by M J Lee
Her father's shoulders drooped and his voice softened. 'I know, lass. Maybe this home wasn't such a good idea. Sometimes I feel so…' His voice trailed off.
Jayne put her hand on his shoulder. 'I know Dad, but you have to listen to them. They just want to help you. Promise you will listen?'
Her father smiled and held up his fingers in the salute of a boy scout. 'I swear lass.'
'And I'll see if I can get your Guardian delivered.'
'Aye, 'cos if I have to read this any more, I'll turn out to be as brain dead as those old biddies.' He threw the paper onto the table in front of him. 'Any new cases? I need something to stimulate my mind.'
'Funny you should say, I'm meeting a new client this afternoon.'
'What's the problem?'
'I'm not sure yet, but it seems to be about a lost inheritance.'
'Sounds right up your street. You've been a bit quiet since the American case.'
Jayne remembered the old billionaire Mr Hughes and his nephew, her digging through the records of the Easter Rising, and a fight in a wrecked car.
'Whatever happened to him?'
'Well, after I told him who his real father was, he decided to set up a foundation to unite adopted children with their birth mothers. It’s given him a new lease of life at 93, even his leukaemia seems to have gone into remission.'
'There's hope for us all. You'll let me know about the case, won't you? If I can be of help in any way…'
Jayne leant forward and put her arms around him. 'All I learnt about genealogy came from you, Dad.’
Her father pushed her away. 'Don't go all soppy on me, lass. It's time you were off.'
Jayne stood up. 'You will be good, Dad, won't you?'
'I'll be as good as a stick of rhubarb. As long as you get me my Guardian in the morning. I miss doing the crossword.'
Jayne saluted him. 'Orders received and understood. Guardian to be delivered tomorrow morning, sah.'
'That's better. At least they taught you how to salute in the bloody police.'
Chapter Four
Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.
Jayne waited in Rest for her client to arrive. It was a cutely named cafe, carved out of the side of a church that was still in use. The furniture was eclectic; a mixture of what looked like old school chairs and tables, with a variety of comfortable armchairs salvaged from Oxfam. Toddlers in pink tutus wandered in and out accompanied by harassed-looking mummies desperate for a caffeine and cake fix. Luckily, Rest supplied both in quantity and quality.
Jayne often used the place to meet her clients; the Wi-Fi was excellent, plus it was far enough away from the main dining drag of Didsbury to allow quiet conversation.
A man carrying a battered brown briefcase stepped through the door of the conservatory-like entrance. He was tall, handsome in an understated way and younger than Jayne. He looked around the cafe with the air of a lost schoolboy searching for a missing classroom. She checked out his shoes, something she often did as a detective. They were comfortable loafers that had obviously seen better days.
He saw her looking at him from her corner and walked over slowly. 'Jayne Sinclair?' he asked tentatively.
She stood up and held out her hand. 'Mark Russell, I presume.'
'It would have been better if my surname was Livingstone.'
She laughed. A sense of humour too. Perhaps this client would be more pleasant to work for than usual. 'Would you like a coffee?'
'No thanks, I've drunk enough this morning to float the Titanic.' He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her.
'You didn't give me many details over the phone…' Jayne hoped this would be enough to get him talking. It was another interview trick she had been taught in the police. Begin with an open question allowing the interviewee to relate their experience without prejudice.
'I'm sorry,' he said pulling out an acetate file from the briefcase at his feet, 'but it's difficult to explain without a few props.' He looked over his shoulder at the entrance. 'My father is supposed to be here as well. I'm afraid he insisted on coming, and it's the only way I could get him to release these.'
He tapped the acetate file in front of him. Jayne could see a couple of envelopes and a few photocopies through the clear plastic. 'Do you want to wait for him to arrive?'
'He's heard it all before. We shouldn't waste your time.' Mark Russell interlaced his fingers in front of him and breathed out, as if beginning a prayer.
Jayne waited for him to begin.
'I want you to recover my inheritance.' He looked up at her and smiled.
'That's it?'
'Well, that's the essence. But I'm sure you'll want me to explain further.'
'It would help.’
'On April 25, 1916, my great grandmother, Rose Clarke, married Captain David Russell, the eldest son of Lord Lappiter. On the 28 June, his Lordship died, with my great grandfather David inheriting the title, the estate and a fortune of 700,000 pounds.'
'A lot of money today.'
'About 28 million pounds by my reckoning.'
Jayne whistled. 'A small fortune. But it all sounds fairly straightforward, Mr Russell. I can't see what the problem is.'
‘Unfortunately, my great grandfather, Captain Russell, died three days later on the first day of the Battle of the Somme, July 1, 1916, without leaving a will.'
'It still should not be a problem. The wife would be recognised as the beneficiary in the absence of a will.'
'And therein lies the problem.'
'Where and what problem?'
'There is no record of my great grandmother and my great grandfather ever marrying.'
Jayne leant forward. 'Let me understand this. You say there is no record of them marrying, but you seem to have an exact date. Where did they marry?'
'In Gretna Green, on April 25, 1916.’
The words Gretna Green immediately set off alarm bells in Jayne's head. Couples often eloped to the town when the bride was too young to marry without her parents' permission because Scotland had less stringent marriage laws than England. 'How old was your great grandmother when she married?'
'She was nearly 24.'
'So there was no problem with her age.'
'None as far as we know.'
Jayne frowned once again. 'The only other reason for marrying in Scotland was speed. Couples did not have to go through the usual process of a church wedding or the posting of banns.'
'We think this is what probably happened.’
'We?'
'My family.'
'There's a quick method to check.' Jayne pulled out her laptop and logged on to the Wi-Fi, speaking as she did so. 'Marriages of that period in Scotland are all online. What did you say your great grandmother's name was?'
'Rose Alexandria Clarke, but she never used the name Alexandria.'
Jayne quickly typed Rose Clarke in the BMD section of the Find Your Past website. 'And you said the year was 1916, in Gretna Green?'
Mark Russell nodded.
She added the year and the place name in the filters. The screen responded in seconds. No results.
She typed in Rose Alexandria Clarke.
Again, no results.
She removed the Gretna Green filter and pressed search again. No results.
'Are you sure the year was 1916?'
'My great grandmother was certain. According to my father, she remembered the date and place in vivid detail.'
Jayne opened up another site, The Genealogist, and typed the same search. She turned her computer screen around to face her client. 'As you can see, there are no records of any marriage.'
'I know. I want you to find out why.'
'But how can you be so sure they were married, Mr Russell?'
'Because I'm here, Mrs Sinclair. I'm living proof of the marriage. Rose Clarke had a son with David Russell, also called David, born in 1917. I am his direct descendent. Here's the birth certificate proving it.'
He reached into his acetate file and pulled out a
sheet of paper. Jayne glanced at it quickly. A birth certificate for David Russell, junior, born on February 17, 1917. The mother's name was given as a Rose Russell and the father as David Russell, but beneath this name one word was underlined, deceased.
Jayne looked at them both as she spoke. ’It seems David Russell passed away before his son was born. Unfortunately, a common occurrence in wartime. The registrar will have accepted the father's name as Russell but without some acknowledgement of paternity, or a marriage certificate, it has no standing in law. At this time, illegitimate children were not recognised as being able to inherit.'
'That's what the last genealogist said.'
Before Jayne could follow up on this last remark, an elderly man bustled through the door of the cafe, looked in their direction and limped towards them. A small, squat man, the father was the complete opposite of his son. Even the facial features were different: a sharp nose and thin mouth were crowned by an extravagant wave of grey hair swept back off the forehead. It was as if Elvis had walked into the cafe. But an Elvis who was over 70 years old and no longer able to shake his hips.
'I see you're wasting your time again, Mark.'
Mark Russell looked down at his hands, sighed, and then cast his eyes back up at Jayne. 'Mrs Sinclair, meet my father, Richard Russell.'
Jayne was about to extend her hand when the father stopped her with a welcoming sentence. 'Don't get involved in my son's madness, Mrs Sinclair. Waste of bloody time.'
The accent was a deep London growl, as sharp as the city where it had been formed.
Jayne breathed in. 'Good morning, Mr Russell, your son was just explaining his family history problem.'
'The lost bloody inheritance. Waste of bloody time.'
She could see Mark Russell clench and unclench his fist. 'Perhaps you'd like to sit down.' She indicated the seat opposite her.
'And you shouldn't have taken my grandmother's things without permission. They're mine, not yours. You'll get them when I die and not a second before.'
'How about a cup of tea?' Jayne tried desperately to save the situation. Tea was the usual salve for any British problem.
Richard Russell seemed to relax for a moment. 'I could do with a cup of Rosie Lee. Came rushing over here as soon as I saw your note, Mark.'
Jayne stood up and ordered a pot of tea from the counter. She glanced back at the father and son, both now sitting at the table. They were arguing, but at least having the sense to keep their voices low. Why had Mark Russell lied to her?
'I'll bring the tea over,’ said the server. ‘Would you like some cake?'
Jayne nodded, it might sweeten the old man.
'The Lemon Drizzle is fresh in this morning.'
'Three slices.' She was supposed to be on a diet, but what the hell, she needed the sugar too. She paid and returned to the table. The father and son were silent now, not looking at each other.
Jayne sat down opposite them; it was time to lay down the law. 'Listen, I have no desire to step into the middle of a family argument. If you want me to go, I'll finish my coffee and my cake and leave you two to finish your discussion.'
Mark Russell immediately leant forward, touching her arm, 'Please don't, Mrs Sinclair.'
Jayne looked down at his hand on her arm. He removed it quickly. 'You'd better tell me the story from the beginning, Mr Russell.'
They both began speaking at the same time.
Jayne held her hands up and pointed at Mark. 'Let's begin with you, Mr Russell.'
One again, Mark Russell folded his hands together and laid them on the table as if in prayer. The elder Mr Russell grunted and turned his head away.
'It all began two months ago. I was, am,' he corrected himself, 'a teacher. I assigned my pupils a genealogy project as part of the General Studies curriculum. You know, ask your parents about your family history and construct a family tree. As I was doing it, I realised I knew nothing about my own family, so I asked my father…'
'Worst thing I ever did, telling you the stories. You've become as mad as she was…'
Jayne held her hand up again. The elder Mr Russell turned his head away once more.
'My father told me the story of my great grandmother and the lost inheritance.'
'Should've kept my bloody mouth shut. It's all a fantasy…’ the father interrupted.
The waitress approached and placed a pot of tea in front of the elder Mr Russell and three plates of the Lemon Drizzle cake on their table. Both men said thank you to the waitress in a peculiar English way, as if apologising for the trouble they had caused her by having to serve them. The old man poured the milk into the bottom of his cup, followed by the mahogany-coloured tea.
Mark Russell stared at his cake before picking up his fork and attacking it as if he hadn't eaten for the last 15 years.
'Why do you say it was a fantasy, Mr Russell?'
The father drank a long gulp of tea. 'Tell her the truth, Mark.'
His son put down his fork. 'In 1923, my great grandmother was put into an asylum.'
'For how long?'
Mark Russell stared down at the table and said quietly, 'For the rest of her life. She died in the same asylum in 1976.’
'But that's over 50 years. She spent all that time locked away?'
Richard Russell nodded, the quiff of his hair falling forward to be brushed back with his hand. He spoke quietly. 'My dad used to take me to see her when I was young. An old woman she was. All I remember was her smell as she held me close. The smell old women have. Even after all the time in the asylum, she still believed she had married David Russell, still believed she had been cheated.'
'Your father? What happened to him after his mother was put into the hospital?'
'He went to live with a great aunt in Worthing. She ran a tobacconist’s in the town. When she died, my father moved to London to work, met my mother and married. Twice a year we used to make the pilgrimage to see my grandmother. I used to hate it but my father insisted.' Richard Russell drank more of his tea. 'I stopped going when I was 13, but my dad still carried on visiting her twice a year. She passed away in 1976. I think my father was glad he didn't have to go any more. My mother was delighted, she hated the old witch.'
'Dad, you shouldn't talk like that.'
'But it's the truth, Mark. She was just a mad old woman with delusions of grandeur. The sooner you accept it the better.'
Mark Russell shook his head vigorously. 'Dad, I know she was telling the truth. I know it.'
'How? Tell me.'
Jayne interrupted before another row developed. 'So, if I understand you correctly, Mark, you want me to investigate if your great grandmother was married to Captain David Russell, and her son, your grandfather, should have inherited the estate and the title?'
Mark nodded. 'Exactly, Mrs Sinclair.'
'But, there will be other relatives in the Russell line, the second son who inherited in 1916…’
'But that's just it, Mrs Sinclair, there are none. The line became extinct in 1986, no living relations.'
'Then all property and money will pass to the crown.'
'But I checked the Bona Vacantia list.' He took out another print from the acetate file. 'See, it's still there.'
'You know about the list, Mark? Not many laymen do.'
Mark looked up to the skies and began to recite like a schoolteacher explaining quadratic equations to an errant pupil. 'Every day, the crown publishes the unclaimed estates list in the Bona Vacantia Division of the Government Legal Department. Generally, the list comprises people who have died intestate or with no recognisable heirs. Their property and fortune will pass to the crown unless an heir comes forward with a recognised claim.'
'You have read up on the subject.'
Mark smiled. 'Told you I was a schoolteacher. I know a little about a lot.'
Jayne looked at the closely packed list of names and addresses on the photocopy he had given her. Highlighted in green was one name, John Russell, Lord Lappiter. 'You know people have to l
eave some money behind to make this list?'
Mark nodded.
'If nobody makes a claim against the deceased person's estate then everything is passed to the Treasury.'
'As if we didn't pay enough in tax already,' said the old man, 'they even take your money when you're dead.'
'Only if people die without a will, Mr Russell,' answered Jayne.
'The government will get your money however you look at it, bleedin' leeches.' The old man snorted and turned to his son. 'You're wasting your time. Go on tell her.'
'Tell me what?'
Mark Russell stared down at the table, so his father continued.
'You're the second genealogist who's looked into the old woman's claims.'
'Mark, is it true?'
Mark nodded. 'I found out about the Bona Vacantia list after I was contacted by a genealogist.'
'Was anything discovered?'
The father interrupted again. 'He found nothing. A big fat zero.'
'But he didn't have your reputation or your experience as a detective, Mrs Sinclair.'
'You've checked up on me?'
'I know you were a detective in the Manchester Police. And I heard about your investigation of the Hughes case.' He looked down at his hands. 'You're my last hope, Mrs Sinclair.'
The old man snorted, then he looked across at his son's face and reached out to touch his shoulder. The voice was strangely gentle when he spoke. 'Not again, Mark, give it up. There's no point becoming so obsessed. It's not good for you, look what happened to my grandmother. It just can't be proven. We'll never know.'
Jayne stared at Mark Russell. Was it all a fantasy? Did the grandmother really have delusions of grandeur? And why was Mark Russell so interested in finding the truth? She had to know. 'What's in it for you, Mark? Why do you want to know? Is it the money?'
'I think it probably vanished years ago…'
'Not if the name is still on the Bona Vacantia list. It means the estate is worth at least 500 pounds.'
'A fortune,' the old man sneered.
Jayne held up her hand and Richard Russell stopped speaking. 'Why do you want to find out?'
Mark Russell clasped his hands in prayer once more. 'I want to find out for her,' he said quietly. 'When I think she was locked up in that asylum for over 50 years, but still kept on telling everyone about her marriage. Well, it just makes me wonder, was she telling the truth? Or was it all a delusion? I have to know.'
