‘Who was Maria then?’ asked Mark. ‘A sister of yours?’
‘Nay, lad, a lot older than that, a great aunt. My grandfather’s sister.’
‘You’re a big family?’
‘Aye, we are that. Spread all over t’country now, and doing well most of ’em, especially t’youngsters. You’ll have heard of Bartholomew Caleb Preston?’
‘The Member of Parliament?’ said Mark. ‘That’s him. Conservative. Junior Minister for summat or other. Well, he’s descended from the Hull Hartleys, my Great Uncle Thomas. Then there’s the Latimers from Lincoln, they’re in business down there, doing very well.’
‘I’ve heard of the Hartleys of Hull,’ acknowledged Pemberton.
‘Aye, it’s a famous store, make no mistake, and then there’s Great Aunt Jessica, who married Henry Latimer, well, she started the Latimer branch off. And we had one who was a priest, Father Matthew, he’s buried down the village.’
‘You’re obviously proud of them all.’ Mark settled in one of the easy chairs as George waved him to be seated. Then Mrs Hartley brought in a tray containing their ’lowance. It bore two massive mugs of hot coffee, a plate of biscuits, a sponge cake already sliced into enormous V-shaped chunks, some scones and two rounds of ham sandwiches.
‘Good heavens, are we expecting somebody else?’ Mark eyed the food.
‘Nay, lad, this is our ’lowance,’ said Mrs Hartley, putting the tray on a low table. ‘It’ll just put you on till it’s dinner time.’
Dinner time on these moors was around noon, when another huge meal of cooked meat and three vegetables would be consumed by the hungry farm workers. She gave Mark a plate and told him to help himself, then left.
‘I am proud of them all,’ said George, resuming the earlier part of their conversation. ‘It’s allus said hereabouts that a Hartley’s not frightened of hard work and that no Hartley has ever been out of a job. We’ve never been on the dole and we’ve allus fended for ourselves.’
‘It’s a pity other people can’t say the same.’ Mark did not really know how to respond.
‘Too reliant on other folks, too reliant on state hand-outs, most of ’em,’ he grumbled. ‘Anyroad, Mr Pemberton, you’ve not come to talk politics. Is it summat to do with that American chap.’
‘Yes, it is.’ Mark knew that what he was about to say would be very difficult indeed and he really did not know how to broach the subject of the death of James or the departure of Luke. But he knew that, when in doubt, you started at the beginning and you told the truth.
He continued. ‘Mr Hartley, you know that Vice-President Hartley claims to be descended from your family?’
‘Aye, we ’ad a chap from t’Embassy came weeks ago to tell us. Drove all t’way up from London just to say so.’
‘And it was news to you?’
‘It was that! I’ve never come across that tale before and, well, I was taken aback by it. I mean, some of the Hartleys have done very well in life, but, I mean, being Vice-President of the United States! I never thought he’d be one of ours. I mean, that’s flying a bit high for us Hartleys, Mr Pemberton. We’re nobbut yeoman, Yorkshire hill farmers.’
‘So you don’t reckon it’s true? About the Vice-President’s ancestors coming from here? From this farm?’
‘Nay, lad, nobody’s ever said owt about that. If we’d had American cousins, you’d think somebody would have known, wouldn’t you?’
‘So you’ve never delved into your family background?’
‘No, never. We’re not that way inclined, Mr Pemberton, we’re not academics, we’re too busy earning our living on the farm, working on the land, day in and day out. We’ve no time to go delving into old records or scratching around churchyards.’
‘It’s very popular these days, especially with the Americans,’ he said.
‘Mebbe so, but what’s past is past, I reckon. Families get spread about, but I’ve never heard owt of an American branch of the Hartleys.’
‘And the other family cousins? They’ve never referred to an American branch either? They’ve not bothered to research their family roots?’
‘Nay, not to my knowledge. If they had, I think I would have known. After all, this farm was where it all started with my great grandfather Caleb Hartley. And we’re all buried down the village in St Monica’s. But, well, I’m getting on for seventy now and nobody’s ever come to me asking about bygone Hartleys — until that American Embassy chap turned up.’
‘How do you feel about it now? If it was true, for example, would you be pleased?’
‘Well, I’m a bit of a realist, Mr Pemberton, I must say I’d be right proud if we were related, but sometimes it’s best to leave things unsaid. Now, if this fellow starts investigating our family, well, he might turn summat up that’s best left alone.’
‘Are there some family secrets that should not be publicised?’ Pemberton put to him.
‘I don’t know of any, but if folks start delving, you never know what’ll turn up. Every family has a skeleton or two in its cupboard, as they say, even if we don’t know what they are. Mebbe it’s best to leave things as they are. I can’t say I would welcome these Americans digging into our background. That hardly seems right.’
‘But you know of no skeletons?’ Mark asked.
George shook his heavy grey head. ‘Not me, not among the Pike Hill Farm Hartleys. We’ve allus been law-abiding and religious, never got into debt or left bills unpaid. We’ve allus done what’s right, Mr Pemberton, so I don’t reckon we’ve any skeletons to worry about. But the snag is you never know what our cousins or half-cousins have got up to over t’years, especially them that’s moved away. You can pick your friends, Mr Pemberton, but you can’t pick your relations. You’re stuck with them!’
‘Suppose there was some hidden secret? What would you do?’
‘Do?’
‘Yes, with this American interest in your background. Would you hide it?’
‘Is that why you’re here, Mr Pemberton?’ The old farmer’s shrewd eyes looked directly into Mark’s face. ‘I thought there must be summat important bringing you here, a policeman, I mean. Are you saying there is summat I ought to know?’
‘We’ve been doing a bit of background research of our own, Mr Hartley,’ Mark began. ‘I — by that I mean myself and a team of detectives, we are responsible for the security of Mr Hartley when he arrives. So we did a little bit of checking…’
‘You’re not saying some of my cousins are likely to have a go at him, are you?’ George looked horrified. ‘Attack him or summat?’
‘No, I’m not. At least I hope not! But, well, we thought there might be a hero in the family…’
‘You mean James? Him that died in World War One? He was a soldier, you know, Green Howards, 5th Battalion. My grandfather’s brother. He’s buried down the village, but I’ve never thought of him as a hero. The Embassy chap asked about him, he asked what had happened. He must have looked round our churchyard before coming here.’
‘As I did. I thought it would be nice to discover how he died too,’ said Mark gently. ‘So that we could tell the Vice-President — that’s if he is linked to the family, of course.’
‘Oh, and did you find summat?’
‘You don’t know how he died? The family haven’t said?’
‘Well, tales did come down from my grandfather. As a lad, I heard that Great Uncle James was shot when he was coming home on leave, he never got to the trenches, that’s why his name isn’t on our War Memorial. No one ever did find out why he got shot — there was tales hereabout that it was a German spy.’
‘A spy?’ Pemberton asked.
‘Aye, but I reckon it was just tales, village gossip. Nobody was ever caught for shooting him, I do know that, and folks said the lane was haunted, they said a ghost haunted the spot where he was shot. I’ve had all sorts of folks asking for details, for books and things, but I know nowt about that carry-on, Mr Pemberton. All I said was that James was an ancestor of ours, but I kne
w nowt about ghosts and things. A load of rubbish is all that. But he died before I was born, and nobody ever said what really happened. Having heard things as a kid, I just thought the Germans had got him, summat to do with him being a soldier. There was a tale he’d stumbled across a spy doing summat very secret and got shot for his trouble.’
‘That’s all news to me,’ admitted Mark. ‘I’ve never come across that story, it was never considered by the police. The investigation never included that angle, and it is very well documented.’
‘Well documented?’ asked George.
‘By the police of the time. They made very exhaustive enquiries,’ said Mark, seeing that George was listening intently. ‘James came home on leave and got off the train at Rosenthorpe. He was supposed to have been met with a pony and trap, because he was carrying all his kit, but the person who was supposed to pick him up didn’t get to the station in time. Later that same evening, James was found dead. His body was found lying beside the road on some common land.’
‘Down near Rosenthorpe cricket field — I’ve been there,’ said George.
‘That’s right. When he died, he was in full Green Howards uniform — and he had been shot, as you say.’
‘Suicide, you mean? Had he done it himself?’
‘No,’ said Mark. ‘That was the first suggestion, but he had been shot by someone else. He was murdered, Mr Hartley, there’s no doubt about that.’
‘Well, I appreciate knowing the true story. How come you know all this, Mr Pemberton?’
Mark explained how he had acquired this knowledge, emphasising the fact that the Rainesbury Gazette had the story in its files and saying the police investigation did not mention anything of spies or military assassinations. This was a straightforward case of civil murder.
‘I thought you should know the facts before your guest arrives,’ concluded Pemberton.
‘Aye, you’re right. It’s best we know what happened if those Americans start asking. So Great Uncle James was murdered in 1916? He wasn’t shot by a spy or owt like that?’
‘No. He wasn’t a hero, Mr Hartley, although he did complete his training with the Green Howards and his CO said he had the makings of a very good soldier. He got good reports.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned. I don’t know what to say about all this. But, Mr Pemberton, who’d want to kill my Great Uncle James?’
Chapter Eleven
Mark had anticipated this question but decided it was unwise to reveal his deepest suspicions at this stage.
‘We don’t know,’ he answered. ‘The murderer was never found, no one was arrested, and no motive was ever discovered.’
‘That’s bloody terrible, Mr Pemberton.’
George almost whispered the words. ‘In a small community like this, especially in them days, you’d have thought somebody would have been caught. It was a hanging offence then, wasn’t it? Mebbe it was a German spy after all? A hit and run killing?’
‘I doubt it, honestly I do. What it means, Mr Hartley, is that we have unearthed an unsolved murder. I’d like to delve a bit deeper and find out all I can before the American contingent arrives. I’d like to get answers before they come, which gives me only two clear days. It’s Friday now and the Vice-President comes on Monday — and there’s a weekend in between. I need to know as much as I can before then — and the Americans might not be quite as discreet as my officers.’
‘But this chap who’s coming, he’s not going to blab it all over t’papers, is he?’
‘He does have a reputation for speaking his mind, Mr Hartley. Yorkshire bluntness is what he calls it, but because this is a private visit, the press will not be told of his presence.’
‘Well, that’s good news. I was told to say nowt about it.’
‘And I have no intention of informing the papers, whatever we find out about his family, or yours. Everything will be kept confidential. But I doubt if we can stop him speaking out if he wants to — after all, if he does find his Yorkshire roots he might want to tell everybody about it even if it is embarrassing for some.’
‘A Hartley failing, Mr Pemberton. Some of us have opened our mouths a bit too much at times. Said things that mebbe we shouldn’t. So he’s like that, is he? Mebbe he is my cousin!’
‘He does it all the time, so I’m led to believe, but the snag is that when he opens his mouth, he’s speaking for the entire United States of America. And people do listen; he has said some fairly antagonistic things about this country in the past.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want him blabbing on about our family, Mr Pemberton, especially if there’s summat wants keeping quiet.’
‘My own view, for what it’s worth, is this,’ said Mark. ‘I’d like to find out as much as I can about the links between your family and his, and I’d like to do so before he gets here, and I haven’t much time left. If there is anything to be kept quiet, we might be able to persuade him not to shout about it either here or in the States. That’s assuming, of course, that he really is a relation of yours.’
‘Now, that’s a point,’ said George. ‘Mebbe he’s not connected at all!’
‘T think he is,’ said Mark quietly. ‘I think the Embassy man who came to see you was right.’
‘Oh my God… You’ve discovered summat else?’ George sighed. ‘After all these years of thinking I knew my family. I thought I knew every one of ’em, well, the Wolversdale Hartleys anyroad. But I never knew about yon murder.’
‘You know that Vice-President Hartley claimed to be descended from a Luke Caleb Hartley who emigrated to America?’
‘Aye, that’s what the chap from the embassy told me. But I’d never heard of a Luke who’d emigrated. He said the Luke chap was his grandfather.’
‘It seems that was his grandfather’s name and certainly, there was a Luke who emigrated,’ Mark told him. ‘He was your grandfather’s brother.’
‘Was he, by God? Are you sure? I never knew about him, Mr Pemberton. Mind, I never knew much about my grandfather’s family. You don’t, do you? Most of us know nowt about our grandparents’ brothers and sisters, do we?’
‘That’s true.’ Mark realised he knew so very little about his own family of that generation.
‘So, Mr Pemberton. Are we talking about the same Luke? Who was this Luke chap?’
‘It’s very possible it is the same man but at this point, I have no confirmation of that. I am trying to establish any possible connection. Our Luke, the one who emigrated, was the eldest son of your great grandparents, Sarah and Caleb Hartley. As you know, they lived here, in this farmhouse.’
‘Eldest son? But I allus thought my grandfather was the eldest. He was George Stanley, he died in 1951.’
‘Luke was born in 1879,’ said Mark. ‘His full name was Luke Caleb Hartley.’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ said George. ‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘Summat that’s been puzzling me for years. It’s why my dad was not called Caleb. You see, Mr Pemberton, we Hartleys have allus given the eldest son the name of Caleb, mebbe not his main name, but allus as part of it. My dad was a Caleb and I’m George Caleb, being his eldest son. And we called our eldest lad Alan Caleb. But you see, my grandfather was not a Caleb, he was George Stanley. I’ve often wondered why he wasn’t a Caleb. I allus thought he was the eldest son of Sarah and Caleb.’
‘Well, now you know. Your grandad wasn’t the eldest son, he was the second son. The eldest of that generation was Luke Caleb and he was the man who emigrated to Canada. Then he moved down to America. I’m having enquiries made to establish his movements, but I must admit I’m pretty certain that he is the Luke Caleb who left this farm.’
‘And did he start the American side?’
‘I think so. I think he is the grandfather of the current Vice-President of the United States.’
‘So that makes the Vice-President a cousin of mine, of us, of the Hartley family?’
‘It does indeed, if it’s true. And when you
meet him, you’ll see the family likeness. He could be your own brother if his photo’s anything to go by. Now, I’ve no idea how much background information the Vice-President has managed to unearth for himself, but I am having enquiries made at Liverpool to see if we can trace any emigration records for 1916 — the year Luke left. I want to know if and when Luke Caleb actually sailed, who went with him, when he went and where he went.’
‘I don’t know what to say, Mr Pemberton. Two shocks in one day. All that about Great Uncle James and then finding out we’ve got cousins in America after all this time! I never dreamt of anything like this. Mind, I did wonder just a bit when that chap from the Embassy turned up. Caleb Hodgson Hartley, well, they’re all family names. That Vice-President has got all the right names, my great granny was a Hodgson… By gum, but if this is true and we’ve got famous American relations, well, I just don’t know what to say…’
‘There’s no family bible, didn’t you say the other day?’
‘There was, years ago, but it got burnt, so I was told. My grandad started a new one. We’ve got that.’
‘But it doesn’t mention Luke?’
‘No, not a mention, not a word.’
‘Can I see it, please?’
‘Aye, of course, I’ve got it ready for when Caleb Hodgson Hartley comes here.’
George went off to find the bible and returned with a huge black leather-bound volume. The centre pages were marked by a blue ribbon and he flicked it open, then laid it on the coffee table before Mark.
‘See,’ he said, ‘it shows Sarah and Caleb who lived at this farm; he died in 1922 and she died in 1926. And their family, according to this, were George, the eldest, that’s my grandfather, then Samuel who was a butcher and Thomas and Sophie, the twins, who went to Hull. Then there was James the soldier, Matthew the priest, Jessica, who married a chap called Latimer, and Robert, the youngest, who went to live in Newcastle after marrying Freda Plews.’
‘But no mention of Luke?’ noted Mark. ‘Nay, not a reference. Why do you think they’ve missed him off, Mr Pemberton?’
Family Ties (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 1) Page 11
