‘This is even noisier than the school!’ he shouted to Mark above the din. ‘And I never thought I’d ever say that!’
Mark had commandeered one of the smaller classrooms as his office. On the ground floor, it overlooked the forecourt at the front entrance and got most of the sunshine. It was large enough to accommodate Barbara along with her desk and word processor as well as his own desk; next door was Detective Inspector Larkin and two detective sergeants, while the other team members had the joint use of a much larger room. This had been the school lecture theatre and was at the end of a corridor, just beyond Larkin’s office. The men had nicknamed it the Potting Shed because of its links with Operation Roots. Already, a colour photograph of Vice-President Hartley had appeared on a wall of the Potting Shed and a blackboard contained the known details of his programme of visits; Mark was delighted that his officers were showing their usual commitment to the task.
The man in charge of the American operation was called John T Dunnock, a member of the White House staff, and he made himself known to Mark, promising every possible assistance. A large round man with a friendly face and rimless spectacles, he seemed extremely easy-going, but Mark knew this was deceptive. To have achieved that position, he would be tough, although pleasant. He introduced Mark to some of his key personnel, showed him the office he was using and explained some of his own requirements and procedures. One factor was that when Hartley went off to visit Hull and the moorland villages in search of his roots, several aides would accompany him.
‘We’ll keep you informed of our movements and timings at all times,’ Dunnock assured Mark. ‘Mr Hartley likes an early night, by the way, and so we would ask your officers to remember that when they are moving around the house. Otherwise, he won’t make any unreasonable demands upon you.’
Mark explained his own security arrangements, and so the procedures for protecting Vice-President Caleb Hodgson Hartley swung easily and efficiently into action. On American Independence Day, Thirklewood Hall was preparing to welcome its most important guest.
By Tuesday evening, the procedures were slipping into a comfortable routine; names of all the staff, American, British and Thirklewood Estate workers, had been fed into Mark’s computers.
Security clearance had been finalised and passes issued. Duty rotas had been compiled, relationships established with the American aides and DPG officers, eating arrangements determined and personal corners of the building discovered. As everyone bustled around him, Mark found himself with little to do. Paul Larkin was firmly in control and his team were already programming details of the Muriel Brown murder into HOLMES. He knew they would look forward to regenerating aspects of the murder, unsolved for the past eight years or so.
Mark’s room was not particularly welcoming. There was a plain metal-framed bed with a lumpy mattress, a battered wardrobe and dressing-table, a tattered rug and an old photograph of a Victorian man on one wall. It did have an adjoining toilet and shower, and it did overlook the front of the house, but otherwise it was not the ideal place to spend one’s off-duty moments. There was always the bar, of course, or some work on the Muriel Brown murder.
After breakfast the following morning, Wednesday 6th July, Mark completed his supervisory tour of the Hall, had a brief conference with the White House officials about internal security, and then found he had nothing to do. Detective Inspector Larkin was working hard and so, for Mark, it was just a case of waiting for Hartley; he wandered into the Potting Shed and saw that his officers were occupying themselves with the Brown murder. The Chief had been right. This was a holiday, there was nothing much to do.
He should be able to relax but couldn’t.
‘Take time out, sir,’ suggested Detective Inspector Paul Larkin upon noticing Mark’s restiveness. ‘Have a day off, I can look after things here.’
Mark shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’ve nowhere I particularly want to go,’ he said quietly.
‘Lorraine’s off duty today, sir.’ Paul smiled. During previous enquiries, he’d seen Pemberton’s happiness in the company of this tall, bewitching policewoman. ‘She was talking about going over to Wolversdale, to see where this American’s roots are.’
‘Was she? Why would she want to do that?’
‘Curiosity, sir,’ smiled Larkin. ‘Something to do.’
Mark wandered around the ground floor of the house, chatting to more White House, Scotland Yard and Special Branch staff, checking security of the doors and windows for the umpteenth time, and then he spotted Detective Constable Lorraine Cashmore. She was studying a map on a wall, her lithe, slender figure casting a shadow in a shaft of sunlight. Six feet tall with small breasts and the slimmest of legs, she might have been a model but had joined the force where her intuitive skills and dedication to her work had quickly resulted in a transfer from uniform to CID. Mark approached her.
‘Morning, Lorraine,’ he said, moving to her side.
‘Oh, hello, sir.’ She smiled at him, her dark eyes soft and gentle. ‘I was looking for Wolversdale. I thought I’d have a run over there.’
‘Me too,’ he lied easily. ‘I know the village. I’ve got time off…so, well, care to join me? I’ll buy you a lunch in the Big Bad Wolf.’
She was somewhat hesitant, realising that a junior officer should not become too friendly with a senior member of the staff, but she relented when Mark said, ‘It is to do with our task, Lorraine — at least, that’s what I’ll tell anybody who asks!’
‘All right,’ she said.
‘My car’s in the car-park,’ he added. ‘I’ll just tell DI Larkin where we’re going.’
Larkin was genuinely pleased. He liked to see Pemberton with a woman — the poor fellow never took time off and seldom went out unless it was connected with his work. Now he was heading for the romantic heather-clad moors with a lovely woman at his side! Larkin sighed. He had a wife and family to think about… He pressed a button to test HOLMES for information about red cars observed near the scene of Muriel Brown’s death.
Happy that the system was working, he bent to his task. He scanned the statements for further references to red cars. It would be gratifying to solve the Muriel Brown murder.
During the fifty-minute drive to Wolversdale, Lorraine told Mark she’d always wanted to research her own family history but had never had the time. She had no idea where to begin and had hit upon the idea of investigating Hartley’s background, purely out of interest. She thought it might help her to decide how to research her own family tree.
Mark agreed it was a good idea and told her of the Chief Constable’s instructions that he should take more time off. He added that he regarded this outing as time off; true, it was remotely linked to his duties, but a day exploring the moors with an attractive woman could hardly be classified as official duty. Mark took a short cut along a deserted moorland road which eventually dropped steeply into Wolversdale. The road was no wider than his car, and grass grew along its centre. After a series of sharp bends and cattle grids, the road widened into the dale. The broad dale, so typical of the North York moors, was home to a scattering of farms, a bubbling stream, a Methodist chapel and a patchwork of dry-stone walls. The road led down the dale towards the village and soon they could see the outline of St Monica’s Catholic church at the bottom of the hill. It was large and Gothic, having been built 120 years ago to replace an earlier building which had become too small. That smaller building was now the Catholic school, while its huge neighbour had the capacity of a cathedral.
In spite of its size, it was a mere parish church in a small North Yorkshire moorland village, Wolversdale being known as the village missed by the Reformation.
Spread before the church was the graveyard. Mark parked beside the metal gate and entered with Lorraine close behind. As they walked along the gravel path between the tombstones, Mark noticed a large grey-haired man swinging a scythe. With his back to the newcomers, he was clearing away the long grass which flourished near each stone. He used the ancient tool with considerable
skill.
Mark approached him.
‘Good morning,’ he began, and the man stood erect to face him.
For Mark, it was like staring at the photograph of Caleb Hodgson Hartley. The man’s features were identical to those of the Vice-President — sturdy appearance, strong jaw, squarish features, heavy cheeks and thick neck with a head of iron grey hair, neatly trimmed. He would be in his middle or late sixties. This man was surely a Hartley.
‘Now then,’ greeted the man without a smile. ‘Visitors, are you? Tourists?’
‘Yes,’ said Mark. ‘I’m looking for the Hartley family graves.’
‘Then you’ve found ’em.’ The man spoke in a heavy North Yorkshire moorland accent. ‘These here,’ and he swept an arc with the scythe to indicate the general area.
‘Oh, thanks,’ smiled Mark.
‘Why do you want to see ’em? You’re not a Hartley, are you?’
‘No.’ Mark decided to adopt his official role. ‘I’m Detective Superintendent Pemberton of the local force, and this is my assistant, Detective Constable Cashmore. Are you Mr George Hartley, by any chance?’
‘I am,’ said the man, straightening up. ‘George Hartley from Pike Hill Farm, that’s me. So, why all this interest in the Hartleys all of a sudden?’
‘You know about Mr Caleb Hodgson Hartley, the Vice-President of the United States?’ From details in the file, Mark recognised that this man was the eldest of the local Hartleys.
‘Aye, I do,’ and Hartley volunteered nothing further.
‘He’s coming here to look up his family roots,’ Mark continued. ‘He’ll want to see these graves.’
‘I can’t understand why he thinks we’ve got links with his family,’ grunted the big man. ‘I know nowt about any American cousins, let alone a big-wig like yon chap.’
‘He looks just like you,’ said Mark. ‘Same facial features. And he’s called Caleb like you. Your middle name, I believe? A family name?’
‘How come you know that?’ The man looked shocked.
‘My job is to arrange his security while he’s here.’ Mark explained his role, adding (with tongue in cheek) that the securing of some background information was part of that duty. ‘We know he’s made an appointment to see you next Tuesday.’
‘I’ve got to keep it quiet, not tell the press or anyone who he is. That’s why I’m clearing these tombstones, so he can get a good look at our graves. He can see these for himself. There’s nowt else I can tell him.’
‘No family bible?’ put in Mark.
‘It got burnt years ago,’ said Hartley. ‘We’ve started another, but it doesn’t go all that far back.’
‘So you’ve never researched your own family tree?’
‘Nay, lad, not me. I’ve allus had better things to do with my time. These are my family, buried here. I’ve no need to go raking around churches and libraries to find any more.’
‘It’s a big family, though, isn’t it?’
‘Big by some standards, I suppose,’ agreed Mr Hartley. ‘But we’re Catholics, allus have been, right through the Reformation. And we’ve spread a bit, we’ve some relations living away from here, in Hull, Newcastle, Gloucester, Leicestershire, Wales and other spots, but we seldom keep in touch. Distant cousins, that sort of thing. They turn up at funerals, then you never see ’em again for years. We’re just Yorkshire farmers, Mr Pemberton, and this is our home.’
‘So you know nothing of his claims to be descended from your family?’
‘I reckon he’s made it all up. I’ll bet some of his pals have been over here and have seen all those tombstones with Caleb Hartleys mentioned on them. They’ll have gone back to America and told him, and because his name’s the same, he’s come to think we’re relations of his. There’s no other explanation, Mr Pemberton. We do get lots of Americans around here, looking up their families, then going back and bragging about ancient Yorkshire roots.’
‘I suppose if they go back far enough, they might find a link. Now, do you mind if I look around at these graves?’
‘Nay, lad, help yourself, it’s a free country. Mebbe if you do turn up summat, you’ll let me know?’
‘I will, of course,’ said Mark.
‘Can we come and talk to you again if we have to?’ asked Lorraine with one of her dazzling smiles.
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Especially if you find out he’s rich! We’re nobbut poor hill farmers, not high-flying politicians.’
Mr Hartley wandered off with his scythe as Mark and Lorraine began to inspect the rows of gravestones. This corner was devoted to Hartleys. There was a Caleb Hartley born in 1852 who died in 1922 — he had no other Christian name. His wife, Sarah, was buried in the same grave, having died in 1926. There was a Thomas Joseph Hartley born in 1884 who died in 1926, the Reverend Father Matthew Hartley born in 1888, died in 1961, and Private James Reuben Hartley, a casualty of the first World War. None had a Caleb name.
Private James Reuben Hartley of the 5th Battalion of the Green Howards died in 1916 aged thirty, and the inscription said, ‘Death’s rough call unlooses all our favourite ties on earth; and well if they are such as may be answered in yonder world where all is judged of truly.’ Underneath, it said, ‘Beloved son of Caleb and Sarah Hartley. Taken so suddenly. RIP.’
‘If this chap was in the army,’ said Mark, ‘he might have founded a dynasty, eh? He could be the daddy of the America Hartleys.’
‘I can’t see that, sir — our soldiers didn’t visit America or Canada during that war, did they? Besides, there’s no mention of a wife or young family on his tombstone,’ said Lorraine.
‘I wish you’d not call me sir when we’re alone. I do have a name. It’s Mark.’
‘It’s not easy, sir…er …Mark, me being a constable and you a superintendent. You’re my boss…’
‘Suppose I ordered you to call me Mark?’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Then I’d have to obey, sir!’
‘Precisely,’ smiled Mark. ‘Now, back to James. Perhaps he was a naughty boy when he was playing away from home?’
‘So we need to know more about him?’ Lorraine looked happy. ‘It seems he was a hero, being lost in the war. Shall I ring the Green Howards at Richmond to see what their records show?’
‘Good idea,’ said Mark. ‘Try the Green Howards Museum, I went there once, and they’ve got some useful displays and information about World War One. Names of medal winners, those killed on duty, the wounded and so on. I’ve a telephone in the car. There’s no time like the present, is there?’
Directory Enquiries quickly produced the telephone number of the Green Howards Regimental Headquarters and Museum at Richmond in Yorkshire and Mark passed the handset to Lorraine, saying, ‘Ask about privates killed on duty during 1916. There’ll be a list, a roll of honour or something. We want to know where James was serving when he died, and we’d like to know more about his career if that’s possible. Just think — the Hartleys might have a hero in the family!’
Lorraine called the number and waited, then said, ‘This is Detective Constable Cashmore of the local police. I wonder if you can help me?’
‘Yes, if possible,’ said a woman’s voice. ‘I’m interested in a private of the Green Howards, 5th Battalion, who was killed in action during the First World War. It was in 1916. Private James Reuben Hartley is the name, he’s buried at Wolversdale. I wondered if there was any information about him in your records? You know, where he died, where he served and so on. Yes, I can hold on.’
Lorraine waited and then the woman returned. ‘He’s not on our roll of members who were killed while on active service in the First World War,’ she said. ‘That list is very easy to find. But there is a reference in the Green Howards’ Gazette of the period. He didn’t die on active service, Constable. He was murdered while on leave in September 1916.’
Chapter Four
Lorraine was stunned. She stared at Pemberton almost in a state of shock with the handset clutched in her fist. She whispered, ‘He was murder
ed, sir, she says Private James Hartley was murdered while he was on leave.’
‘Oh my God,’ he said. ‘Let me speak to her.’ And he took the handset from Lorraine.
‘I’m Detective Superintendent Pemberton,’ he announced. ‘What’s this about Private James Reuben Hartley being murdered?’
‘That’s what’s in our Gazette, Mr Pemberton,’ stressed the museum official. ‘We’ve lists of personnel who were killed or wounded in 1916; the Green Howards’ Gazette shows the casualties and Private Hartley is mentioned because he was murdered while on leave. It happened in September 1916, although the exact date is not given.’
‘You’ve no more details?’
‘Not in the museum or the Gazette. There might be something in the regimental records, but we don’t keep them here. I can check, if you wish. I might be able to get a photocopy of whatever there is. If we have any information, I can’t see there’d be a problem passing it to you in this case.’
‘Could you? I’d be most grateful.’
‘Is there anything in particular you require?’
‘I need to know the exact date of his death and the full circumstances, along with his service record. I must know when he died and where he died and whether anyone was prosecuted for the murder. As much as you’ve got, in other words. I can come to the museum or any other office if necessary.’
‘I’ll check first, to see what we do have. I doubt if we’ll have all that kind of detail, most of our World War One records have been destroyed. But I will check with the regimental HQ. It might take a while, but I’ll call you. Where can I contact you?’
Pemberton gave her the numbers of two lines into the Incident Room, the fax number and the address of Thirklewood Hall. He also provided his office address at Great Halverton police headquarters but stressed the need for the utmost discretion. The lady, whose name was Mrs Preston, said she understood and would call him as soon as she was able.
‘Well, blow me, Lorraine,’ he said when he replaced the handset. ‘That’s a turn-up for the books, as they say. Who’d want to murder a humble private soldier who was coming home on leave before going off to fight for King and country?’
Family Ties (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 1) Page 3
