Blood-Tied

by Wendy Percival

  ‘And he was definitely trying to find the daughter, Catherine?’

  ‘That’s what he said.’

  For some reason the idea that someone else was asking questions made Esme nervous. Should she read anything into it? Did it have any bearing on Polly’s anxious state of mind? And who was it who was looking? And why?

  Esme decided she needed to find out more about Catherine Monkleigh.

  Albert cleared his throat and Esme realised where she was.

  ‘Sorry, Albert. I was thinking through what you said. I’ll leave you in peace.’

  ‘You’ll make sure you close the door when you go, won’t you?’ he called after her.

  14

  Esme found Catherine M. Monkleigh’s birth listed in the first quarter of the year 1939. That would mean her birth was registered between January and March of that year, which matched Albert’s assumption that she was only a few months old when she left. She noted the reference so that she could make the necessary arrangements to receive a copy of her birth certificate by post. The certificate itself would give her the exact birth date, where Catherine was born and her parents’ details. Whether that would give her another lead, though, remained to be seen. She lived in hope.

  The records office was humming this morning. If the rain had kept them away last time it was having the opposite effect today. There was a musty scent of damp clothes in the reception area as people arrived and shook themselves to dispel the rain from their coats.

  Esme went to find Lucy at the desk. She was giving a brief explanation of the layout of the office to a middle-aged woman with a fraught expression, clutching a notebook and copy of Practical Family History. She declared her bewilderment as to where to start. Esme sympathised. There had seemed to be so much to grasp when she set out on her own family history trail. The terminology was like a foreign language and it had taken her some while to wrap her head round everything, before feeling able to make the first step. It was a slow, if enthralling, learning curve and what you did learn was invariably dependent on which direction your research took you. If you discovered that your great-great-grandfather was convicted for assault, then you became an expert in scouring sources on criminality and the justice system. If one of your ancestors left a will, probate records became familiar territory. And the more you grasped, the more you realised how much more there was to learn. No wonder that for some it became a lifetime’s work.

  Lucy directed the newcomer to her colleague across the room and the woman set off with a look of excited anticipation.

  ‘Did you find it?’ asked Lucy, seeing Esme waiting.

  ‘Yes.’ She tapped her notebook. ‘I’ve got all the details. I’ll order it priority service so I should get it the day after tomorrow. I didn’t find a record of her death, so with luck she’s still with us.’

  ‘I’ve got the maps out again for you,’ said Lucy. ‘What do you have in mind?’

  Esme shrugged. ‘I don’t know till I see it. I hope looking a second time will stir something which I can’t quite grasp at the moment.’

  ‘I tracked down a copy of the sales particulars as well, from when the botanical trust bought the estate. I thought you might like a look.’

  Esme went through to the search room. There was something about this cottage which she’d missed, though she couldn’t think what. After all, it was a cottage on the estate of an employer, which had been bequeathed to an employee. There was nothing inherently wrong in that. Unusual maybe, but dubious?

  The date when it had been legally removed from the estate might give a clue as to why Polly had been left the cottage. If it happened around the time that Daisy was born it might indicate a link with Sir Charles but as she didn’t yet have a specific date for Daisy’s birth, she couldn’t yet confirm that as a possibility.

  Lucy appeared with the maps and the other documents and laid them down on the table.

  ‘Good luck,’ she said with a wink. ‘Let me know how you get on.’

  Esme stared at the yellowing map roll and wondered whether any other properties had been sold off in the past. Or perhaps Keeper’s Cottage hadn’t been left to Polly at all? Maybe that was only rumour and speculation. Maybe Polly had simply bought the cottage at some point. She picked up the sales particulars. Perhaps they would clarify matters.

  She sat down on a nearby chair and read them through, glancing now and again at the estate map in front of her. As far as she could make out with a quick calculation of the number of properties across the immediate area surrounding the house site, the estate was sold intact, apart from that one item, Keeper’s Cottage.

  She checked the date on the sales document advertising the auction. It was more than a year since the sale and the estate had been sold off after Sir Charles’s death. Had anyone wondered about the estate being complete except for one cottage? Probably not. It had been broken up into several lots, though the Trust had eventually bought all of them.

  She wondered how long the estate had been in the family, and whether there was anyone left who had cared that it had been sold off. If the main house hadn’t been occupied since 1942 when it burnt down, maybe there was no emotional link with it any more. Esme thought of Albert who had been at Markham Hall at the start of his career and moved down south later. He implied that many staff members came from what he might have termed ‘the old place’. Many might have returned to Shropshire on retirement, just as he had. Strong emotional ties with the house and estate might have continued for various reasons, such as the same family being on the staff for several generations.

  Esme’s mind drifted on to Catherine and the fact that someone was looking for her. Was that because she was a beneficiary to Sir Charles’s estate and was being sought by his solicitor? It was a bit late in the day, though. Unless they had been looking all this time since his death and so far had drawn a blank.

  Esme considered. Was there someone who would have been directly affected by the reappearance of Catherine, after a considerable period of time? Someone who hadn’t even been aware of her existence? A new wife, perhaps? Esme discounted that. Surely Albert would have mentioned it if Sir Charles had remarried. But then again, why should he? Esme had been intrigued by the story of his absconding wife and daughter. She hadn’t asked about Sir Charles and what happened to him after his wife and daughter had left. If there was a divorce, or Catherine’s mother had died, he would have been free to marry. Perhaps the new lady of the house was unaware that he’d had a daughter, though that seemed unlikely. There it was in Who’s Who for one thing, so it would be public knowledge.

  Though it might be that she had been aware of Catherine’s existence but then was suddenly confronted with her in the flesh. Or perhaps Sir Charles was. His long-lost daughter arrives home but he decides to keep it from his new wife. Albert had said that to his knowledge Catherine had never again made contact with the family but that may not have been the case. The fact that Albert didn’t know didn’t mean it hadn’t happened.

  Esme sighed. This wasn’t getting her anywhere because she as yet had no facts to back anything up. She stood up and went over to the desk. Lucy’s colleague said she was busy elsewhere sorting through documents. Esme hoped they were of the Monkleigh estate. She needed something else to go on in order to make progress.

  She left a note for Lucy asking if she knew when exactly Sir Charles had died and whether there had been an obituary in the local press. Something there might give them a lead. She left it at the desk and went to her locker to find her coat.

  She’d already spent far too much time in the records office that morning and she had other pressing obligations to attend to, though one less than she might have had. The Shropton Canal client had dispensed with her services when she was only half-way through the brief. He hadn’t given any reason.

  As she dragged her bag out of the locker she heard the jangle of the keys to Keeper’s Cottage. She�
��d promised to drop them off at Polly’s solicitors now that she’d completed the packing. She’d been walking round with them for days. She’d better hand them in before they came chasing her.

  She pulled up her hood and hurried out of the building and up the street, aware that something was brewing in her head about Catherine and whether or not she’d ever re-established contact with her father before he died. It would come to her eventually. She just needed to give it the time.

  *

  Esme hurried along the street debating whether to brave the queue in the post office first or call at the solicitor’s to drop off the keys. The rain hadn’t eased and the pavements were doubly hazardous as people struggled along with reduced vision from hoods and umbrellas.

  At one point Esme thought she spied Gemma through the window of Waterstones but when she pushed open the door she realised it wasn’t Gemma after all. She was disappointed not to have the opportunity to sort things out between them. Gemma had left a message on Esme’s answering machine to ask whether Esme had sent some flowers to Elizabeth. The question seemed contrived and Esme wondered whether it was Gemma’s attempt to make amends between them. But when Esme returned the call Gemma had not been at home and Esme could only leave her own message, confirming that she hadn’t sent flowers. Why would she, when Elizabeth wasn’t in a state to appreciate them? She asked Gemma to ring again sometime soon.

  A quick glance at the snake of people in the post office indicated a long wait, so Esme headed for Smith, Evans & Dart, Solicitors, instead.

  There was a young mother with two noisy children in reception. The mother was trying to conduct a conversation with the receptionist above the din of the older child, a boy of about three, entertaining his younger sister by pretending to be a particularly loud vehicle driving round and round her pushchair. She was giggling with uncontained delight. The receptionist was battling away bravely with the conversation, throwing the occasional agitated glance in the direction of the children. At least they weren’t whingeing, thought Esme, even if it wasn’t the right place and time for such a boisterous game. The mother was evidently oblivious to the noise, having perfected the ability to blot it out. By the time the exchange was complete the receptionist looked exhausted.

  The party left and calm descended. Esme approached the desk and held out the keys, explaining what they were.

  ‘Ah, yes. It’s Mrs Quentin, isn’t it?’ Esme confirmed that it was and moved to leave.

  ‘Could you hang on one moment? I’ll just let Mr Evans know.’ The receptionist picked up the telephone.

  Esme turned and gazed out into the street. The rain was coming down more heavily, now. People on the pavement were moving more quickly, flashing past the glazed door, heads down, shoulders hunched.

  The receptionist coughed and Esme turned back to her.

  ‘Mr Evans would like a quick word, if you have a moment?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Esme couldn’t imagine why he would want to see her but she was happy to keep out of the wet for a while longer.

  The receptionist gestured over to a waiting area to her left. ‘If you’d like to take a seat.’

  Esme sat down and appraised the décor. The room was long and narrow with the receptionist’s desk tucked into one corner, immediately opposite the entrance. The seating area for waiting clients ran along one wall, facing away from the entrance. It felt like a railway station platform which had been recently carpeted, and the track filled in. Esme imagined the 10.54 to Crewe bursting through the wall, sweeping away everything in its path.

  After a few minutes a young woman in a smart black suit emerged from a door at the end of the room and led Esme out of the reception area, through a side door and up a staircase to the first floor. She showed her into a large room with a huge bay window looking on to the street below.

  A tall, grey-haired man behind a large desk stood up and held out his hand.

  ‘Mrs Quentin, thank you for waiting. My name is Evans.’

  ‘Hello, pleased to meet you.’ She shook his hand and returned his smile.

  He indicated a chair and they both sat down. He was an elderly man, clearly near retirement age, if he hadn’t already passed it. But he seemed bright and cheerful and evidently not one to lay down his pen just because the calendar signified a particular birth-date.

  ‘I am greatly indebted to you for acting in place of your sister while she’s in hospital.’

  Esme shook her head. ‘Not at all. Elizabeth had all but finished, so there wasn’t much left to do.’

  He leant his elbows on the desk and brought his fingertips together. He looked at Esme over the top of them. ‘I was very perturbed to hear about your sister’s unfortunate predicament.’

  ‘Thank you. Hopefully things will improve soon.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Indeed. Indeed.’

  He seemed to be mulling something over in his mind.

  ‘I’ve left the keys with your receptionist,’ said Esme, hoping it would prompt him to explain his wishing to see her.

  ‘Ah, yes. I was going to ask you about that.’ He sat back in his chair.

  Esme was puzzled. ‘I understood you needed them to arrange for the house clearance.’

  ‘Yes, you are quite right. That was the original plan.’

  ‘Has something changed?’

  ‘I’m in a difficult position here, Mrs Quentin, and as you are Mrs Roberts’s representative, so to speak, I feel I ought to ask your advice.’

  Esme was taken aback. Wasn’t it usually the other way around?

  ‘Of course, if I can –’

  ‘I really don’t know what to make of it,’ began Mr Evans, palms pressed together as if in prayer. For a moment he looked almost distressed.

  He searched through a pile of papers on his desk. ‘A letter arrived this morning from Mrs Roberts. Ah, here it is.’ He studied it carefully and then looked at Esme over the top of his glasses. ‘She wishes to dispense with my services, she says.’ He laid down the letter and sat back in his chair. ‘Well, of course she has that right. I was engaged by her daughter. She may wish to make her own arrangements.’

  Esme struggled to grasp the implications of what he was saying. ‘Yes, I suppose…’

  Mr Evans laid his hands on the desk. ‘Perhaps I should explain. Miss Roberts was most concerned that the necessary procedures were in place to ensure that Mrs Roberts was adequately provided for after Miss Roberts’s death. The cottage would be sold and the proceeds secured to ensure her long-term care. I was led to understand that all this had been agreed between them. Your sister certainly never gave me the impression that Mrs Roberts would have any reason to dispute the arrangements.’

  ‘And the letter clearly suggests otherwise.’

  ‘And it’s the nature of her request which troubles me,’ continued Mr Evans. ‘Ordinarily I would have expected to pass over the deeds of the cottage to the buyer’s solicitor after the sale, or if a mortgage is involved to the relevant building society or bank, but Mrs Roberts is quite adamant that, not only has she no need of legal representation, but I am to forward the deeds directly to her as she has secured a buyer and will conduct the transaction herself.’

  ‘Herself?’ Esme was alarmed. Immediately she thought of the old lady’s anxious behaviour. The two things must be linked. It was too much of a coincidence. The need to uncover exactly what was causing Mrs Roberts’s anxiety was becoming ever more pressing.

  Mr Evans laid one hand over the other across the letter on his desk. ‘I am most concerned, Mrs Quentin. Her daughter was most insistent that Mrs Roberts’s affairs should be dealt with as a matter of urgency following her death. I did my best to adhere to her request, so far as the procedure allows, you understand. Perhaps Mrs Roberts felt I hadn’t moved hastily enough.’

  Esme inclined her head. ‘Did Miss Roberts say why there was such
a need for urgency?’

  ‘Not directly. People these days always want everything done yesterday, as is the way of the world, but Miss Roberts didn’t strike me as that type of person.’

  ‘You said, she didn’t say directly,’ noted Esme. ‘Did she imply something, though?’

  ‘It was a feeling I had. There was a nervousness about her manner which was quite disconcerting. I put it down to her illness at first. She explained that, of course. I could fully understand things needed to be put in place urgently because she had little time left, but as to afterwards it made no sense.’

  ‘Would you like me to speak to Mrs Roberts?’ Esme wondered whether she should involve Christine Rowcliffe but decided against it. If Mr Evans had felt that course of action to be appropriate he would have already followed it himself.

  ‘I will write, of course,’ Mr Evans was saying. ‘But if you could impress upon her that there is no reason why I can’t do the conveyance for the cottage in respect of the buyer she says she has. Of course the current buyers will be disappointed, but contracts hadn’t been exchanged so…’

  ‘You already have a buyer?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Miss Roberts had been in negotiation with the History & Heritage Association. The cottage is quite a gem, I believe. From a historical perspective, I mean. The trust saves and renovates old properties of interest, apparently, and rents them out to raise money for their work.’

  ‘Yes, so I understand,’ murmured Esme. Why was Mrs Roberts so determined to sell to someone else when a buyer was all lined up? Mr Evans had been led to believe that everything had been agreed between them. So why question it now? What had changed?

  ‘I assume she also intends to sell the other land to this buyer,’ added Mr Evans.

  ‘Other land?’

  ‘The wood. The Woodland Trust was to take that on.’ Mr Evans gave a casual shrug of the shoulders. ‘Perhaps Mrs Roberts and her daughter hadn’t seen eye to eye on the potential purchasers. Maybe it’s as simple as that.’