A Set of Lies

by Carolyn McCrae

  “So we seem to have that generation pretty much sewn up then,” Skye suggested.

  “Far from it,” Carl contradicted her.

  “Well we know that William is a sympathetic, intelligent and sensitive man who marries the woman he loves, while Henry, disappointed that he didn’t win his cousin’s hand, leaves his home to lead a life of waste and debauchery.”

  “I wouldn’t go so far as to say we could prove any of that,” Carl snapped, before continuing with a more conciliatory voice. “Though I will agree there does seem to be a contrast between the lives of the two brothers.”

  “But what about the next generation, Fergal? We know that Sir Henry had a son, the next baronet, but did he have any other children?” Skye asked, wanting to find out how much he had learned, so that she could show how much more than that she had discovered in the attics.

  “Well…” Fergal took in a long breath as he opened the relevant document on his iPad. “It appears that Henry only had the one son, who became Sir Augustus and who we know as Gussie. I’ve been able to find out quite a lot about him and haven’t had a chance yet to go through it all. He had a short but interesting life. He served in South Africa, albeit in a staff job, and then, after a year, married his cousin, Lucille Swann. She was his mother’s brother’s daughter. He doesn’t seem to have followed his father into the club-based life of the rich titled male of the time as he was a member of the British Library.” He paused, noting Carl’s frown and Skye’s smile at his prejudices. “Anyway, soon after his marriage Gussie was the victim of a pretty horrific murder. The papers of the time carried long and detailed obituaries, not because of anything he did during his life, but because of the manner of his death and the fact that his young widow was expecting his child. The papers loved it and devoted pages to melodramatic twaddle. It will be a little difficult to work out what exactly happened but it seems he was the entirely innocent victim of a street mugging. They were quite common in the 1880s apparently.”

  “So the press then were no better than they are today?” Carl said drily.

  “Not really. Worse if anything because they just printed what they thought people wanted to read. I mean, they described Gussie as a war hero, though he was nothing of the sort, and they said Lady Lucille was near to death at the news of her husband’s death, which she patently wasn’t because she spent her pregnancy involved with litigation.”

  “Litigation?”

  “She fought for her child’s inheritance. There’s a mass of stuff about it in the law records. It’s not quite Jarndyce versus Jarndyce because it was all sorted out before the child was born but there were reams and reams of it in the papers. I’ve got all the links here but on a quick appraisal it seems that there was a lawyer called Iain McFarlane, a friend of Augustus’ from their time in South Africa and the only surviving executor of his will. This McFarlane appears to have represented Lady Lucille through months of argument in legal quarters about whether or not the unborn child could inherit. The title should, in many lawyers’ views, have lapsed. Even the Prime Minister of the time became involved though what Gladstone thought to gain I cannot imagine, other than his interest in the rights of women, The Married Women’s Property Acts were going through Parliament at the time.”

  Skye listened carefully, as this information explained the files of legal papers she had found in the trunk with Sir Bertie’s name on it.

  “What I also find interesting is that no one involved seems to have been aware of the Isle of Wight connection, not even those who should have known. There appears to have been a mix-up with the record-keeping since the two boys, being twins, had the same birthday and there is a lot of confusion, with Henry being referred to as ‘Henry William Lacey’ when we know he was Henry Claude.”

  Skye had wondered who the ‘Henry William Lacey’ was who had signed so many of the papers in Sir Henry’s box. She had wondered if he could have been another of Henry’s sons but she had decided against that, he wouldn’t have given any son of his his brother’s name. But, Skye thought, the use of the name did make sense if Henry was trying to write William out of history.

  “Anyway, it was finally agreed that the title could pass to Lucille’s child if it were a son, and if a daughter was born then the title would lapse.”

  “Pretty typical,” Skye commented.

  “That attitude is only just changing now so we can’t take too superior an attitude,” Carl cautioned. “But well done Fergal, we’re beginning to fill in some of the gaps.”

  “Anyway,” Skye pressed Fergal, “what happened to the child who must have been Augustus the Second?”

  “After all that litigation the child was a boy, the one we called Sir Augustus the Second. I lost him for a bit because I was looking for ‘Sir Augustus Lacey’ but it seems he was always called Albert or Bertie. Once I started looking for Sir Bertie or Sir Albert I found him.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Not very much actually. He appears to have lived most of his short life with his mother in Berkshire. He didn’t go to France, instead being given a desk job in the headquarters of his father’s regiment. Again his father’s executor, this Iain McFarlane, was involved.”

  “I feel rather sorry for him,” Skye said sadly. “Bertie that is, not Iain,” she added quickly, recognising the name McFarlane from documents in both Gussie and Bertie’s boxes.

  “Why do you say that?” Fergal asked, genuinely not understanding.

  “I bet his mother kept him with her regardless of what he wanted to do with his life. She’d lost her husband after only a couple of months’ marriage. I mean she’d want to mollycoddle his son wouldn’t she? And then all he can do in the war is a safe office job when all around him men of his age are going off to France and being killed or horribly injured. He must have felt awful.” Skye worried that she had given too much away and Fergal would realise she had found something in the attics to back up her argument.

  “We can’t know that.” Carl tried to keep a rein on what he saw as Skye’s imagination.

  “Can’t we?” she asked rhetorically, then turned to Fergal. “So what happened to Bertie?”

  “Like his father he also died an untimely death, he and a young woman were run over by a car in an air raid in November 1917. There was very little about it or him in the national papers but the local ones in Berkshire managed to find space for a couple of paragraphs. It was a pretty bloody time casualty-wise, so I’m not surprised they didn’t give much space to a simple road accident.”

  “I didn’t know they had air raids then,” Skye admitted.

  Carl answered her before Fergal could. “Not many but, yes, they occurred. Not a lucky family by all accounts and we need to know more about them.”

  “Now, Skye, what is the first question from all that Fergal has found out that springs to your untutored mind?” Carl asked pointedly.

  “Well.” She looked at the two men who clearly had no idea that she had known what she was talking about as she had coloured in detail through Fergal’s explanation of bare facts. “We need to know whether Henry could have passed anything on to his son about his family on Isle of Wight.”

  “Why do we need to know that?”

  “Henry will have inherited stuff from his father wouldn’t he?”

  “You are too fond of that word,” Carl said firmly. “Find one that is more precise.”

  “OK. Henry will have inherited family heirlooms, accoutrements, jewellery, estate papers and legal documents from his father wouldn’t he?” Skye said very deliberately. “And, if he did, could he have passed any of it on to his son or was it lost?”

  “An interesting thought.” Carl nodded.

  “And if he did would those papers have included something Sir Bernard himself may have written?” Skye pressed her advantage, realising that for the first time in what seemed like ages both Fergal and Carl were listening to her. “And if he did, where would those documents be?”

  “Undoubtedly lost a long time
ago,” said Carl decisively.

  Skye ignored him, gaining in confidence because of her find. “But Henry married a Swann and so did Gussie. I think that if there was anything it would be in the Swann family home. Wherever that is.” Skye had laid a false trail for Carl and Fergal to pick up and then she could prove them wrong.

  “Actually, Carl, Skye may have a good point there,” said Fergal thoughtfully. “Henry married Mary Swann and then his son married Lucille Swann, so the Swann family home may, indeed, hold something of the secrets. It would be highly likely that whatever documents Gussie and Bertie may have had would have been kept with the Swanns’ papers.”

  “And therefore highly unlikely to be here at The Lodge,” Carl concluded.

  “I disagree completely,” Skye said firmly.

  Carl and Fergal turned towards her, surprised at the confidence in her voice.

  “I can’t tell you how exactly how they came to be here but I have found them here at The Lodge.” Skye spoke quietly, trying to keep the triumph out of her voice.

  It was some time before Fergal realised what she had said. “You found them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes. In the attics that you were so reluctant to think might have any importance.”

  “Are you going to let us in on the secret?” Carl asked, his irritation showing.

  “I found three chests of documents and stuff,” she said defiantly. “One was Sir Gussie’s.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “It had his name on it.”

  “Ah. That might give you sufficient clue.”

  “And what was inside?” Fergal pressed, ignoring Carl’s sarcasm.

  “This.”

  Skye wasn’t yet ready to tell them all that she had found. She wanted them to pay for their condescending attitude towards her. So instead of telling them about the three chests she placed two sheets of paper on the table.

  “Well?” Carl prompted.

  “The dates are 1881 and 1882. Gussie started to look into his family history.”

  “Show me.”

  There were several minute of silence, broken only by the chimes of the hall clock, as Carl read the sheets she had given him.

  “Let me summarise. His father, Sir Henry, sent him on a wild goose chase to York of all places but he found something there that led him to the Isle of Wight. He had never been told his father had a brother, let alone a twin, and he discovered that his Uncle William had been a renowned geologist but was dead. He was planning to go to the Isle of Wight but was sidetracked by going to South Africa. Interesting as all this is, it tells us nothing of any interest that we do not already know.” Carl put a dampener on what he saw as Skye’s unwarranted self-satisfaction.

  “But it corroborates everything doesn’t it?” Skye pressed her point.

  “Indeed, I have to admit it does.”

  “Was there anything else in this box of Gussie’s?” Fergal asked. “Surely it didn’t just contain these notes?”

  “Army stuff mostly,” she lied again. “Probably really useful to someone interested in the Zulu wars but nothing that could help us much.”

  “Well that’s got us as far as Bertie.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out about him tomorrow.” Fergal was annoyed that he hadn’t thought about investigating the links with the Swann family. Perhaps, he admitted to himself, Skye had a point that historians were blind when it came to younger sons and women.

  Chapter 12

  1883 to 1917

  Sir Augustus Albert Lacey, always called Bertie, was born at the end of May 1883 in Yattendon Hall, in the county of Berkshire, where he was to live all but two years of his life.

  Iain McFarlane, as executor, had devoted a considerable amount of time converting his friend’s estate into wise and secure investments for the son he would never know.

  It had not been easy to secure the child’s inheritance as they had had to fight the finest in the Law Courts but, with unexpected assistance from men in the government, it had been seen through to a satisfactory conclusion. From the moment he was born, Gussie’s son was Sir Augustus, fourth Baronet of Oakridge and, as his father’s rightful heir, inherited everything that had been his father’s.

  *

  Bertie’s childhood was lived in a perpetual state of boredom.

  His early years were governed by Lady Mary, his father’s mother, who held sway in the extended household until her death, when Bertie was ten years old. Despite disliking her grandson for reminding her in many and different ways of both her son and her husband she insisted Bertie not be sent away to school. A series of lacklustre tutors was employed, not one of whom succeeded in inspiring their charge to achieve anything but the most elementary levels of learning. One, employed when Bertie was fourteen, encouraged the young man to write a daily diary, and that he did from that day on.

  As he approached his majority he had expressed an interest in assisting in the running of the Swann Estate, but his mother insisted it was perfectly well administered by agents and there was no need for him to become involved. He had no need to work for a living, the moneys left in trust to him by his father provided more than enough income for his needs and the Swann family was a wealthy one. He had no interest in politics, local or national, nor did express any interest in travel. By the age of twenty-one he had not been further from Berkshire than a summer’s expedition to Shanklin on the Isle of Wight.

  Through his twenties he became increasingly frustrated with his mother’s many and varied reasons for not allowing him to leave her side. He began to read The Times every morning and came to understand that he should strive for a degree of independence but every time he suggested any activity he could undertake that did not allow the presence of his mother she told him it would be impossible and he gave up on the idea.

  “You allow me no purpose in life,” he would occasionally argue. But Lady Lucille would respond by asking whether looking after his mother was not purpose enough in life.

  “How I envy those who trudge into their offices and factories every day. They have, at the very least, something to achieve and may feel satisfaction at a job well done. What have I ever accomplished?” he asked at dinner one evening in the spring of 1913, knowing that he could not hope to get a satisfactory answer.

  “You are not trade.” Bertie was stunned by the cold venom of his mother’s tone. “People of our standing in society do not work for a living.”

  He thought she spoke as if work was only for the lowest in society. “But my father worked.”

  “He most decidedly did not!”

  “He had a job. He was in the Army as you tell me often enough, as was your father.”

  “The Army is not ‘work’. The Army and the church are not ‘jobs’, they are vocations.”

  “Well I would like a ‘vocation’. I am thirty years old and have achieved absolutely nothing.”

  “Your vocation is to do as I say and your accomplishment is in causing me no concern.”

  Bertie had no resources in his personality to counter his mother’s strong will.

  “Why do you want to leave?” she asked, deceptively gently, as they were taking tea that summer under the shade of a tree in their beautifully tended garden. “Do you dislike your life here so much, Bertie dearest?”

  “I wish to travel because I should not, at my age, still be tied to my mother’s apron strings. Not that you ever did anything so practical as wear an apron.”

  “You cannot possibly set yourself up in a separate household Bertie, how would you cope with the staff?”

  “I’ll find a wife. I’m not sure how as you make it your business to ensure I meet no one of marriageable age but I’ll find a way.”

  “That is unfair. I do not stop you being who you want to be.”

  “No? It seems to be your only purpose in life.”

  *

  In 1914 when war in Europe became an inevitability Bertie thought he saw his chance
to achieve a level of independence.

  “The country may well be at war but you will not be,” Lady Lucille said in a tone that brooked no argument.

  “You cannot stop me doing my bit.”

  “It will be over by Christmas. Everyone says so.”

  “I wonder that anyone can believe that.”

  “If you insist on serving perhaps a place can be found for you, as it was for your father.”

  “In South Africa, I know, Mother. But times have changed in a generation. This war will be very different from anything that has gone before.”

  Bertie had read the newspapers and understood something of the reasons for the war and the entrenched positions of the protagonists. He also understood more than his mother cared to know about the developments in weaponry that had occurred since his father had served. “You have told me often enough of his time in South Africa when the nearest he got to fighting seems to have been watching the wounded embark on the sailing coffins called hospital ships.”

  “That is an unfair and inaccurate assessment of your father’s service.”

  “I don’t know about that. He was in South Africa in the most fraught of times yet he was never in the face of any enemy action.”

  “Your father was a man of the highest integrity.”

  “Yet he did nothing to worry the lists of casualties. He was an administrator, a man who pushed pieces of paper from one side of his desk to the other. Yet you consider him to be a hero? That is only because he died young. It is not fair that whenever I want to do something that interests me or may involve my leaving your side you veto it.”

  “And with very good reason. Your ideas have never been thought through. You jump at an idea headlong without even approaching an assessment of the implications. You are so far from being your father’s son that I despair. Your father was a man of derring-do, he faced everything.”

  “And I am nothing?”

  “You are not your father’s son. He was brave and you are not.”