Family Ties (The Mark Pemberton Cases Book 1)

by Nicholas Rhea

  But had the presence of the brothers been concealed for some unsavoury purpose? If the brothers had all come home on the very day that James had been falsely summoned to visit his sick mother, what was the real reason? Had they all been told she was ill? Why had James’s homecoming required such deception and why did it result in his murder?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Mark Pemberton was convinced that the thick file of ancient statements contained a clue to the reason for James’s death. But as he pored over them until his head ached with the effort of concentration, that clue stubbornly refused to reveal itself. There was no proof, for example, that Thomas Hartley had visited the farm that day and yet Mark felt sure he must have done. He was known to have been in the district and the train times did allow him time to call. The sighting of a Mr Hartley by the telegram boy added strength to that belief, and it was the kind of action that Thomas would surely have undertaken. If he had gone to the farm, perhaps in secret, then would the other brothers and sisters have also been there? Had Father Matthew come all the way from Manchester, and had Samuel left his butcher’s business for the day?

  There was nothing to indicate that they had. The implication was that, of the family, only Luke and George, and their father, had been working at Pike Hill Farm on Monday 11th September 1916; the other threshers had been contract men, hired for the day. And yet, Mark told himself, there was nothing to say that the brothers, or other members of the family, had not been there.

  Inspector Dawson had not seen fit to list every person at the farm because their presence was not material to his case. Dawson might well have checked in a way that was not immediately apparent; he might not have recorded every one of his actions, particularly those with a negative outcome. Mark knew that Dawson was interested only in anyone who might have been at or near the scene of the crime — and that was some five miles away, a considerable journey in 1916.

  Of the family members, only Luke filled that particular role and yet the other Mr Hartley, whoever he was, must have walked past the murder scene if he’d gone to the farm from the railway station. But he’d have passed the scene during the morning; Dawson was interested only in the afternoon hours. And that’s when Luke was known to have passed by.

  Luke, Luke, Luke… Whichever way Mark turned, he was faced with the fact that Luke was the central figure in the puzzle. Luke who had apparently fled to Canada, Luke who had gone to meet his brother, Luke who had returned without his brother, Luke who had spawned a family which had produced the Vice-President of the United States of America. Where were they now, Luke’s other offspring? His daughter, Sarah, who was thirteen when her uncle James was murdered, his eldest son Caleb James who was eleven and had helped with the threshing that day, and little Paul, only nine, who’d also helped…

  Pemberton remembered that it was James’s niece, Sarah, who had set up the James Hartley Foundation in America; she’d be Luke’s daughter, Sarah. She’d named her Foundation after her deceased Uncle James, a touching memorial to him. Suddenly Mark realised that Sarah had not been helping at the farm on the day of James’s death. She was not mentioned in the statements. That was the thing he’d been seeking, that one little clue — Sarah’s name had not cropped up in the context of working on the farm that threshing day. Quickly, he turned to the statement made by Mrs Bowen, the lady who’d been looking after the children.

  He scanned it again just to make sure she had not mentioned Sarah. Was Sarah too old to be regarded as a child, he wondered? At thirteen, she’d be almost a woman, working as a woman maybe, baking, doing kitchen work, perhaps even holding a job as a domestic in another farm or country house?

  But the lack of any reference to Sarah set him along another train of thought and he became determined to discover where she was that day. Did it matter? Was she as important as the mysterious Patrick, for example? He began to peruse the statements all over again, seeking references to Sarah. Trace her, interrogate her and eliminate her.

  Then the telephone rang.

  ‘Pemberton,’ he said.

  ‘Sir,’ said the distant voice, ‘it’s Detective Sergeant Ashton. I’m ringing from ballistics at Nottingham.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Tony. Any luck?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I thought I’d ring with the good news before I set off back. There’s a match, the bullet was fired from that revolver. The lab will confirm it in writing as soon as possible, but I thought you’d want to know. It means we’ve found the murder weapon after all this time!’

  ‘That’s great news, Tony. Well done. I’ll see you when you get back. There’s no rush, things are quiet here.’

  ‘It’s nearly five o’clock now, sir, and it takes well over two hours to drive back.’

  ‘Get yourself a meal on the way, put it on expenses. It’s Saturday, so treat yourself to a glass of wine — but remember you’re driving!’

  Flushed with triumph, Pemberton went through to Duncan Young, who was finishing his stint for the day. He told him the news, at which the HOLMES operator beamed.

  ‘It’s taken us nearly eighty years to find the weapon, sir, so I reckon that’s a good piece of police work!’

  ‘So all we have to do now is find the killer.’ Pemberton smiled wryly. ‘Now, I’ve got a task for tomorrow. I’m not sure whether you’ve got all the data entered yet?’

  ‘Not yet, sir. There’s a huge amount of stuff in that murder file.’

  ‘Right, well, if you’ve a minute, I’d like you to check for references to Sarah Hartley, daughter of Luke.’

  ‘Any specific enquiry, sir?’

  ‘She was his eldest child, a girl of thirteen at the time of James’s death. I’ve just done a check of the names of everyone on the farm on the day of his death, and she’s not mentioned. I realise that’s not conclusive, but I am curious to know where she was if that’s possible — it was customary, you see, for the whole family to turn up for a threshing day. So, where was she? Working away, perhaps? Poorly? Visiting friends or relations? I just wondered whether she was referred to in any other statements.’

  ‘I’ll check now, if you like, sir.’

  ‘Will it take long?’

  ‘A few seconds, sir. Hang on.’

  Mark watched as Duncan activated the various menus on HOLMES and the computer told him that Sarah’s grandmother was also called Sarah Hartley. There were two Sarah Hartleys.

  ‘I know that Sarah senior was at the farm all day,’ Mark said.

  ‘Due to the way it’s been programmed, sir, HOLMES won’t distinguish between the two Sarahs, but it will identify all the files in which either one or the other is mentioned.’

  ‘That’ll do,’ agreed Pemberton. ‘We can soon eliminate the elder Sarah.’

  The computer speedily drew up a list of statement numbers in which the name of Sarah Hartley was mentioned. Mark thanked Duncan and returned to his office to study the file anew. This time, he had a list of all the references and he began to examine them.

  Then Detective Inspector Larkin walked in.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ he said. ‘Still wading through that file?’

  ‘My head’s aching, my eyeballs are aching and my back’s aching, but my brain tells me the answer is in here, Paul. The answer to who killed James Hartley and why… Anyway, how did you get on at the Railway Museum?’

  ‘Wonderful, sir. It’s a fabulous place, all those gleaming railway engines from my childhood dreams. It was like playing with a giant train set, a lad’s dream to be sure.’

  ‘And timetables from the North-Eastern Railway dated 1916?’

  ‘They’re all there, sir, in the Library and Archive Department. I’ve copied down all the times for September 1916, the summer timetable.’

  ‘So would Thomas have broken his journey at Rosenthorpe?’

  ‘Yes, he could, quite easily. He could have left Thornborough on either the first or second train to Rainesbury, got off at Rosenthorpe and spent the day at Pike Hill Farm. He could have caught the last train to Rainesbu
ry, or even the first the next morning; he could have spent the night at the farm and still have got to his Rainesbury appointment on time.’

  ‘Thanks — write it all up, Paul. And so the question remains: did Thomas visit home that day, and if so, why?’

  ‘I didn’t find that answer in the Railway Museum, sir!’

  ‘You’ve let me down again, Paul,’ joked Pemberton, who added seriously, ‘But you did let me down on James’s profile!’

  He explained to Paul Larkin how he felt the victim profile of James Hartley was not quite accurate and asked him to have another look at it.

  ‘Now, sir?’

  ‘Later, Paul, it’s knocking-off time now. I fancy a shave, a shower, a change of clothing, and a nice long cool pint of beer before I eat.’

  ‘Me too. See you in the bar then?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is DC Cashmore back from Hull yet?’ asked Larkin.

  ‘No, she’s not, and there’s no word from her. I wonder how she’s getting along?’

  Lorraine had not found the beginning of her enquiry as simple as she’d anticipated. Before leaving the office, she had telephoned the Catholic Adoption Society to ask for advice about tracing the origins of Patrick Harland. The society was very cautious, especially about giving information over the telephone, but when she explained that a confirmation memento had been issued to Patrick by St Ignatius’ church in Hull, the advice was that that church must be the starting place.

  ‘But I want to find out where Patrick was baptised,’ she stressed. ‘I’m not concerned with his confirmation.’

  ‘That’s the biggest hurdle of all,’ Lorraine was told. ‘Unless someone can tell you which church it was, it means a long, long check through piles of baptismal certificates — or, of course, a search through the country’s national registers, either in London or locally. It’s all very time-consuming.’

  ‘I haven’t a lot of time,’ she sighed.

  ‘You could try the Nicholas Postgate Convent in Hull,’ advised the girl. ‘They used to run a home for orphans. I think it closed after the Second World War. A lot of children from there were adopted by Catholic families, but I doubt if records from 1916 will still be available.’

  Lorraine thanked her for her advice, jotted down the address of the Nicholas Postgate Convent, rang to make an appointment for later that afternoon, had a quick coffee and set off for Hull.

  Within an hour she was sitting in the secretary’s office with another coffee. The secretary, a lay worker called Miss Philomena Lynch, made her feel welcome and listened as Lorraine unfolded her story. She omitted references to the murder investigation but concentrated on her desire to discover the whereabouts of the supposed relations of Vice-President Caleb Hodgson Hartley.

  ‘Patrick is very important to our enquiries,’ she concluded. ‘He died very recently, aged seventy-seven; he remained a bachelor and we believe he was adopted by a Mr and Mrs Harland, Sophie and Aiden that is, around 1916. They lived here in Hull and Sophie was a founder of Hartleys of Hull. I was given to understand he might have been an orphan, perhaps one who went from here to the Harland family.’

  ‘We did work with waifs and strays in the latter years of the last century, but we also took in children who were, shall we say, born in secret.’

  ‘Secret?’

  Miss Lynch smiled. ‘Young people the world over were having illicit relationships, Miss Cashmore, and the outcome was often a poor child that no one wanted or even owned.’

  ‘So nothing changes!’ commented Lorraine.

  ‘Well, in those days it was important to conceal any hint of scandal in a family and so, if a girl got pregnant before marriage, she would often come, here. She would come, or be sent, in conditions of some secrecy, to the convent to give birth to her child. The convent cared for mother and child until the mother could go home.’

  ‘And suppose the girl could not take the child home?’

  ‘Then the child was kept here, and adoptive parents were found.’

  ‘This would be long before the formal rules of adoption were drawn up in 1926?’ asked Lorraine.

  ‘Indeed it was, which is why I fear we might not have any very detailed records of 1916. Secrecy was regarded as important — the Catholics of that time were very cautious about a girl being seen to be a sinner and so their pregnancies were concealed…hypocritical behaviour it certainly was, and I say so as a Catholic myself. The fact is that lots of children who passed through the orphanage weren’t orphans in the true sense of the word. They were unwanted babies, born out of wedlock. It’s so sad, so unchristian.’

  ‘So if Patrick Harland was born here in 1916, under whatever name he then carried, would there be a record?’

  ‘Yes, there may well be, but it will be extremely brief. We would not have his baptismal certificate, for example — that would be at the church. This convent has a chapel, but the chapel does not qualify as a parish church where such records are retained. However, we do have some old ledgers here, we keep them for families doing research. I can let you look through the 1916 books.’

  ‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Lorraine.

  The register was a huge leather-bound volume with gold lettering down the spine. It said, ‘Child Register 1916’.

  ‘It’s heavy,’ said Miss Lynch. ‘You can read it over there if you wish,’ and she pointed to a small table and chair in the corner of the office.

  Lorraine bore it across and began her search.

  The register was a sad record of human behaviour. Babies born out of wedlock were processed by the nuns of this convent; unwanted by their parents and causing embarrassment to their families, they were hidden behind these walls and given away to those who wanted them. She checked the long lists, all written in beautiful copperplate handwriting. The lists were in chronological order, month by month, and gave the date the child entered the orphanage, the name of the child, the date he or she was born, the name of the mother if known and father if known and the fate of the child — adoption, retained in orphanage, death and so forth. She saw that quite a lot had died in infancy.

  And then, in September, she found a Patrick. His surname was Hartley. The entry said, ‘Date: 3rd September 1916. Name: Patrick Hartley. Date of Birth: 3rd September 1916. Mother: Sarah Hartley; Father not known. Adopted November 1916.’

  And that was all.

  Sarah Hartley? Without the file for quick reference, Lorraine puzzled over the name. Who was this Sarah? In spite of that doubt, Lorraine felt sure that this child later became the man known as Patrick Harland. She checked the rest of the register, moving right through to the end of 1917 without finding another Patrick, or anyone with the surname of either Hartley or Harland.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Lorraine turned in her chair to address Miss Lynch. ‘You mentioned earlier that children born here were not baptised in the chapel. Do you know which church they used?’

  ‘Yes, St Chad’s. It’s just around the corner from here, a hundred yards or so to the left outside the main door.’

  ‘I believe the child was baptised very soon after birth, so who would attend the ceremony?’

  ‘The mother was always encouraged to attend the baptism, to be with her child at that very important moment. She would sign the baptismal record.’

  ‘And after the child had been born and baptised, where did the mother go?’

  ‘If she was from a good home, we would encourage her to return to her parents or family home as soon as she was able; they often said she’d been away on holiday or working.’

  ‘And if the mother had no home or had been thrown out?’

  ‘In those circumstances, she could remain here until such time as she could find work or other accommodation. There were problems if the babies were not adopted — the longer the mothers stayed, the more attached to their children they became. So we did encourage them to leave very soon after the birth if adoption was being planned.’

  ‘And in the case of this entry here,’ she held
up the register bearing Patrick Hartley’s name, ‘you would not know what happened to the mother?’

  ‘No. Most of our files of that period were destroyed by an incendiary bomb in the Second World War but some of the stuff was saved. That old register was one of the survivors!’

  ‘Thanks, you’ve been most helpful. Now, I wonder if I’ll be able to see the baptismal register at St Chad’s?’

  ‘I’m sure there will be no problem. I’ll ring Father O’Neil for you, shall I?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  And within twenty minutes, Lorraine was sipping a cup of tea with the genial Irish priest. With eyes full of happiness and a smile perpetually upon his lips, he said, ‘Sure I don’t mind, Miss Cashmore. ’Tis a genuine pleasure.’

  As she sipped, he rummaged around in a huge green safe which seemed to serve as a filing cabinet and pulled out masses of cardboard-backed registers and books.

  Muttering ‘1916’ and ‘1917’ under his breath, he eventually found the right volume.

  ‘I’m anxious to find out if Patrick Hartley was baptised here. Would that be in your records?’

  ‘If he was born at Nicholas Postgate’s and received into the church here, at the tender age of a day or two, then it’ll be here, to be sure,’ and he flicked through the entries. Then he found it.

  ‘10th September 1916,’ he read aloud. ‘Here we are. Patrick Hartley was baptised in this church.’

  ‘Does it give the name of his parents?’ she asked, heart beating with anticipation.

  ‘It does. Sarah and James Hartley.’

  ‘James?’ she cried.

  ‘So it says here.’ He stabbed the entry with a finger.

  ‘Can I have a copy of that?’ she asked. ‘It’s for the Vice-President of the United States of America to see.’