Family Ties (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  ‘We thought James was a bit of a mother’s boy, sir,’ Pemberton told his Chief. ‘That’s what first came through to us upon reading the murder file, but he got a good training report from his CO and seems to have been a very capable chap.’

  ‘No enemies, other than the Germans?’ smiled Moore.

  ‘No, sir. We can’t think why he was killed. Anyway, Lorraine, let’s have a look. Is there anything in that American file which bears Luke’s signature?’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ she said. ‘He signed a receipt for some items of luggage when he disembarked. Somebody’s found a copy of that, it’s in the file,’ and she began to seek it. She found it without any trouble and opened the file wide so that it was in full view without removing it. Although it was a photocopy, the signature was perfectly legible. It was signed ‘Luke C Hartley’.

  ‘Now, let’s see how it compares with ours in the murder file.’

  Mark revealed the signature at the foot of Luke’s statement. It was identical: ‘Luke C Hartley’ in the same smooth handwriting with two curls on the stem of the final y.

  Moore smiled. ‘I think that any handwriting expert would agree those had been written by the same person. You’ll be having them expertly assessed, though?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So,’ said Moore, ‘we know that the Luke Hartley who left Wolversdale in 1916 is, without doubt, the ancestor of the Vice-President of America?’

  ‘Thanks to this, yes, we do, sir.’

  ‘And when did he leave for Canada?’

  ‘He sailed from Liverpool on 6th October and arrived in November 1916.’

  ‘I’d say that clinched it, Mark.’

  ‘Really? Why, sir?’

  ‘That’s when the Germans were having one of their submarine campaigns in the Atlantic. They were torpedoing everything — even passenger liners. During October 1916 alone some 148,000 tons of British shipping and 164,000 tons of foreign shipping were lost to the German U-boats.’

  ‘You ought to be on Mastermind, sir!’

  ‘And you ought to know a little more about your history, Mark. Luke must have been fairly desperate to have left the country and sailed on the high seas with his wife and family when all ships were at such risk from torpedoes.’

  ‘It’s a fair point, sir, but it still doesn’t prove he was a murderer. I like to think I’ve still got an open mind. A lot depends upon what we discover today. My teams are busy right now on several lines of enquiry.’

  ‘So how long will it take to get these results in, to get a positive answer to all this?’

  ‘By this evening, sir, I should have most of the background information that I’m waiting for.’

  ‘You know, Mark Pemberton, there are times I wish you would just sit back and take things easy. If you’d been any other officer sent here to do this job, you’d have put up your feet and let the world go. You’d have let your officers do just the necessary amount of work. But no, you’ve got to go delving into Hartley’s roots — and look what you’ve unearthed! A mighty can of worms if ever there was one. You’ve caused a huge problem, Mark — what the hell do we do with this information?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, it just happened like that…’

  ‘Look, you should have told me earlier, you know that, and I accept your apology. But I need to think this through — I’ll contact you later. Tomorrow be all right? And not a word to anyone, especially not to the Americans or the press. God, I don’t know what to do about this. It’s unthinkable, Mark, our VIP guest having a killer as a grandfather!’

  ‘It might not be so, sir. I’ve still got an open mind.’

  ‘If you have a gut feeling that he killed his brother, for whatever reason, I tend to trust your judgement. But if we’re going to present these facts to the great man, we need more than your judgement, Mark, we need proof. I wonder what the politicians will make of all this, when we tell them?’

  ‘Should we tell them, sir?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see what today’s enquiries bring, shall we? But I feel obliged to inform the Foreign Office — when you’ve produced more evidence.’

  Lorraine dismissed herself to continue reading the letters and, after chatting to Mark for another five minutes, the Chief Constable departed. As he was leaving, though, he halted in the office doorway and said, ‘You really should have told me about this earlier, Detective Superintendent.’ He had a wry smile on his handsome face. ‘And you should have taken things much easier.’

  Mark called in Barbara and asked her to make yet more photocopies of the two Luke signatures; then he dictated a letter to the forensic laboratory at Birmingham where there was a specialist in handwriting comparison. He asked whether it was possible, working from the enclosed photocopies, to say whether the two signatures had been made by the same person. He asked that the matter be treated as urgent — Barbara could fax the letter to the laboratory and a reply by telephone would be acceptable at this stage. Confirmation by certificate could follow in due course; if necessary, after an examination of the original signatures.

  Then Mark went to find Lorraine.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said. ‘I cannot leave the Hall today because I’ve sent Inspector Larkin out, but you can. I know I asked you to read those letters, but can I suggest you get straight down to Hull, to check on Patrick? I’ll go through the letters while I’m hanging around here — I’d like to get this Patrick business sorted out before tonight.’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll go.’

  ‘I have a theory which I’m not going to divulge just yet, Lorraine. A nasty theory, to be honest, in which I might be doing an injustice to the Hartleys. So I want to be sure of some facts before I give my views an airing — and Patrick is part of that theory.’

  ‘You think there was a conspiracy, don’t you? Between the family members? And James died as a consequence?’

  ‘I’m going to read those letters from Mum to James and from James to Mum, and I’m going to reread the statements taken by Inspector Dawson and his crew. I do get the impression that there was some kind of family gathering at Pike Hill Farm on the day James died, but I’m not sure what it was about. Whatever it was, it was kept secret from the police at the time. The question is, why?’

  Lorraine smiled. ‘You know more about this than you are admitting, sir.’

  ‘I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, Lorraine, but to be honest, I don’t know anything yet. I might know more when you get back from Hull with Patrick’s baptismal certificate!’

  ‘I’ll go now!’ she said. ‘The churches will be open on Saturdays.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time Charles Moore had left Thirklewood Hall, albeit a little later than he’d intended, Detective Sergeant Ashton had arrived at the ballistics department of the Forensic Science Laboratory in Nottingham. Because Ashton had telephoned in advance to outline his urgent request, the Police Liaison Officer, Detective Inspector Horton, was expecting him. Upon arrival, Ashton logged details of the weapon and ammunition which required analysis and was told by Horton that the Principal Scientific Officer specialising in firearms would immediately examine the revolver. He had been called in from his weekend off. Whilst he could not guarantee a firm result, he would be able to give a preliminary opinion having regard to the age of the gun and the bullet. Horton suggested that Ashton have lunch somewhere in town, and return in, say, an hour and a half.

  Ashton returned to the lab shortly after 2.15pm and was ushered into the office of the PSO in question, a Mr Delaney.

  ‘This is an old wartime revolver, Sergeant,’ said Delaney. ‘It’s pre-First World War issue; this model was issued to several armies around the world. I can’t say where this particular weapon has come from, but I’d venture an opinion that it was probably in use before the turn of the century. Actually, it’s hardly been used and is in very good condition, although it has deteriorated slightly simply through lack of maintenance and lack of use: the barrel was full of dust, as one mig
ht expect, but I have carried out preliminary tests and have examined the bullet you supplied. I am reasonably confident that this is the firearm from which that bullet was discharged. That is what you want to hear, I’m sure.’

  ‘That’ll please my boss!’ smiled Ashton.

  ‘There are some distinctive striations on the surface of the bullet and they do appear to correspond to those which were reproduced during a test firing. Because the weapon has not been used a great deal, the striations are quite distinct — in an older revolver, pistol or rifle, the interior of the barrel becomes much more smooth, resulting in less prominent striations or marks. In this case, I was able to form my opinion very quickly, using a simple microscope. Now, the shell of the bullet is not with the exhibits, I note?’

  ‘I don’t think it was ever recovered,’ said Ashton.

  ‘It would have been interesting to examine the firing pin marks, but that is not critical. There’s enough to work on. I have some further tests to make and will let your Mr Pemberton have a formal report in due course. I ask that you leave the exhibits with me for a week or so, just so that I can carry out the necessary further details which will confirm my findings. But yes, you have a match, Sergeant. I would swear that in any court of law.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Delaney,’ and Detective Sergeant Ashton left for the long drive back to Thirklewood Hall.

  Detective Inspector Paul Larkin didn’t conclude his enquiries with quite so much ease. The staff of the Railway Museum in York were most helpful, explaining that he should really have telephoned before arriving and asked to be issued with a reader’s ticket. Having received the ticket, he should have telephoned for an appointment to view the timetables, and he would then have been allocated a time and date, because space for research in the library was somewhat limited. However, because he was a police officer and because his enquiries were connected with a murder investigation, he was immediately given a reader’s ticket and shown to a place. The librarian, a youthful man with a mop of ginger hair, showed him the growing library of railway literature and memorabilia. He indicated the shelves containing old timetables and advised him how and where to begin his search.

  Within a matter of minutes, he was shown a selection of old timetables from the North-Eastern Railway. Printed on flimsy, poor-quality paper, they were bound in very fragile covers, and were designed to survive no longer than a few months. Fresh timetables were issued every summer and winter and so the old ones were discarded. The small paperbacks were not intended to be permanent reference books, although these particular copies had somehow remained intact for almost eighty years.

  There were some dating from 1916, and they did cover the routes from Thornborough to Rainesbury and from Drakenedge to Rainesbury. Before settling down to study them, Larkin asked whether the relevant sections could be photocopied, but this request was politely declined on the grounds that it might harm the very fragile paper. Accordingly, he would have to laboriously copy out the details by hand.

  Having been briefed by Pemberton, he knew he was seeking the times of trains from Drakenedge to Rainesbury on 11th September 1916, and also from Thornborough to Rainesbury on the same day. The junction at Rosenthorpe was important; did all the services connect there, or were there long periods of waiting between trains?

  He knew that Thomas Hartley had slept overnight in Thornborough on 10th September. He found that trains to Rainesbury departed from Thornborough at 7.30am, 9.30am, 11.30am, 1.30pm, 3.30pm, 5.30pm, and 6.30pm. These trains arrived at Rosenthorpe one hour after departure, so Larkin could see that Thomas could have arrived at Rosenthorpe at, say 10.30am; if a trap was awaiting him, he could have been at Pike Hill Farm around 11.00am and remained there until, say, six o’clock, in time to catch the 7.30pm into Rainesbury. He could even have stayed overnight and caught the early train, at 8.30am, and still been in time for a business meeting in Rainesbury.

  The other section of line began at Drakenedge; trains left at 8.00am, 9.00am, 10.00am, 12 noon, 2.00pm, 3.00pm, 4.00pm, and 6.00pm. They arrived at Rosenthorpe thirty-five minutes later. There was provision for trains travelling in both directions to wait at Rosenthorpe for connecting services.

  In copying down the simple times of these rural services, Paul Larkin realised that Thomas Hartley, although officially touring the North Riding of Yorkshire on business, had every opportunity to visit Pike Hill Farm for several hours, or even to stay overnight, without any disruption to his business routine. Paul also noted the times of trains running in the opposite directions, although these appeared not to be of any use. But at least the record would be complete.

  His mission took him less than an hour and, because there was no great degree of urgency, he decided to tour the museum with its splendid array of engines and coaches.

  Mark Pemberton, having dealt with the Chief Constable, enjoyed an early lunch, sharing a table with an American agent called Cissie. She was a member of Vice-President Hartley’s staff and said how much she was looking forward to exploring the North York moors with him as he sought his ancestral roots. Mark smiled; he advised her to visit Whitby, Danby, Egton Bridge, Goathland, the coastal villages of Robin Hood’s Bay and Staithes, as well as Rosedale, Hutton-le-Hole and Lastingham, if she had the time.

  Afterwards, Mark returned to his office to wade through James’s letters. They had been ordered quite meticulously, undoubtedly by Sarah Hartley, James’s mother. They were in sequence, each of her letters to him being placed next to one from him so that there was an almost continuous narrative, albeit with a day’s gap in between.

  It was quite clear from Sarah’s letters that she had never wanted James to leave home; the letters were couched in loving terms, more like those of a mother writing to a child than to a young, but mature man. Clearly, she worshipped James; she missed him, she missed his laughter around the house and farm, she missed his companionship, the poetry she read to him, his skill with the sheep-dogs… She told of life without him at Pike Hill Farm, saying how she welcomed his letters and that he should be careful with his bayonet during practice, and to make sure his socks were always clean when marching and that his boots were always well fitting and kept in a good state of repair. She worried about him having to fire guns and march long distances… But not once during these letters did Mark find any indication that she was ill.

  James, on the other hand, wrote of his training. He had met some rough men and some decent ones, he had met some with the table manners of pigs or worse, others whose sole aim in life was to chase women and others who stole anything and everything they could lay their hands on. He had been advised to keep his socks around his neck, for example! Whenever he washed them, he had to put them around his neck to dry, otherwise they could be stolen. When around his neck, they would also catch any lice that he might pick up in the trenches. He repeated stories of life in the trenches, stories based on tales that had filtered back to the Green Howards in training.

  He told stories about parts of England he’d never before known about; tales of Zeppelins dropping bombs over England and of flimsy aircraft trying to shoot them down. He had heard of the crash of an airship called the L21 at 3.00am on Sunday, 3rd September 1916 — it had caught fire and crashed at Cuffley near Enfield, the very first to crash on English soil. The man who’d shot it down was an English pilot, only twenty-one years old, a fighter with the Royal Flying Corps. Thousands had trekked to Cuffley to see the burnt-out airship.

  There were stories from the trenches; on the first day of the battle of the Somme, 1st July 1916, 150,000 infantrymen faced the German army and by dusk, 20,000 were dead with 40,000 wounded. 600 of the dead came from Sheffield. Skeletons lay everywhere in the mud and there were awful rumours about the Germans using the dead bodies for making soap. It was said the Germans had found a way of abstracting glycerine from the bodies of dead soldiers and that the factory was near St Vith, near the Belgian frontier. He even described the factory — it was over 700 feet long and screened from the railway line by thi
ck trees and an electric wire fence…

  There were tales of other conscripts like James — those who had not wished to volunteer had gone to tribunals. One man, a farmer like James, had pleaded that he was a skilled man because he had once skinned 1,200 rabbits in one night, and so he was exempted. Another was exempted because he worked as a weaver by day, ran a fish-and-chip shop in the evenings, went to bed at midnight and played the church organ on Sundays. He also worked as a knocker-up, rousing other workers at 4.30am. The tribunal exempted him. Eric Hall, who’d joined with James, was enjoying the life; he’d excelled at trench warfare and the obstacle course and was always to the forefront in physical events such as cross-country running and other physical training.

  James wrote that he and Eric had become quite good friends. Although he’d known Eric for many years, Eric being an apprentice farrier who’d often visited Pike Hill Farm with his father, the two soldiers hadn’t struck up a friendship at the beginning. Eric was much younger than James for one thing, and James did say he’d noticed a coolness in Eric, something he had not understood. But as the intensity of their training had continued and as they’d found themselves sharing their lives, they had become friendly. Eric was a happy-go-lucky man with a lovely sense of humour and a way of charming the girls of Richmond. James had enjoyed his training alongside Eric.

  Another hint of James’s humour came in his stories about the epidemic of sock-knitting which had broken out in England. As part of the war effort, the authorities had pleaded with the women to knit socks for soldiers who were bound for the trenches and, as a result, they’d been inundated with tons of them. There were socks everywhere, far too many, and so the newspapers had pleaded with the women to knit fewer socks — which only made them knit more!