Family Ties (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 1)
Page 17
‘Yes, what do you want?’ she demanded.
‘Miss Roe?’ he asked politely.
‘Aye, that’s me. Who are you?’
‘Pemberton is the name. Detective Superintendent Mark Pemberton.’
‘If it’s to do with that Hartley business, I’m saying nowt. I had one of your detective women snooping about yesterday, asking questions. What’s going on, mister? Why are they suddenly asking about Jimmy Hartley all over again?’
‘We’ve reopened enquiries into his murder,’ Mark said. ‘I’m in charge of the enquiries and you are the only surviving witness, you see. That means you’re important.’
‘I said my bit to Inspector Dawson. I told him what I’d seen.’
‘You were just a child then, Millicent.’ Pemberton was gentle with her although it was evident he was not going to be invited inside. ‘I wondered whether, as you grew older, your memory of the horse and cart, or pony and trap, had grown any clearer.’
She sighed. ‘I told Dawson and I’m telling you that what I saw I saw. I saw a man sitting in a horse and cart, that’s all. I don’t know who he was. I still don’t.’
‘Did you know Luke Hartley, when you were a girl?’
‘There were lots of Mr Hartleys in them days.’ She spoke quietly. ‘They were a big family, allus knocking about our village, Rosenthorpe as well as Wolversdale.’
‘You saw them a lot?’
‘Yes, always coming and going, one or other of them, having their horses shod or cart wheels fixed. Decent folk, mister. I never knew which was which. I was only a kid — they were all grown-ups, all just Mr Hartleys to me.’
‘So was the man in the cart one of those Mr Hartleys?’ he pressed her.
‘I don’t know, God knows I don’t! How many more times do I have to say I don’t know who that man was!’
‘I wondered if, as you grew older, you realised who it might have been.’
She merely shook her head, almost in exasperation.
He went on, ‘I’m sorry to press you like this, but it is so important. Did you know any of the younger Hartleys?’
‘Only that lad-fond lass of theirs.’
‘Lad-fond?’
‘Allus chasing the lads, she was. Her mother would send her down here to t’shops and she’d spend her time chatting to the lads instead of going about her business.’
‘Why can you remember her?’
‘Aye, I can. She was a right flirt, allus chatting to the lads, teasing ’em, leading ’em on. The local lasses didn’t stand a chance when she was around. Bonny lass she was, older than me, of course. Same age as my elder sister, Dora. She’s gone now, God bless her, my sister that is, but she never stood a chance against that Hartley lass. All our local lasses were jealous, I used to hear my cousin go on about her…’
‘So that’s how you remember her? She charmed the boys, eh? That would be Sarah, was it?’
‘Aye, Sarah, that’s the one. She went to Canada, I remember. And good riddance, that’s what the local lasses said. allus trying to steal other lasses’ boyfriends she was. My mother knew her, you see; my mother had been at school with her mum — Edith, she was. Edith Hartley.’
‘Luke was Sarah’s dad, Millicent. Did you ever see them together? As a family?’
‘No, never. We never got up to the farm and they allus came down here themselves, Sarah would come on her pony. Allus well kitted out, she was, they seemed to have plenty of money. We had nowt, you see. I was right jealous of her then, but not now. Money’s not everything, they’ve had their troubles.’
‘What sort of troubles?’
‘Well, Jimmy mainly. A murder in the family. That’s awful, especially when they never caught the killer. I mean, there was bound to be suspicions, talk about family troubles, rumours, that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of rumours, Millicent?’
‘I might have repeated ’em as a bairn, Mr Pemberton, but I’ve grown up now and it’s not for me to keep spreading tales that might not be true. There was talk of wartime spies being responsible, some said Jimmy had stumbled on a German doing summat and died because of it. Then some said it was nowt to do with the war, that Jimmy deserved to die, if you know what I mean.’
‘No, I don’t know…’
‘Then if you can’t find out, it’s mebbe not true so I’d best shut up. Least said, soonest mended.’
‘I’m sorry to keep pestering you like this, but as I said, it is very important. Even now, we have no idea why James was killed, and I just wondered if the man in the cart might have been Luke Hartley, Sarah’s father?’
‘It might, and it might not, I just don’t know.’ She sighed. ‘Dawson kept asking me that and I couldn’t say one way or the other, and I still can’t. If I could say it was him, I would. But I don’t know and that’s God’s honest truth. I might be a bit of a gossip, but I don’t tell lies. If I said I was certain it was Luke in that cart, I’d be telling a lie and if I’d said that at the time, I could have got him hanged, couldn’t I? Now think of that — suppose I had said it was him when it wasn’t? Me, getting a man hanged… It could have happened, Mr Pemberton, me a lass of six getting a respected local man hanged for summat he might not have done… You see why I stick to my guns, why I can’t say who I saw that day? God knows I’ve tried to think who it was but no, I just do not know. I have my principles…’
‘You are right, of course, Millicent; you must tell the truth at all times.’
‘I’d been brought up to be truthful, you see.’
‘I congratulate you on that. So, even as a little girl, you knew not to say it was Luke — can I assume it wasn’t anybody else you knew?’
‘No, it wasn’t anybody I knew. It was a man, like I said. I couldn’t even describe what he looked like or what he was wearing. I just got a quick glimpse through the hedge as I went past. I mean, I never popped behind the hedge to see him, I just kept going, to get home for my tea.’
‘Thanks, Millicent. I’m sorry to have taken up your time.’
‘I can’t think why you want to know all this,’ and she closed the door, not slamming it as she had done with Lorraine. He left the dirty house and she stood at the window to observe his departure, framed in the light of the dim bulb which glowed inside. In spite of his brief interview, he felt sure she did have some idea of the identity of the man behind the hedge. She would take the knowledge to her grave, he believed; nonetheless, he did feel she had saved Luke from the hangman’s noose. Positive evidence from Millicent and Lapsley would have convicted him.
Pemberton climbed into his car and turned towards Wolversdale. George Hartley was waiting when he arrived and wasted no time introducing him to his son, Alan, before escorting him through the corridors of the old farmhouse and up to the attic. Alan came with them; he was a younger version of his father with the distinctive sturdiness and colouring of the Hartleys. Even in him, Mark could see the resemblance to the photograph of the Vice-President.
‘I’ve explained to our Alan that you’re doing a bit of background checking before t’Vice-President arrives,’ George said, not once mentioning the real reason for Mark’s visit. ‘But, well, when I turned this gun up, I thought you’d better take it. We don’t want unlicensed guns around the house, do we, Alan? These things are dangerous, and I can’t see we need to keep it as an heirloom of Great Uncle James.’
‘I had no idea it was there,’ said the younger Hartley. ‘We’ve never once looked in that old trunk. We knew it held Great Uncle James’s stuff and saw no need to go poking around.’
‘I’ll get rid of it for you,’ said Mark. ‘I’ll treat it as a surrendered weapon.’
In the attic, Mark saw the neatly laid out contents of the old trunk and was immediately handed the revolver in its wooden box. He opened it to find a Smith and Wesson .45 revolver in good condition, well-greased and displaying the tiniest hint of rust on the top of the barrel. There was no ammunition with it, nor any other accoutrements such as cleaning rods.
‘Aye, stuff his mother had kept for years, Mr Pemberton. You’ll not be interested in this, will you?’
Mark inspected the other items, picking up the occasional piece of military kit, but decided there was nothing of any value to him, with the possible exception of the letters.
‘I wouldn’t mind a look at the letters,’ he said, somehow feeling he was prying into their private lives. ‘It’ll mean taking them away, I’m afraid. I can’t read them here, it would take a long time.’
‘Well, I can’t see any problem with that, can you, Alan? I mean, all parties are dead and gone, and you’d let us have ’em back?’
‘Oh yes, of course. I’d have them back here before the Vice-President pays his visit, just in case you wanted him to see them.’
And so father and son allowed Pemberton to carry off the bundle of precious letters. He had a cup of tea and a piece of cake with Alan and his wife, Jennifer, and then thanked them, wishing them luck for the forthcoming Vice-Presidential visit.
After leaving Alan’s house, however, Mark decided to ask George what he knew about the Hull section of his family.
Chapter Seventeen
In his comfortable bungalow, George Hartley told Pemberton that he knew a little about his Hull cousins. He added that when his own father had died in 1975, several of the Hull cousins had attended the funeral.
‘Was there a man called Patrick among them?’ asked Mark. ‘He’d have been about sixty then. Patrick Harland.’
‘Cousin Patrick, yes. He worked for Hartleys of Hull, summat to do with the accounts side. A bachelor. No wife or family. I remember me and him having a chat about my accounts, saying how farmers were clobbered by the tax man. He said he might be able to help, but I never took him up on that.’
‘Who was he, George?’ asked Mark. ‘Who was he? He was Cousin Patrick.’
‘Yes, but whose son was he? What precisely was his relationship with the family? Do you know?’
‘He was Aunt Sophie’s lad, at least I always thought he was. Like I said before, I was never one for delving into family backgrounds. Why ask about him, Mr Pemberton? Is there summat else I should be knowing about?’
‘He’s not listed in your family bible, is he?’
‘You’ve a good memory! But now you mention it, no, his name’s not there.’
‘I know the old bible was destroyed, but the new one, the one your father began to compile, did mention Sophie; she was married in 1912 to a man called Aiden Harland.’
‘Aye, that’s right.’
‘But there was no mention of a family for Sophie and her husband,’ said Mark. ‘And our files, the ones covering the murder, hinted that Sophie couldn’t bear children. She had none then, in 1916, and yet, according to the Hull Hartleys, via a man called Hurworth, Patrick was born in 1916.’
‘Was he, by gum? Then she might have adopted him, eh?’
‘That thought had occurred to me, Mr Hartley, which is why I’m asking you now. We couldn’t find any reference to his baptism in St Ignatius’ church in Hull where he made his first communion, but I didn’t check any of the others.’
‘But if he was adopted, Mr Pemberton, he could have been baptised anywhere. In those days, Catholics allus baptised their bairns on the very first Sunday after they were born. So you’d have to find out where he was born, then you’d find out if he was baptised in a Catholic church.’
‘Thanks — I thought of checking on that, but it’s hard knowing where to start, George. Formal adoption wasn’t introduced until 1926, so I doubt if there are any detailed records about Patrick. I just wondered if you knew anything more about him. It was a long shot.’
‘Nay, lad, I’m sorry, but Patrick’s dead now, isn’t he?’
‘Last year, unfortunately. I’m told he would have loved to have met the Vice-President.’
‘You could allus try the Catholic Adoption Society, they might know where to start looking. I know some folks hereabouts who have got good service from them.’
‘Thanks, I might do that. Well, I must be off. Goodnight, George, and thanks for your help.’
‘I hope you get it all sorted out before that American chap comes,’ said George.
‘So do I!’ There was feeling in every word.
First thing next morning, Saturday 9th July, Mark Pemberton assembled his officers for a conference and gave them details of everything he had discovered to date. It gave them a welcome insight into the fact that this old murder investigation was far from defunct; the enquiry was very much alive and now that the murder weapon might have been found, it would add to the motivation of the teams.
‘So…’ Mark produced the Smith and Wesson from its box and showed it to them. ‘Sarge?’
He passed it to Detective Sergeant Tony Ashton.
‘Sarge, we have the bullet which was found in James’s body and now we have that firearm. Have words with the ballistics lab in Nottingham as soon as you can to see if they can match the gun with the bullet. Drive down there if it’s necessary. Tell them it’s an old case, but stress that it’s urgent in view of the impending visit of the American Vice-President. What I need to know is whether that bullet was fired from that weapon. I know it’s Saturday, but they do function at weekends if it’s urgent. And this is.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said Ashton.
‘Lorraine, I want you to read through all these letters. I had a look at them last night when I got back. Some are from James to his mother, the others from mother to James, all written while he was undergoing training. Your feminine intuition might find something that our merely male minds have missed.’
‘Such as what, sir? What am I looking for?’
‘Some hint as to the reason for James’s death. Some clue as to why it happened…something not shown in the files, something overlooked by the old detectives, something known only to the family, perhaps. Take your time, and when you’ve finished, get every one of them photocopied and we’ll have them entered in HOLMES. Then we can return them to George Hartley.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Paul?’
Detective Inspector Larkin smiled. ‘Sir?’
‘I believe you’re off to the National Railway Museum in York to check train times for 11th September 1916, if they’ve got any old timetables. We want the North-Eastern Railway, Thornborough to Rainesbury route and the Drakenedge to Rainesbury route.’
‘Right, I’ll enjoy that.’
‘We want to know if it was possible for Thomas Hartley to leave Thornborough on one train, get off at Rosenthorpe, spend time with his family at Wolversdale, and then catch another train to complete his journey to Rainesbury, either the same day or the day following. I think he might have done that, but we need to know whether it was feasible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Duncan?’
DC Young, the HOLMES programmer, put up his hand.
‘You’ll need photocopies of all this new stuff to enter into your magic box. I’ll leave that with you. As always, we’re looking for gaps in the evidence. Lorraine?’
‘Sir?’
‘When you’ve finished with those letters, I’ve another job for you. Concerning our mystery man, Patrick Harland. George Hartley has met him, at a family funeral, and regarded him as a cousin. He thought he was Sophie’s son. What I need to know is whether Patrick was the natural son of Sophie, perhaps born late in life, or whether he was adopted. Try the Catholic Adoption Society for starters — George says they’re very helpful.’
‘Sir,’ interrupted Larkin, ‘I’m a Catholic and if Patrick was confirmed at St Ignatius’ church, they would have needed to obtain his baptismal certificate before the confirmation could go ahead. If you can trace his confirmation record, it should give the date of the baptism and might possibly show the place;
confirmation certificates weren’t issued but if you can find the baptismal certificate, his confirmation details will be endorsed upon it. Baptismal certificates are produced later for weddings and they are considered important.’
'So I can ignore the church where he was confirmed; all I need is to find out where he was baptised!’ Lorraine said.
‘That’s it, Lorraine. A nice job for you in Hull — perhaps with a bit of time to do some shopping!’
‘Thanks, sir, I’ll enjoy the break from routine!’
And so Mark was able to provide his officers with some positive detection work, while simultaneously retaining staff to man the reception desk and maintain security in the Hall.
Having despatched them to their duties, he did a tour of Thirklewood Hall to make sure there were no problems, had a brief chat with both Mr Dunnock of the White House staff and Superintendent Birchall from Scotland Yard. It seemed they were happy with the security arrangements and had no criticisms. He therefore settled down in his own office to study the old file once more in view of the very recent developments. Then the telephone rang.
‘This is Mrs Preston from the Green Howards Museum at Richmond. We talked the other day, about Private James Reuben Hartley.’
‘Ah, yes.’ He remembered the very helpful Mrs Preston.
‘Well, the regimental HQ does not have any training records left from World War One, I’m sorry to tell you, so we couldn’t obtain details of Hartley’s service with us. However, there is a history of the Green Howards, it’s part of the Famous Regiments series. I’ve looked at that, Superintendent, just on the off-chance, and your Private James Reuben Hartley is mentioned. I said there was a reference in the Gazette, but he’s also mentioned in the history book because he was murdered just before going to France. The book gives quite a detailed account of his life. It was an unusual thing to happen, you see. I wondered if you were still interested in it.’
‘We most certainly are!’ His voice echoed his delight at this news. ‘Does it provide much information?’