‘No dear, I’m Juliet Brooks-Hunter, no relation.’
James bit back a chuckle. The woman stretched out her hand.
‘Mildred Clatterthorpe, OBE.’
She offered a firm hand shake and invited them to follow her. She took them on a route march across the main hall, shouting information as she went.
‘Museum’s been here for five years. We’re moving to a more permanent site next year. Medals on the right; photographs on the left; history on the far right; current status of the regiment on the far left. You can’t get lost, signs everywhere and a map here at the bottom of the stairs.’ She turned. ‘Ground floor is public, first floor reference. Your enquiry this morning suggests you’ll need the reference.’
She began marching up the stairs but stopped when Juliet asked, ‘May we view downstairs first? Lord Harrington is keen to see the exhibit about the Pals.’
She marched back down and led them to the history room. She stood to attention and pointed to the far end. ‘Pals are in the corner. When you’re ready for the reference section, you’ll find me in the curator’s office.’
‘Most kind. Are you a volunteer?’
‘No, Lord Harrington, it’s a paid role. Never get rich on it. My family are Sussex Regiment. Trace them back to when the regiment was formed.’
‘You had siblings in the Great War?’
‘Of course. Army. Fought at Ypres.’
‘Did they manage to get home?’
‘Two brothers did, one cousin dead.’ She clicked her heels. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
As she retreated to the main reception, Juliet turned to him. ‘Should have sent her out to fight on the Somme; she’d have terrified the enemy into submission.’
They chuckled and wandered over to the Pals exhibition. It took up quite a large area and included the history of how and why they were formed, where they fought and the villages they signed up from. Alongside were photographs donated by family members as well as official army portraits depicting young men with hope in their eyes. Against the walls were glass cabinets containing handwritten letters, diary entries and medals.
They made for what attracted them. For James it was the photographs. Juliet, meanwhile, studied the letters, personal items and diary entries.
James scanned the walls and soon found a selection of photographs relating to the Cavendish Pals. There were several sepia portraits with name tags pinned to the bottom of each photograph. He recognised many of the names local to Cavendish. A splendid picture of Paul’s dad gazing beyond the camera mesmerised him: a handsome man with deep-set eyes and a pencil-thin moustache. Next to this was a similar picture of his gardener’s brother, Rider. James imagined them lining up as if waiting for their school photograph, each instructed to sit still and gaze beyond the camera. At the end of the line was a picture of Adam’s grand-dad, Archibald, in that same pose. He was a good ten years older than the rest of the Pals. He also featured in a group photograph with the football team and, further along, in a rather grim pose in the trenches. James leaned in to study his expression. Archibald looked a determined man as he polished his gun; a cigarette between his lips and an assuredness about him. James was reluctant to judge a man by a photograph but this didn’t look like someone scared of fighting. A true soldier kept his equipment in working order. He appeared to be a strapping man, concentrating on the job ahead, which linked in with the letters he’d read. Juliet interrupted him.
‘My dear, this is interesting.’
She had now moved on to the photographs further along from James. He joined her to look at a rectangular black and white image. He moved closer. Six men were in the photograph. He recognised Adam’s grand-father straight away. Three other privates stood alongside who weren’t familiar. The other two were officers, one of whom was William Carlton.
‘Good Lord.’ He stared at Juliet. ‘He did know the Pals.’
‘Never mind that; look at the caption.’
He returned his attention to the photograph and read the names out loud. ‘Private Archibald Franks, Private Arthur Strong, Private Andrew Brown, Private Peter Shotover, Captain William Carlton, Major…_’ His jaw dropped. ‘Major Niven Short.’
Juliet sighed and nudged him. ‘You really are infuriating, James. Did you interrupt your teachers when you were a boy? Read to the end.’
He grinned and returned his attention to the typed label. ‘Special unit formed to take out a strategic enemy position.’ He stepped back and frowned. ‘D’you think there’s something about that mission here?’
‘We’ll have to ask Matron. She’ll be in her quarters.’
‘Before we do, did you see anything in these diaries of any interest?’
Juliet confirmed that she hadn’t. ‘Mainly love letters, requests for chocolate and tobacco and complaints about how muddy the terrain is.’ She screwed up her nose. ‘Lots of rats and trench foot.’
They discussed how awful it must have been as they made their way to Miss Clatterthorpe’s office which was, effectively, a converted cupboard underneath the stairs. James repressed a chuckle. Miss C was a corpulent individual and seemed to fill the available space. He wondered why she didn’t situate herself somewhere a little more comfortable. She edged her way out of the area and smoothed her skirt down.
‘Ah; ready for the reference section?’ The wooden steps echoed as they followed her up.
‘I say, Miss Clatterthorpe, do you have any information up here about a special assignment? It was led by a Captain William Carlton and Major Niven Short.’
‘If they’re Sussex, they should be here.’
They reached the landing and she strode straight ahead into a large room with a huge varnished table at its centre. Surrounding this were floor to ceiling shelves full of books and box files.
‘Do you know what the special assignment was?’
‘Taking out a strategic enemy post.’
‘That doesn’t narrow it down, Lord Harrington. Captain’s name?’
‘Carlton. William Carlton.’
Juliet answered. ‘He received a DSO. I wonder if he received it for this?’
Miss Clatterthorpe positively beamed. ‘Much more helpful.’
She headed straight to the far end of the room and scanned the box files. James and Juliet strolled over. He could see that the files covered years and letters of the alphabet. Miss Clatterthorpe heaved out one marked ‘C’. She summoned them over to the table and slid the box toward them.
‘These are documents relating to soldiers whose names began with the initial C who received medals and commendations. Whatever your chap did to earn that will be in here.’ A telephone rang downstairs. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’ She turned on her heels and marched out.
James held a chair out for Juliet and sat down next to her. He lifted the papers out of the file and placed them on the table. Many of the documents were so thin he could almost see through them. Juliet pulled her chair closer.
‘Let’s halve it. You look at one pile; I’ll look at the other.’
They began examining the papers. James handled each document with great care; partly out of respect and partly because some of them looked as if they might fall apart. Some ten minutes went by before Juliet announced that she’d found something. She placed a document between them, showing a regimental emblem at the top. James read it through.
This was a letter of commendation to a higher authority, recommending that Captain William Carlton be awarded the DSO for his part in the taking of an enemy post. He’d led a small band of men across No Man’s Land and took out the stronghold, with only one casualty from his unit. He looked at Juliet. ‘DSO is one down from the Victoria Cross.’
‘Normally only awarded to Majors but they make exceptions.’
‘But how could he have received such an honour and be a coward? Perhaps our killer is mistaken.’ He returned his attention to the document. It continued to detail how the stronghold was taken and what Carlton’s involvement had been. The more he
read, the more he felt that the handwriting was familiar. He couldn’t place it but the sweeping loops of specific letters were distinct and he felt sure he’d seen this recently. He caught his breath when he saw who had signed it.
‘Major N. Short.’ James examined the document. ‘This handwriting is annoying me. I’ve seen it somewhere.’
‘Diaries?’
‘No. The diaries I’ve read are from the Pals; farmhands and labourers. This is the writing of an educated man. Look at the way his writing flows: it’s almost an art form.’
Juliet pushed him to delve deeper and suggested places where he might have seen it. ‘Something in the library perhaps.’
He shook his head and read through the document again. Realisation dawned on him. He slid round in his seat to face Juliet. ‘The registration book at Harrington’s. That’s where I’ve seen it. I’m sure that’s Carlton’s handwriting.’ He held the document up. ‘There’s only one way he could have received this award and that’s by being in cahoots with his senior officer.’
‘Why don’t you telephone Paul and see if he can describe Carlton’s handwriting to you.’
A few moments later, James was in the foyer dialling Harrington’s while clutching the commendation. To his relief, Paul answered immediately.
‘Harrington’s, how may I be of assistance?’
‘Paul, Lord Harrington here.’
‘Yes, your Lordship.’
‘Do you have the registration book to hand?’
‘It’s here on the desk.’
‘Can you go to the page where Major Carlton signed in? I’d like you describe the handwriting to me.’
‘Certainly.’
James visualised his maître d’ wearing a bemused expression. He no doubt knew that his employer was sleuthing so would take it all in his stride. He could hear Paul flicking through the pages.
‘Right. I have the page here. Major William Carlton.’
‘I’m loath to prompt so please simply describe the writing to me as best you can.’
Paul did so. He provided a clear image of the writing: how specific letters sloped to the left; the loops at the base of the ‘F’ and the artistic, swirling ‘A’. He emphasised where more pressure had been placed on the paper and where the writing tailed off. James felt elated with each piece of information and by the end was convinced that the letter of commendation was written specifically by Major William Carlton. He thanked Paul and asked if there was any news on the Major’s whereabouts.
‘None sir. The Reverend Merryweather telephoned just two minutes ago to see if you were here. I believe he has something he wishes to share with you.’
‘Right-ho. I’ll speak to him later.’
He rang off as Juliet descended the stairs. She grinned.
‘You have a glint in your eye, James. I presume your telephone call was a success.’
‘You presume correctly, Juliet.’ He turned to thank Miss Clatterthorpe for her help. ‘I say, how far is the convalescent home from here?’
‘Turn right at the end of the drive - continue for four miles. It’s on the right-hand side. Can’t miss it.’
He took Juliet’s arm and escorted her to the car. ‘This convalescent home keeps cropping up. Why don’t we take a visit and see what we can find out.’
‘Don’t you want to call in to see this Niven Short? Pound to a penny our missing Major is cooped up there hiding. Snivelling individual.’
James smirked. Compared to the heroics that Juliet and Delphine Brooks-Hunter had performed during hostilities, he supposed that Major Carlton would strike her as she had described. Instinct told him to visit the home first and, as it was nearby, they might as well call in.
‘You never know,’ he said as he turned onto the main road, ‘we may glean a little more information. At the moment, all we have are ideas and assumptions – nothing tangible.’
Juliet settled back and teased her hair. ‘Then don’t spare the horses, James. Let’s see what this pretty little car will do on the straight.’
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
The Royal Sussex convalescent home stood in its own grounds. The brickwork was painted a brilliant white which gave it the appearance of having risen up from the snow. It was a huge, two-storey rectangular building with large windows giving a pleasant outlook to the sea. The lawn ran down to the main road, on the other side of which was a shingle beach.
As they emerged from the car, the bitter breeze reminded them that it was mid-December. They dashed to the main entrance to be greeted by the warmth of a log fire and a welcoming hello from a nurse dressed in a blue uniform with a white pinafore apron. She was in her mid-twenties with a short bobbed hairstyle and a white cap on her head. She smiled brightly.
‘Are you visiting?’
After introducing themselves, James explained that they were trying to find out about any Pals who had stayed there during and after the Great War.
‘Well, we have a small room through there with bits and pieces that may be of interest. I’ll need to sign you in if that’s all right. We like to know who’s coming and going.’
They followed her to the main desk which had been decorated with tinsel and holly. In the corner of the room was a Christmas tree with many colourful wooden ornaments hanging from its branches. James guessed they were hand-made, no doubt, by those convalescing there. A record player was on the table next to it which, as they added their names to the visitor’s book, played ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’. The nurse studied the names and did a double-take.
‘Oh. Lord Harrington.’ She curtseyed.
James held his hands up to stop her. ‘No need for any of that,’ he peered at her name badge, ‘Molly. I say, that’s a rather charming name.’
Blushing, she showed them through to a room adjacent to Reception. ‘This is where all of our history is kept. I’m not sure that it’s in any particular order but you’re welcome to have a look. I’m afraid medical details aren’t here; they’re confidential.’
‘My dear,’ said Juliet, ‘are there any ex-servicemen still here who fought in France during the Great War?’
‘We’ve a handful, yes.’ She tilted her head in a sympathetic way. ‘Poor things. They haven’t got any family and never really got over the shell-shock. It did terrible things to those men. They’re not too bad but they wouldn’t be able to cope on their own so they’re here for the duration.’ She stood in the doorway. ‘Did you want to speak with them?’
‘I think that would be rather splendid. Perhaps we can seek you out a little later for an introduction.’
Molly’s eager grin confirmed she’d be happy to do that. Five minutes later, she returned with two cups of tea. ‘Sounds like you’re going to be here a while so you may as well be comfortable.’
James wandered around the room. It wasn’t a terribly big area; more like a back office with odd armchairs dotted about. The carpet was slightly worn and the room had a musty smell to it. Juliet clapped her hands together. ‘Right, what are we looking for?’
He reached into his pocket and brought out a slip of paper. ‘Anything to do with Privates Brown, Strong and Shotover. Archibald Franks was shot for desertion. One of the others, presumably, was the casualty on the mission. Oh and, of course, Niven Short and William Carlton.’
‘I’m sure we won’t find anything on those two. Major Short probably sat behind a desk for the whole time and if Carlton was the coward we think he is, he would have no more shell-shock than Mickey Mouse.’
James grinned to himself. He dreaded to think how Juliet would react if she met Major Carlton again. They rummaged through photographs, flicked through books and manila files full of papers and documents. As interesting as some of the material was, it wasn’t shedding any light on the individuals in question.
‘Molly was right, nothing’s in any order. I’m beginning to think this was a fruitless exercise.’
Juliet knelt on the floor and heaved at a large volume. James crossed to help her. Once it was free,
he studied the title, discovering it was a list of patients between the dates of 1900 and 1920.
‘Good show, Juliet.’
‘Not sure this should be here. Isn’t this confidential?’
He shrugged and helped her to her feet. They pulled two armchairs together and opened the volume up. James thumbed through the pages for any dates from 1917 onwards. On finding it, he spread the pages wide. Juliet examined the left-hand column showing the surnames of soldiers. After turning the pages several times, she sat back. ‘Shotover.’ Her index finger moved to the right. ‘Peter. Private. Cavendish Pals. Address in Loxfield.’ She frowned. ‘Is that right?’
James explained that the Cavendish Pals came from three villages, Cavendish, Charnley and Loxfield. ‘Cavendish was the biggest village at the time and the decision to form a Pals unit was made at a sporting tournament on our village green.’
‘How quaint.’ She continued along the column. ‘Admitted for shell-shock. Discharged in 1925.’
‘Good Lord. He was here for eight years.’
Juliet continued studying the book until she reached the year 1920. She slammed it shut. ‘Nothing else here.’
‘Shall we track Molly down and see if we can chat to some of these veterans?’
They wandered out to the reception area where the record player was now playing Leroy Anderson’s ‘Sleigh Ride’. As they waited, Juliet swayed to the beat of the bouncing melody and James tapped a rhythm with his fingers on the desk. Molly appeared from another room.
‘Oh hello again. Did you find what you were looking for?’
‘Not as much as we’d hoped but we’d like to find out a little more about Peter Shotover. He was here between 1917 and 1925 with shell-shock.’
Molly reminded him that detailed medical reports were confidential. James held a hand up in apology and requested that they could, perhaps, chat with some of the veterans. ‘Do you know if any served under Captain Carlton?’ he asked.
‘You sit there. Let me go ask. That’ll make things a lot quicker for you.’
James put his hands in his pockets and wandered around the reception area. He studied the wooden ornaments on the tree and took in the various landscapes that lined the walls. The small plaque by each one stated which patient had painted them. On hearing Juliet gasp, he turned.
Lord James Harrington and the Christmas Mystery Page 17