A Grave Inheritance

by Renshaw, Anne

  For the third time that morning Lanceley read again the information contained in the file lying on his desk. He brooded over the contents, his head low over the pages, as though myopic. His first instinct was to come clean and tell Amelia and Grace what he knew. Indecision stopped him. Lanceley took a small piece of paper from the file and, slamming the rest of the file shut, shoved it into the bottom drawer of his desk. After locking his desk he popped the key and the piece of paper into his pocket.

  Lanceley stepped into midday sun and shielding his eyes against the glare, took the path through the graveyard. He’d only gone a few steps when he found himself looking over his shoulder, with the feeling that someone was watching him. He glanced swiftly from side to side. He peered around a Celtic cross, but saw no one. Sightless eyes of stone angels watched as he passed and followed him along the path. Feeling compelled he stopped and turned quickly, convinced someone was following him. The path was empty.

  After reading the information safely locked away in his desk drawer, Lanceley understood why he’d felt unsettled. He headed towards the far side of the graveyard until he reached a sandstone wall and continued along the perimeter path encircling the cemetery. The wall had crumbled away in places and blackberry bushes filled the empty spaces. He reached a low wooden gate and went through it. An area outside the churchyard’s boundary, on unholy ground, held four graves. The small section of ground, tucked away and forgotten, was sheltered by branches of wild hawthorns. Sunken oblongs covered in moss and weeds marked each grave; their only adornment were daisies and clover bent under the weight of pollen-seeking insects. Lanceley took out the piece of paper from his pocket and studied it, aligning four oblongs drawn on it with those on the ground.

  Half hidden beside a hawthorn tree the young girl cuddled her baby and watched the man with red hair. He reminded her of someone from long ago. She shook her head in an effort to erase his memory. Leaning forward she looked down at the patch of sunken earth the man stood beside, and desolately she pulled the rough woollen shawl around her, knowing its warmth wouldn’t penetrate.

  Lanceley stood beside John Farrell’s grave, in a trance. For a moment he forgot why he had come. He clasped and unclasped his fist and the piece of paper fell to the ground. His eyes followed its journey to where it settled. It was then he noticed a jam jar half buried in the soil, full of fresh water and holding freshly picked buttercups.

  Chapter 8

  The sandstone walls and towers surrounding Chester’s inner city gave Grace the impression she was being transported back in time, albeit by bus. Black and white Jacobean houses once belonging to merchants and noble men all retained their original façades, and each age had left proof of its existence by its own particular design and architecture. Roman and Gothic arches appeared in the most unlikely places, and had sheltered legionnaires, cavaliers, roundheads, royalty and peasants alike. Whether by accident or design the buildings sustained the quirkiness of the city and added to its appeal. Grace had heard of Chester’s Roman amphitheatre plus the preserved ruins of a Roman bathhouse, and she promised herself a visit.

  Grace spent her first hour wandering the main pedestrianized streets ending her tour at the library. Her initial enquiry regarding the history of Woodbury and in particular Marsh Lane was met with a blank. A library assistant suggested Grace try the Centurion newspaper office, and unenthusiastically Grace made a note of the directions. She wasn’t in the mood now, so decided to go the following day.

  As soon as she was home, Grace telephoned the Centurion office and made an appointment for the following day. She decided not to mention the intended visit to Amelia, thus delaying her sister’s look of disapproval.

  ***

  Grace arrived at the office early. The street-level door opened to the sound of a loud buzzer which continued to make a racket until she shut the door. Inside the long narrow room was a high counter and at the far end, three metal chairs stood in a row, one piled high with old magazines. Old newspaper cuttings and sepia photographs in dull black plastic frames lined the walls and were in need of dusting. Grey vertical blinds angled for privacy blocked any natural daylight, adding to the dinginess. With no one on hand to register Grace’s arrival she drummed a short tattoo on the counter. After a few minutes she began to lose patience and tried a tentative ‘Hello’ in the direction of the inner door and considered whether or not to give the outer door’s buzzer another go.

  ‘Hello, anyone there?’ Grace called, louder this time. Almost immediately the door on the opposite side of the counter opened and a girl aged about twenty stepped through. The girl had the darkest brown eyes Grace had ever seen, and the black surprised eyebrows perched above them were at odds with the girl’s blonde Afro styled hair that hovered like a halo around her pretty face.

  The girl apologised and introduced herself. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Pamela. I’m on my own here most of the time and I just had to have a comfort break, if you know what I mean.’ Pamela’s smile was open and friendly. She went onto explain that the classified sections were dealt with there, Bridge Street being so convenient for people to drop in and advertise their items. The main offices and printing rooms had relocated to bigger and better facilities, but they had left the old archive files down in the cellar.

  Grace told Pamela what she wanted and without further delay Pamela escorted her through the inner door and down a long passage. Pamela rattled keys like a gaoler, and at the end of the passage unlocked another door and descended a narrow wooden staircase. Grace followed. Below were two more doors. Pamela arrived at the bottom of the stairs and turned, just in time to see Grace shiver.

  ‘Did someone just walk over a grave?’ Pamela asked jokingly. Grace smiled weakly and followed Pamela through the door on the right. They stood in a long, narrow room, the brick walls and ceiling forming a low arch. On each side, running halfway up the walls, shelves supported stacks of boxes that were labelled and colour coded. At the far end, a row of four-drawer filing cabinets stood like soldiers against the wall. Behind her, beside the doorway, was a bookcase full of thick tomes. Grace looked around the room and noticed computers and microfilm readers stationed on desks down the centre. This was going to be easier than she’d thought.

  ‘What date did you say you’re interested in?’ Pamela walked to a nearby table and indicated a chair for Grace to sit on.

  ‘1912, but I’d like to see earlier issues too, if that’s possible?’ Grace told Pamela.

  Pamela went over to an archive box and brought out a small packet holding microfilm. ‘You’re lucky. Everything after 1900 is either on microfilm or on discs.’ Pamela waved a hand at the tomes. ‘The newspaper was established in 1805 and the archives have newspaper issues dated back to then.’ Grace watched Pamela position the microfilm ready for viewing, sliding the viewer down and across, stopping on the list of dates from 1910 to 1919. ‘There you are. They’re stored in ten-year batches so this film covers the time span you want.’

  Grace leaned forward to look at the screen. ‘Thanks for your help, I’ll be fine now.’ She smiled appreciatively.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it if you don’t mind. It gives me the creeps down here. The toilets are next door.’ Pamela turned at the door and added, ‘We close at five thirty so you have a couple of hours.’

  Alone in the underground tomb, Grace was grateful to notice Pamela had left the door to the stairs slightly ajar. Starting at 1st January 1910 she began to read. A fluorescent light running parallel with the desks flickered off and then on again, and the buzzing from the faulty element droned continuously. Grace shielded her eyes from the on–off dazzle and scanned the headlines. Eventually she reached the year 1911. Concentrating even more she scrutinised every page. The name Deverell appeared regularly. By all accounts they were a prosperous farming family owning most of the land on the east side of Chester. This confirmed what Reverend Lanceley had told them. A front-page article in June reported that Sir Edmund Deverell’s son Laurence had failed to ret
urn home and had been missing for two days. Sir Edmund was asking for volunteers to help police with another search of Oakham Wood.

  Pamela’s voice called from above the stairs. ‘Are you okay down there?’

  ‘Yes thanks,’ Grace shouted. She looked at her watch and couldn’t believe how quickly the time had flown.

  ‘I’ll be closing in about fifteen minutes, okay’

  ‘No problem.’ Grace began skipping through the pages more quickly now, eager to find out more about the missing son. Absorbed in the Laurence Deverell case Grace forgot the true purpose of her search. Then suddenly the name Farrell stood out in thick black letters, a headline on the front page. Grace sucked in her breath and biting her bottom lip read the following article word for word. On the edge of her chair she read it again and then turned back to the preceding pages with a feeling she had missed something. Grace scanned each article frantically, aware that any minute Pamela would come down to turn off the lights and lock up.

  As if summoned, Pamela’s high heels could be heard tapping along the corridor and down the stairs. ‘I’ve got to lock up now,’ she said, inserting a key into the lock.

  ‘Is it okay if I come back tomorrow morning?’ Grace made a quick note of the date and film number before Pamela leaned over her to switch the machine off.

  ‘Yes, of course. We open at nine o’clock.’

  Grace said goodbye and left, her mind in turmoil.

  Pamela watched Grace walk away then picked up the telephone receiver and tapped in a number. ‘Hi, it’s Pamela.’ She checked her image in the mirror behind the desk. ‘You may be interested to know someone’s been looking into the Deverells’ family history.

  ‘She doesn’t look like a journalist,’ Pamela replied to a question and then sighed audibly. ‘Her name is Grace Farrell. She’s coming back tomorrow to do more research. She didn’t say what time, but I will ring you when she arrives if you like. See you tomorrow then. Bye.’ Pamela ended the call and replaced the receiver.

  ***

  Grace arrived back at the Centurion office at ten o’clock the following morning, armed this time with a notebook and pen. Back in the archive room everything was as they had left it the day before.

  Pamela made a telephone call.

  Grace located the section she wanted and made detailed notes, then continued to scroll through the rest of 1911. Laurence Deverell’s disappearance was front-page news. A grainy black and white photograph of Laurence stared out from the pages with stark headlines announcing the young man’s body had been found in Oakham Wood. Grace shuddered. Oakham Wood was no more than a stone’s throw away from their cottage. After completing 1911, Grace began reading the 1912 articles. In February of that year the front-page headline read: John Farrell – Suicide Confirms Guilt. Grace copied the article and switched off the microfilm machine and then stuffed her notebook into her bag.

  Upstairs, Grace thanked Pamela for her help and left. She needed time to think, to assimilate what she’d found out and decide what to do about it, so she headed towards the river, completely unaware she was being followed.

  Nathan Brock stood on The Rows, a walkway above street level. He leaned over the balustrade to keep Grace in sight and then followed at pavement level from a safe distance. When Grace turned towards the river and was out of sight for a few minutes Nathan jogged to the end of the street. Standing half hidden beside a high wall he scanned the tourists walking along the riverbank, but couldn’t see the girl. An outing of senior citizens walked towards the bandstand. A crowd waited to take a trip on the cruise boat named Lady Diana, which was moored alongside the bank of the River Dee. To the left of the wall local artists displayed their art work, and paintings and drawings were propped up on trestle tables or lined up on the pavement. Nathan walked among the tourists who gathered around to view them. The girl wasn’t there. Cursing, he ran up to the stone walkway running along the top of the Roman walls, but the girl was nowhere to be seen.

  Chapter 9

  As dusk fell, heavy rain pelted the Primrose Cottage windows, adding to Grace’s depression. The storm reached its momentum around eleven p.m., when thunder rolled around the Cheshire plains, and lightning bounced off the Welsh hills. At four a.m., by which time Grace had given up on sleep, the storm receded to a distant mumble and she dozed intermittently. When she woke at seven a.m. it was to a morning of clear blue skies.

  During the long night Grace had decided to visit St Martin’s cemetery again and this time take a peek inside the church. She set off early before Amelia was up, to avoid interrogation. In her shoulder bag she carried a small bottle of water, and as an afterthought she included a light rain jacket folded to the size of a small envelope, just in case the weather turned wet again.

  The walk was invigorating, the air fresh. Blackbirds serenaded her and each other as she strolled along. Bright pink fuchsia flowers and white hedge roses poked out of hedges. Honey bees buzzed in and out of wild primroses at the side of the road and rain-sodden plants and trees dripped and rustled all around her. The sky above was a flawless expanse of blue, the only blot on an otherwise cloudless sky was a white feather of smoke trailing from an aeroplane.

  Grace arrived at St Martin’s Church and looked around the cemetery in dismay, noticing how the tributes to the dead had become victims of the previous night’s storm. Flowers were stripped bare and petals had scattered like confetti, gathering here and there in granite corners. A couple of thin branches from the sycamore had broken off and lay across the path. Grace bent down and pulled them to one side, out of her way, then stood bemused, studying the graves and headstones surrounding her. The older part of the cemetery looked haphazard. Dull grey marble gravestones, some upright, some leaning at an angle and some flat on the ground, were dotted here and there. In the newer section, blocks of graves were lined up in neat straight rows between paths. These weren’t dug randomly but were precisely managed, Grace realised. The only thing the old and new had in common was that all the gravestones faced east. Grace was sure that a plan, some sort of map, denoting each deceased person’s plot, must exist. It was too early in the day to visit Reverend Lanceley and ask him about it not that Grace felt inclined to. It occurred to her that Reverend Lanceley would have to employ a grave digger, and she looked around for a shed where tools would be stored.

  Aimlessly Grace wandered up and down until she came to a path running alongside the perimeter wall. Here the wall had crumbled in places and blackberry bushes filled the gaps. Through the brambles she saw fields undulating away towards the village and stood for a moment stood trying to spot Primrose Cottage. It was then that Grace noticed the gate. She walked through it and found on the other side of the wall four unmarked graves, just indentations in the ground. The one nearest her feet had a jam jar pushed into the soil; it was filled with buttercups. A flutter of white wedged between the yellow petals caught her eye, and bending down to have a better look she saw a crumpled piece of paper. She picked it up and, not wanting it to litter the cemetery, put it into her trouser pocket.

  Grace began walking back the way she had come and then remembered her intention to look inside the church. The latched iron bolt on the church door clicked against its handle and the oak door swung open. Grace stood peering into the dimness. The aisle ran in a straight line in front of her with rows of wooden pews on either side. At the top of the aisle, set to one side, was a low wooden platform reached by two steps, and that was where the lectern rested on its pedestal. Leaded arched windows cut into the stone walls let in mellow light and looked out onto the cemetery. Large cream candles sat unlit on two-foot-wide window sills. Grace stepped in and let the door swing shut behind her. Almost tiptoeing, she walked along the central aisle and slipped into a pew a few rows from the front. Ahead of her, on a long narrow table covered in a white cloth and a tapestry runner stood a large gold-coloured cross. Behind the cross and equalling its splendour, quatrefoils and fleurs-de-lys formed part of a stained glass window that depicted Bible sce
nes in a myriad of colours. In awe Grace sat in silence, enjoying the peace, and absorbed the spiritual atmosphere inside the building. Without thinking she bowed her head and whispered a prayer.

  Unexpectedly the church door opened and a shaft of light fell across the opposite row of pews. Grace bent lower, hoping not to be seen in the faint light, but a rustle of material and a slight cough nearby told her she’d been found.

  ‘Miss Farrell, are you all right?’ Reverend Lanceley asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Is it okay for me to come in here? The door was open,’ Grace replied, feeling a little uncomfortable under his gaze.

  ‘Yes, of course. The door is open for a few hours each morning for that purpose,’ David Lanceley assured her.

  ‘You have a lovely church,’ Grace blustered, forcing a smile.

  ‘Do you mind me saying, you look as though you’ve been crying. Would you like to talk to me?’ the vicar asked kindly.

  ‘I’m fine, but there was something I wanted to ask you,’ Grace said, grabbing her opportunity. ‘I noticed how well designed the new part of the cemetery is. Do you employ someone to manage it?’