by M J Lee
Jayne knew what he meant and thought of her own father in his place in Buxton. What if people no longer believed what he said any more? What if nobody protected him? She made a quick decision. 'My daily rate is 50 pounds plus expenses…'
'See, she's another one of those researchers who just want your bloody money…'
Jayne held up her hand for the final time to stop the old man speaking and turned to him. ’…But in your case, Mr Russell, I will waive my fee and just bill you for any expenses. You can pay me what you want once I have finished my research. Does that sound fair to you?'
The old man grunted.
Mark Russell stuck out his hand and Jayne shook it. 'There's just one thing, Mrs Sinclair, we need you to complete your investigations by April 4.'
'But that's only seven days from now. What's the rush, Mark?'
'It's when the time limit on the Bona Vacantia unclaimed estates list expires. The last Lord Lappiter died on April 4, 1986. If we don't prove a relationship in the next week, the estate automatically passes to the Treasury.'
Jayne thought for a moment. 'We'd better get cracking, Mark, please show me what else you have in your folder.'
The old man grunted and turned his body away. ‘Waste of bloody time, if you ask me.’
Chapter Five
Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.
Jayne reached home 15 minutes after saying goodbye to Mark Russell and his father. She had left them still arguing on the road in front of the cafe. Both bickering like unhappy lovers rather than father and son.
She entered the warmth and security of her kitchen. The cat, affectionately known as Mr Smith, immediately began to wrap itself around her legs in a figure of eight.
'I know, I know, you're hungry, right?'
She was answered by a long miaow. She opened the fridge and took out a small metal box of Lily's Kitchen Organic Lamb Casserole, a bottle of good Rioja Riserva from Cune and a bar of Amano chocolate. While the wine warmed up and the chocolate softened, she opened the casserole. It smelt good, but it wasn't for her.
In her life, the cat always came first. She was certain it could probably go to the fridge and choose its own food, but there was more pleasure in getting the human to do it for him. After all, there was enjoyment in being served.
She squeezed the small metal box of lamb casserole into the bowl and checked the water. The cat approached the food slowly and knelt down to enjoy his dinner.
Jayne glanced at the large Ikea clock on the wall - 4.45. Perhaps a bit early to start drinking and eating chocolate, but what the hell. After travelling to see her father and then dealing with the internal politics of the Family Russell, she deserved a bit of R&R.
She switched on the laptop and while it booted up, she opened the wine. Since her husband had left to work in Europe, she spent more and more of her time in the kitchen. It had been their joint present to each other rather than going on an expensive honeymoon when they married 12 years ago. She knew it was the best investment they ever made; expanding her small, poky kitchen out onto the former patio, adding floor to ceiling windows, buying Poggenpohl cabinets and giving her the luxury of an island console in the cooking area.
When she was on medical leave from the police, after the killing of her partner, she would often sit here with a cup of coffee or glass of wine, watching the seasons change and the birds flitter from tree to tree in the back garden.
Now this extended kitchen was her workplace, where she could research her clients while perched on a bar stool in front of the island console, her files within reach. It was her place, far from the problems of her marriage, the worries about her father and from the madding crowds. Just her, a glass of wine, a square of the best chocolate she could afford, and the cat. Mustn't forget the cat.
She poured out a glass of the Rioja. Not the best wine, but she needed something earthy and tannic now, not the jammy fruit of Australia. She snapped open a section of the Amano Dos Rios Palet D’Or and placed a small square on her tongue, letting it melt with the warmth of her mouth. The luxuriously comforting sweetness of the chocolate spread across her palate, followed by a hint of minty bitterness. She drank a mouthful of Rioja, mixing the two, strengthening and reinforcing both flavours.
Red wine and good chocolate. A match made in heaven. For a second, the cares of the world were lifted from her shoulders and she luxuriated in the warm comfort of the taste.
A beep from her laptop brought her back to earth with a bang. A message in Outlook from Mark, thanking her for the meeting and suggesting they review progress in two days.
'He's keen isn't he, Mr Smith?’
The cat didn't answer, he never did. Just kept on purring as he ate his lamb casserole, his own private cat heaven.
'Well, it's time to work.' She spoke out loud to herself. It often worried her, this talking to herself, but she recognised it was a way of ordering her thoughts. Even when her husband, Paul, was here, she had spoken to herself. But, in his absence, she was doing it even more.
She pulled out everything from the acetate folder Mark Russell had given her. Inside were two envelopes, copies of the birth certificates of Rose Clarke and David Russell Junior, and the photocopy of the Bona Vacantia list.
Where to begin?
The two envelopes intrigued her. On the uppermost, a name and address appeared in vermilion ink, written in the perfect copperplate script of a bygone era:
Miss Rose Alexandria Clarke
126, Curtain Road,
Shoreditch,
London
The letter was postmarked with a date of 1910. She supposed this was Mark's great grandmother's address. She opened Find My Past on the computer and typed the name Clarke and the location as London.
A little over 235,000 results. Not terribly helpful.
'Let's narrow it down,' she said out loud. The cat ignored her and carried on eating.
She clicked on the 1911 Census and typed in the name and the district of London as Shoreditch. Up popped five results for the surname, one of which was the correct address.
Much better.
A square of chocolate somehow found its way into her mouth, followed by a large gulp of the Rioja. Success always deserved some sort of reward.
She clicked to open an image of the original census return. The Head of the Family was listed as a Hans Clarke, but there were only two other people mentioned, both of whom were male shop assistants and not family members.
What had happened to Rose? Had she missed the census for some reason, or was she listed elsewhere?
Jayne took another sip of wine. She opened up the 1901 census and typed in the name and address. And there was Rose, along with her father and her mother, Hans Clarke and Marion Clarke. Rose was just nine years at the time of this census and listed as a scholar.
So what had happened to her in 1911 and why was she not with her father?
Jayne decided to save the search for the missing Rose till later. But what had happened to the mother from 1901 to 1910?
Jayne poured herself another glass of Rioja. This family was becoming more and more intriguing.
A quick search for the mother's name in the Births, Marriages and Deaths section revealed a Marion Clarke had died in London in 1905. The listing was given as Volume 1c, page 119. If she wanted to know what had happened she would have to apply for a death certificate. Perhaps later, it wasn't necessary at this moment. The mother had died leaving a 13-year-old girl and her father to run the shop. Not the easiest life for a young girl.
She sat back on her seat, the glass of wine in her hand. So Mark's information checked out. At least his great grandmother existed and had lived at the address on the envelope.
But she still had two more searches to perform before she could call it a day. The first was to check out the Russell family and the Lords Lappiter. The second was to find out if there were any records of marriage anywhere, at any time, for a David Russell or a Rose Clarke.
After a sip of Rioja, she
decided to work on the Russell family first as it was probably the easiest.
She typed Lord Lappiter into Google. Over four million results. She clicked the first one and was immediately confronted by a lurid headline from the Sun of 1986.
LORD LAP-IT-UPS STICKY END.
She ignored the double entendre of the headline and read the racy copy. Apparently, the last Lord Lappiter had collapsed on top of a prostitute in Manila after a particularly robust session of lovemaking. 'He was insatiable,' said Thelma Gonzalez, his paramour for the evening.
Jayne was always amazed how the scandal-ridden pages of the English rags could be both blunt and coy all in the same sentence. Was it a peculiarly English attitude to sex?
She returned to the article. The late Lord Lappiter had died instantly from a heart attack, leaving no will and no known heirs. The Sun gleefully stated the estate, with a mansion in Derbyshire, would pass to the crown unless it was claimed by a relative.
She checked the date of death in the article. April 4, 1986. Mark was correct, they needed to move quickly. By the laws of inheritance, a claimant had 30 years to make a claim to an intestate estate. If they didn't, the estate was declared forfeit. Mark had just six days left to find the marriage certificate.
The cat suddenly stopped licking its paws and pricked up its ears. The front door bell rang noisily, followed by two impatient knocks on the door.
Chapter Six
Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.
Another sharp rap at the door.
'Coming, coming,' Jayne shouted walking down the hallway. She opened the door before whoever it was could knock a hole in the wood.
Standing in front of her was a small, dapper man wearing an Aquascutum mac with matching trilby and carrying a briefcase. He doffed his hat to reveal strands of hair combed over his head in the style of Bobby Charlton.
'Good evening, Madam. It's Mrs Sinclair, isn’t it?'
Jayne nodded without thinking.
'I wonder if I might come in for a moment. I have something I would like to discuss with you.' The voice was high and nasal, the smile revealed National Health teeth discoloured to a murky shade of yellow.
'And you are?'
'Oh yes, how remiss of me not to introduce myself immediately.' He fumbled in the inside of the mac, finally producing a white card and handing it to Jayne.
Herbert Small, Genealogist was written on the white card in simple block letters. There was a website and phone number but no address.
'It's concerning your clients, Richard and Mark Russell.' Again the yellow-toothed smile.
Jayne stared at him for a moment. All her training said don't let any man who comes to the door into your house, but she stood back anyway. What harm could a man like this do?
'Thank you, you're so kind.'
Jayne showed him to the kitchen and pulled out one of the stools. 'I'm having a glass of wine, would you like some?'
Herbert Small held up two tiny hands like the paws of a hamster. 'Not for me, Mrs Sinclair. I find alcohol doesn't agree with my stomach.'
'Tea then?'
'Not for me.' He patted his stomach, 'it doesn't agree.'
Jayne sat down on the stool, noticing her computer screen was still showing the results of her search. Herbert Small had seen it too. Quickly, she pressed the Alt and 4 keys to close the program window. Luckily, the acetate folder was covered by her notebook.
The small man in front of her sat down on the stool, still wearing his gaberdine. He tried to make himself comfortable but gave up after a few seconds and ended up perching on the edge, his briefcase held to his chest.
'What's this about, Mr Small?'
'Very direct, Mrs Sinclair. I must admit I like that in a woman.'
This man and his patronising tone were beginning to irritate Jayne.
He placed the briefcase on the table and fished out a manila file. 'Mrs Sinclair, I do believe you have just been retained by the Russell family. Is that correct?'
'How did you hear, Mr Small?'
'I have my sources, Mrs Sinclair. Sources I'm afraid I cannot divulge.'
Jayne stood up. Time to put this little man in his place. 'Then I must ask you to leave, Mr Small. Who my clients are is none of your business.'
The man's tiny hands fluttered. 'I didn't mean to offend you, Mrs Sinclair, please let me explain why I asked the question.'
Jayne hesitated for a moment.
‘Please let me explain.' Herbert Small held up the manila folder.
Jayne sat back down on her stool.
'Three weeks ago, I contacted the Russell family. In my genealogical investigations I came across an interesting…,' he thought for a moment before the right word came to him, ‘…situation that could have been of interest to them.'
'You checked the Bona Vacantia list and found that Richard and Mark Russell might have a claim against the Lappiter estate?'
Herbert Small looked surprised. 'I see you are ahead of me, Mrs Sinclair.'
'I've heard about people like you, Mr Small, but you are the first I've ever met. “Heir Hunters” I believe you call yourselves.'
A look of horror crossed Herbert Small's face. 'I beg your pardon, Mrs Sinclair, I provide a valuable service for society, reuniting relatives with money that would normally vanish into the maw of the Treasury.' His voice had risen one register. 'I have many satisfied and happy customers, who receive money they would not normally know about.'
'You are paid handsomely for your services, aren’t you, Mr Small?’
'My fee is standard for the service I provide. Plus I only get paid when my clients receive their money. I have substantial costs to cover.'
'So what has this to do with me?'
The little man placed the manila file on the table in front of him and tried to get comfortable on the stool, giving up once again. 'As I was saying, Mrs Sinclair, I specialise in researching names close to the end of their time on the list.'
'Inheritances near to the 30-year time limit?'
'That is correct. The big firms such as Fraser and Fraser, Celtic Research or Finders International jump on the list as soon as it is published, competing with each other to get to the heirs first. If none are found quickly, most give up after a short time. For them, it is not worth the effort and cost to continue researching.'
Jayne took a sip of her wine. ‘So, even though the inheritance could be substantial, in 1986 no heirs could be found?’
'Correct again, Mrs Sinclair. It's so pleasing talking to a professional.'
Jayne ignored the compliment.
'I brought the possibility of a large inheritance to the notice of the Russells, father and son. They hired me on the basis of my standard contract and then, a week later, fired me. Or at least the elder Mr Russell fired me.' He leant in conspiratorially to Jayne. 'I think he wanted to keep all the money himself.'
Jayne pulled away from the man's breath. 'As genealogists, we are hired and fired by our clients all the time, Mr Small. It's par for the course. Did you manage to prove Rose Alexander married David Russell?'
The man shrugged his small shoulders. ’Unfortunately, I cannot divulge that information.’
'I presume you had a written contract with the Russells?'
The little man shrugged his shoulders. 'Alas, I did not.'
'So why have you come to see me, Mr Small? What do you want from me?'
'I would like you to refuse the assignment, Mrs Sinclair. The Russells are cheats and liars. They should not be supported by the skills we bring to our profession.'
Jayne disliked this pompous little man intensely. 'Listen, Mr Small, as far as I'm concerned I have been retained by the Russells to conduct an investigation into their family. Unlike you, I have no financial interest in the outcome. For me, it is a professional challenge and that is all. If I can speak frankly, Mr Small?'
The man nodded.
'I believe men like you are the ambulance chasers of our profession, feeding on people's greed to enrich them
selves, and I want nothing more to do with you.' Jayne stood up. 'I have given you enough of my time. I’ll escort you to the door.'
'But, Mrs Sinclair, you don't understand…'
'I understand perfectly, Mr Small. And it's because I do that you will be leaving my house.' She took him by the elbow. 'Now, are you going to go quietly or am I going to have the pleasure of throwing you out?'
Herbert Small gathered up his manila folder from the table. 'You haven't heard the last of this, Mrs Sinclair, mark my words.'
'Are you threatening me, Mr Small? Because if you are, as an ex-police officer, I have to caution you such threats are an offence under Section Four of the Public Order Act of 1986.'
Jayne opened the door. The man adjusted his gaberdine coat, straightened his tie, put his trilby back on his head and stepped outside. ‘I’m not going to forget this, Mrs Sinclair.
Chapter Seven
Didsbury, Manchester. March 28, 2016.
'You should have told me the truth.'
'I'm sorry, Mrs Sinclair, I just thought you would…'
'I would not take the job if I knew?'
The other end of the phone was quiet for a few seconds before Mark replied. 'He was an obnoxious little man. Father hated him. He kept asking for money to go here and there checking up on sources, or so he said. In the end, it all became too much, so Father asked him to go away.'
'Was there a contract between you two?'
'Not in so many words. He told me about the Bona Vacantia list but I had already begun to research my family, you have to believe me. The list just makes the research more urgent, that's why we turned to you, Mrs Sinclair. You're our only hope.'
'How much do you owe him?'
'Well, he had put in a bill for 1,220 pounds in expenses. But we were on an agreement where there was only payment if he was successful.'
