Three Times Removed

by M K Jones

  “Alice wasn’t just frightened after Esme died. She was terrified. But of what, or who? There had been plenty of trouble with the Morris girls, but I think it had to be more than that. William told me that Alice truly believed that if she told the truth, no-one, including John and me, would believe her. She even thought I would not believe her. I remember she tried to tell me the night before she went.” Her voice trembled.

  “I went to see Gwen Ellis.” She grasped my hand and repeated over and over what Cerys had told me, ‘She wasn’t there.’ And she looked so frightened. Why would that make her so frightened? I believe she was trying to let me know who wasn’t there, when she should have been and said she was. There were only supposed to be two people in the school that afternoon – Alice and Eira Probert. I know that Gwen never once suspected Alice. But Eira Probert – now she insisted that she had been at the school, then at the minister’s house. Pugh never contradicted that story.

  “Then, quite suddenly, Eira Probert disappeared, saying that she was going to teach at a school in Hereford, invited by Mr Pugh. Yet, I’d seen once before that he looked puzzled when she said that she had been invited by him to come here to Garth Hill, although, again, he didn’t contradict her.

  “You know how ill I was before and after George was born. By the time I recovered, Alice had been gone six months and both Miss Probert and Mr Pugh were gone, too. John had stopped searching. Eventually I accepted his decision, I felt I had no other choice. But in my heart I knew that Alice was still alive. I have never given up hope of at least finding out why she went.”

  She stood up and walked to the bureau, returning with a letter that she handed to Richard.

  “I received this from Charles and Bessie Morris.”

  He read through it then looked at her. “What have you deduced from this?”

  “Why, that Miss Probert lied when she said why she was leaving and where she was going.”

  “That’s a strong word, Ruth. She may have changed her mind, or had to attend to some family issue.”

  “Yes, Richard, I know. That’s why I’ve written to Mr Pugh to ask to speak with him.”

  “Pugh might refuse. Have you considered that?”

  She sighed. “Of course. He wasn’t at all friendly towards us. But I hope that the passage of time has mellowed those feelings, and as John is dead he’d agree to speak to me. I think he’ll want to, you know.”

  “I’m not so sure, from what I know of Pugh. He’s an unpleasant man. So, are these your conclusions?”

  “Not all. I believe…” her voice began to shake, “I have come to believe that it was Eira Probert who hit Esme on the head, and drowned her, thinking that she was Alice. And she…”

  A ringing of the doorbell interrupted her. Ruth waited, listening to Cerys go to the door, speak to someone, then close the door. She walked into the sitting room.

  “I’m sorry to bother, Mrs Jones, but there’s a letter for you.” Ruth took it from the girl with a smile, which disappeared when she saw the postmark.

  “It’s from Hereford. We’ll find out what Mr Pugh has to say.”

  Richard sat attentively in his armchair while Ruth read the letter. The arching of an eyebrow, followed by a frown, then a look of satisfaction caused him to shuffle in his seat.

  “Robert Pugh is dead. This is from his widow. He died six months ago. She is surprised to hear from me after such a long time and offers condolences on John’s death. She is willing to meet with me, as she has information that she can offer me. She suggests that I call on Monday next.” She looked directly at the minister. “Well, Richard? What do you say now?”

  Fifty Five

  June 2015

  The revving of Zelah’s car brought Maggie out of her reverie. She walked to open the front door, but stood at the porch, leaning against the door frame, hugging her arms tightly around herself. Zelah had hopped out of the car and started up the path, but stopped when she saw the expression on Maggie’s face.

  “What? Not the children!”

  “No. I just got a call from the nursing home. Louisa Jenkins is dead.”

  Zelah hesitated. “Was it a natural death?”

  Maggie frowned at her. “Yes, of course. She died in her sleep. She was ninety-seven.”

  “Well, shouldn’t really come as a big shock, I suppose, at that age. But, bound to make you sad, just having met her.” She was about to add something else, but thought better of it and followed Maggie to the kitchen.

  “I’ve been invited to the funeral, on Friday.” Maggie said over her shoulder.

  “Are you going to go?”

  “Of course! She was family and I think I’m the only one likely to be there, apart from the nurse.” They had reached the kitchen.

  “Would you like me to come with you?”

  “Yes, thanks, Zelah. That would be nice. It’s at ten thirty at St Cadoc’s. Do you know the church?”

  “Yes. Now, how about looking at the information I found out about your family?” A look of unaccustomed sympathy passed across her face. “This is quite a roller coaster, isn’t it?”

  Maggie nodded miserably and sat at the table. “I hate funerals.”

  “It’s going to be tough for you. I had an idea, but I’m not sure if this is the time to mention it.”

  “What idea?”

  “Do you remember I said the paddle steamer, the Waverley, sometimes goes out from Newport, when the tide on the river is high enough to allow it up to the town and back again? You said you’d like to take the kids?” Maggie nodded. “Well, it’s going out from Newport on Saturday, at nine thirty, down the river and across the Channel, and cruising for the afternoon, then coming back early evening. How about taking the trip?”

  Maggie smiled. “That would be excellent, Zelah. I think we’d all enjoy that. Do we have to book?”

  Zelah shook her head. “Leave it to me. My treat,” and she put up her hand as Maggie went to protest. “I want to. Don’t argue. I can more than afford it. Now, how about this news of mine?”

  “Yes, OK. What have you found?”

  “Well, nothing about your great-grandfather yet, but I’ve got further back on his male relatives. It came from a clue on the census. Do you remember that his father or grandfather, whichever he was, said he was born in Shirenewton?”

  “He listed more than one birth place on the census returns he appeared in, didn’t he?” Maggie compared the records that Zelah had laid out on the table, tracing each one with her finger. “Look, this one in 1851 says Shirenewton, but 1861 says Pen-something and 1841 just says he was born ‘in the County of Monmouthshire.’”

  “That’s all they had to confirm in 1841. I checked the records, such as they are, in parishes that start p-e-n, but there are no birth records for a man of his age. He was illiterate but he does seem to be consistent about his age and the year he was born.”

  She fished into her bag again and brought out a photocopy of the old-fashioned writing that Maggie had seen at the county records office.

  “Look, this is a set of entries for the parish of Shirenewton for 1780 to 1810.” She had highlighted several entries and now pointed to one of them. “John, in the year 1781, also born to John, and to Anne. I’m as sure as I can be that this is your John’s ancestry. The dates and place match and there aren’t any others by this name thereabouts.” She looked pleased with herself. “And you can see that he had a brother called William, a name that was used in all of the following generations.”

  “It may not have been his father, you know. It could be his grandfather and great-grandfather. Is this definitive?” Maggie asked.

  “Not a hundred percent. I’d like to do some more ferreting to be certain. If I can find the marriage of John and Eliza, I might get something more certain.”

  “Zelah, this is great. I took your advice and got a proper computer program. Come and see.” She led Zelah into the office at the front of the house.

  “This is handy,” Zelah remarked as she looked
around. “You could run a business from here.”

  “I suppose I could.”

  “Hmm. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  Together, they went through Maggie’s ancestry records adding Zelah’s findings.

  “So, what next?” Maggie asked, when they had printed out a new tree. “Back to the county records?”

  “Yes. I think there’s more to find in the parish records before we go further afield. But first, let’s get the funeral and the Waverley trip out of the way. OK?” She checked her watch. “Damn, I’m late. I’ll see you at the church on Friday morning. ’Bye.” Zelah let herself out, leaving Maggie looking over the family tree. She had entered her John as the son of Old John and Eliza, but still didn’t feel that this was right.

  “It’ll have to do for now, until I find out the truth. And there is definitely more to find out about you, Farmer Jones.”

  Fifty Six

  On Friday morning, just before ten thirty Maggie waited in the sunshine outside the medieval porch of St Cadoc’s church. She had arrived early, in time to look around the graveyard and had found that both Sidney, Louisa’s husband, and Christopher, their son, were buried there. The grave had been opened, ready for Louisa. The vicar arrived as she was waiting and joined her in the porch.

  “Good morning, are you a relative? Are you all right?” he added. Maggie had wrinkled up her nose.

  “Yes, I’m fine, sorry, it’s the smell. I’m Mrs Jenkins’s great-niece. I don’t think there’s going to be anyone else.” They shook hands and Maggie added, “A friend of mine is coming, too, and the nurse who looked after her at Goldendays. Did you know Mrs Jenkins?”

  “Oh, yes!” he replied, beaming. “Louisa and Sidney lived here in the village for many years. A great stalwart of the parish, she was. It was sad when she left and went to the nursing home, but best for her. She was frail after her fall. I visited her there many times.”

  “Is it unusual for anyone to be buried in this church graveyard these days?”

  “Indeed,” replied the vicar. “But Louisa was a long-time resident and the rest of her family is here, so we make an exception. Otherwise you’re right, it’s closed.” He glanced around, sniffing surreptitiously. “Ah, here they are.”

  Around the corner came the hearse, followed by one black car. Both drew up outside the church gate, followed by a taxi from which a black-suited Zelah emerged. From the funeral car came Nurse Crowley accompanied by an elderly man, tall, thin with sparse grey hair, and dressed in a dark grey suit and mourning tie. As the vicar walked down the path to meet them at the church gate, Zelah joined Maggie and they went together into the church to await the coffin.

  The service was brief. The vicar had decided that with such a small congregation there was no reason to speak from the pulpit, so he stood in front of them to speak more intimately about Louisa’s life and family.

  Maggie learned that Louisa and Sidney had lived in the village almost all of their married life, Sidney worked in Cardiff as a surveyor and Louisa was a doyen of village life and a great supporter of the church. The vicar briefly mentioned the death of Christopher and offered up his hopeful prayer that they would all be re-united for eternity.

  When the service ended they followed the coffin out of the church, an organ playing softly in the background, and to the open grave. Emerging into the sunlight after the cool dark shade of the church, Maggie blinked several times, then stopped suddenly and whispered to Zelah as they turned the corner.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what? I can’t see anything with this damn light shining in my eyes.”

  “Someone hiding behind that tree, over behind the graves.”

  Zelah glanced up. “I can’t see anyone. Where did you say?”

  “See the tall cypress behind the grave? Someone was standing just behind it, watching. I could see a head and part of the body”

  “Probably someone from the village. Didn’t you notice that there were a few old people at the back of the church? Maybe people who remembered her when she lived here.” Zelah glanced back. “Look, there are some of them.”

  A small group of men and women in their seventies and eighties stood at the entrance to the church.

  “No, this wasn’t someone that old, they were more middle-aged.” Maggie looked puzzled. “I’ve seen that face before.”

  They followed the procession to the edge of the grave where the vicar stood at the head of the gravestone and said the final prayer before the undertaker’s men lowered the coffin out of sight.

  As they turned away, Maggie started again. “There, there she is again, by the gate!”

  Zelah turned quickly. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “She was only there for a second. It’s the same feeling I’ve had recently. It makes me shudder.”

  “Well, whoever she was, she’s gone now.” Zelah said briskly and was about to lead Maggie away when Nurse Crowley and the elderly man approached them.

  “Mrs Gilbert, thank you for coming. Can I introduce you to Mr Robyn?”

  Maggie put out her hand, which the man took and shook firmly, but with a sour look.

  “Mrs Gilbert, I’m Marcus Robyn, of Robyn, Hanley and Hicks. We are Mrs Jenkins’s solicitors.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Maggie replied, still glancing around to see if she could spot the mysterious figure.

  “We need to meet, Mrs Gilbert.” His expression became even more sour. “I understand you only recently met Mrs Jenkins.”

  “That’s right, just last week. Er, why do we need to meet?”

  “After she spoke with you, Mrs Jenkins summoned me and altered her will, to your benefit. I shall need proof of your identity, of course. Would you be so kind as to visit my office next Tuesday at nine?” He held out a business card with the tips of his fingers.

  “I suppose so, but I only met her last Tuesday! This is a shock,” Maggie replied, looking at the card.

  “Really?” He looked disdainfully down his aquiline nose. “Well, well. I must go. Good day.” Marcus Robyn walked off, one arm swinging regimentally, the other supporting a black umbrella.

  Nurse Crowley looked uncomfortably from Maggie to Zelah. “This is my friend, Zelah Trevear,” Maggie said. “She’s the person who’s been helping me with my family history. It was Zelah’s idea to put my story on the website that you saw.”

  The nurse smiled at Zelah. “I’ve spent years tracing my own. Fun, isn’t it?”

  Maggie nudged Zelah, who smiled back and said “Yes, isn’t it?” through gritted teeth. “Time to go.”

  The three women walked through the graves to the church gate, where the nurse got into the waiting limo.

  “Didn’t ask if we wanted a lift,” Zelah muttered.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Maggie responded. “I’ll give you a lift back to Newport.”

  “So, who do you think was watching?” Zelah asked as Maggie drove away.

  “I really don’t know, but it made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. At first, it was just a feeling. Now it’s actually a person. What next?”

  “Something will happen. Anyway, is everything OK for tomorrow? Are Jack and Alice OK with coming?”

  “They’re delighted, thanks, Zelah. But what about…” Maggie was unceremoniously cut off.

  “Don’t you dare mention money! Right, here we are. Drop me off here. I’ll see you on the wharf at nine tomorrow. ’Bye!”

  Fifty Seven

  Maggie stood on the wharf looking dubiously at the paddle steamer, with Jack and Alice chatting excitedly beside her. They had been delighted when she had mentioned the trip, assuming that she had chosen this for her ‘special occasion’.

  “Stop worrying, Mum. It’s a really calm day. You’ll be fine!” Jack put his arm around her.

  “I know, and I am excited, really. I’d just like to get going, now.”

  “Are we really going to fit under that bridge?” Alice asked for the umpteenth time, looking down-river at the giganti
c iron transporter bridge that ferried passengers across the river in a hanging carriage.

  “Duh, no. We’re going to get stuck under it – that’s if we don’t run aground in the mud before we get there,” Jack retorted, realising too late that his mother wasn’t laughing. Fortunately Maggie was distracted by Zelah’s arrival in a taxi, today dressed in dark slacks and a bright blue twinset, and the inevitable high heels. The children ran across to meet her, whispering to her as she got out of the car. Maggie watched as she threw her hands in the air, then scowled at her.

  “You kept that well hidden!” she exclaimed as she strode across the dock.

  “I don’t like fuss,” Maggie replied. “Each year I like it less and less.”

  “And the seasickness? I thought this was meant to be a treat!”

  “It is, thanks. It looks calm enough so I should be OK and I do, honestly, love boats. I’m nearly always fine.” She smiled confidently at Zelah as one of the ship’s funnels trumpeted a great bass blast to the waiting passengers to get ready to board. “Too late now, anyway,” Maggie muttered under her breath, as they made their way to the gangplank.

  They settled themselves on the top viewing deck of the two-funnelled steamer. The paddle wheel began to turn with great thudding noises. The ship pulled away the river, under the bridge, and slowly out into the Channel. It was a calm day, with a light breeze and no swell. Maggie breathed a sigh of relief and settled down.

  “It’s been a dream of mine to go down the river, Zelah. When I was a child I sometimes used to watch the ocean-going ships come into the dry dock, and imagine where they might be going, but I never got to see around the river bend, until now. And on my birthday!” She smiled happily.

  “I didn’t know you came from the docks area.”

  “I don’t. My mother did, though, and all of her family, the Irish side. My grandmother lived within smelling distance of the river and I used to play on the mud banks. It was exciting for us kids. Nowadays, there’d be too much health and safety and anyway, it’s been cut in half by that new dual carriageway.” Maggie gazed wistfully at the passing shoreline. “I need some cheering up. I’ve got the final job interview on Monday. I’ll probably be starting work in a couple of weeks.”