’s the kind of injury that could have been caused by a fall with the side of the head striking a stone. But what is suspicious is that whoever put him in the dung pile removed all his clothes and sprinkled the body with lime.’
‘Why?’ Tracey asked before Jess could.
‘To speed up decay and make the body unrecognisable,’ her husband replied.
‘Then the body was wrapped in a heavy, coarse material, possibly old canvas like that used for sails and tents, and bound with twine,’ Patrick said. ‘We identified both from the shreds of fibre. Tests on the fibres for bloodstains and hairs revealed something else. A solution of lime and red diesel had been poured over the fabric before the body was buried in the manure pile. The lime and fuel oil disguised the smell of decay so scavengers like rats and badgers weren’t attracted. Over the years the acids in the manure dissolved the canvas from outside while the lime and the normal stages of putrefaction dissolved the body’s soft tissue.’
‘Because all the flesh has gone, we have had no way of knowing what the person looked like.’ Patrick smiled at his partner. ‘As we don’t have Russ’s reconstruction expertise our only hope of identifying the remains is through mitochondrial DNA.’
‘I thought you needed hair with a root, or skin cells, to obtain DNA,’ Tracey said.
‘Normally, yes,’ Patrick agreed. ‘But when those aren’t available, mitochondrial DNA can be extracted from ancient bones or teeth. A person’s mother and grandmother have identical mitochondrial DNA. So if our sample can be matched with the DNA profile of a maternal relative we should be able to confirm identity.’
‘But isn’t DNA science relatively new?’ Jess asked. ‘if these bones have been buried for over fifty years, what’s the likelihood of a female relative’s DNA being on file?’
‘Remote,’ Patrick admitted. ‘But it’s all we’ve got. So I’ve sent our findings to DI Clemmow. You never know, the databases she can access might provide a match.’
‘Right, enough shop talk,’ Raymond Jelbert said. ‘I commissioned Jess to research my family tree.’ He turned to her. ‘You did bring it?’
Jess nodded. She started to get up but Tracey waved her down.
‘I’ll get it. I need to top up the coffee pot.’
‘The cardboard tube holds the full chart. There’s a folder as well.’ When they were put in front of her, Jess opened the folder.
‘Don’t bother with recent stuff,’ Raymond Jelbert said.
‘Ray!’ Tracey scolded.
‘Well, I know who my grandparents were. I’d rather Jess started where it gets interesting.’
Jess smiled. ‘Then I’ll begin with your maternal great-grandfather, Charles Edward Collett. He was born in 1874 and married Morvoren Kittow. Their two sons died. It was their daughter, Elizabeth Morvoren, born in 1904, who marr
ied your grandfather, Richard Henry Jelbert.
‘Now, going back a generation, Charles’s father – your great-great-grandfather – was George Henry Collett. He was born in 1826. He married his first wife, Celia, in 1856. They had three children – two girls and a boy – none lived more than five years. Celia died in childbirth in 1869.
‘In 1873 he married Catherine Anne. Their son, Charles Edward, was born in 1874 –’
‘He’s my maternal great-grandfather, mentioned a few moments ago?’
‘That’s right. George was a businessman and a Justice of the Peace. He also owned a privateer, Alice, though he sold the ship after the 1856 Declaration of Paris outlawed privateering. He had shares in mines, a smelting house, and ships that carried tin and copper ore to Wales and brought back coal for mine engines.’
‘Just a minute,’ Tracey said. ‘Where did his money come from? Surely he couldn’t have earned enough to fund all those investments just from one privateer?’
Jess looked up. They were all watching her. ‘You’re right. He couldn’t. Though he might well have done had he been born a century earlier. In fact George’s wealth came from his father, another George. George James Henry Collett –’ she glanced at Raymond Jelbert ‘– your three-times great grandfather on your mother’s side – was born in 1794. In 1806, when he was twelve, his father died. Left with very little money, his mother went to live as companion to an elderly relative. George joined his older brother aboard the brig Swift. Her captain, Joseph Best, was George’s mother’s cousin. He had been a legitimate privateer with Letters of Marque that allowed him to capture French and Spanish ships. Due to the Revolutionary Wars, France and Spain were Britain’s enemies at that time.
‘But because privateers had to declare prizes – these were the captured ships – and booty, which was whatever the ships were carrying – to Admiralty officials at each port they entered, they were taking all the risks while receiving only a fraction of the reward. The ship’s owners and suppliers took the largest share, and the officers got more than the crewmen.
‘On illegal privateers the split was much fairer. Which was why so many sailors went rogue. But illegal privateering was piracy, and if they were caught, pirates were hanged.