The Somme Legacy: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery (Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mysteries Book 2)

by M J Lee

  Again, she paused for a moment before answering, 'When I was in prison, I didn't have a name but a number. 10457. I suppose it was to make me feel less human.'

  'You were in prison? You don't seem the type.'

  She raised her voice. 'And what type is that?'

  The passengers turned and looked at them again.

  David shrugged his shoulders and whispered, 'You don't look like a person who belongs in prison.'

  'Nobody belongs in prison.'

  'Except those who break the law.'

  'Who makes the laws?'

  David shrugged his shoulders once more. 'Parliament? The Government?'

  'And who sits in Parliament?'

  'MPs. Members of the Government…'

  'Men, all of them.'

  'I suppose so.'

  'We are half the population of this country, yet we have no vote and we have no say. There is not a single female representative in that august body of men…' She almost spat out the last words in disgust.

  'And the Cat and Mouse Act?'

  'The latest attempt by the men of Parliament to control us, just as they would control a flock of sheep.'

  He looked at her quizzically.

  'You really don't know, do you?'

  He shook his head.

  She sighed. 'We refused food in prison to protest our incarceration, so the authorities began force-feeding. Holding us down and pushing a rubber tube up our nose or into our throat…'

  'Did it ever happen to you?'

  She shook her head. 'I was lucky.' She played with the edge of her sleeve. 'Others were not. Many suffered horribly, and, of course, forcing women to eat led to an awfully bad press for the men of the government.'

  'So they passed the Cat and Mouse Act?'

  'They plan to let us starve ourselves, until we are weak and feeble, then release us. A week later, after we eat, we will be re-arrested and forced to serve the rest of our sentence.'

  She stared into mid-air, lost in thought.

  'If you had been arrested today, what would you have done?'

  'I would have been sentenced to three months in Holloway and gone on hunger strike immediately.'

  He gestured to her dress. 'But there's nothing of you…'

  Their conversation was interrupted by a loud squeal from the brakes of the tram and a shout from the conductor. 'Smithfield Market. This is the market.'

  She rose to go. 'I believe this is our stop.'

  They both walked down the curved stair of the tram. The conductor was waiting at the bottom. 'Don't get many tourists here.'

  He pointed to the hustle and bustle of the market. Merchants yelling the price and quality of their vegetables. Old women in shawls bawling even louder as they bargained for a piece of meat. Two market porters in dirty white coats and hats carrying pigs' carcasses on their backs, bellowing to the crowd to get out of the way. A mongrel squealing as it was kicked by one of the traders. And enveloping it all the stench of fish, rotting vegetables, and people, lots of people.

  David soaked in the noise and the colourful stew of meat, fruit, vegetables and mankind.

  'Aye, lad, one of seven wonders of t'world. Nowt like it in Derbyshire.'

  He hooked Rose's arm in his and stepped down from the platform, walking towards Charterhouse Street.

  'Nowt like it in Derbyshire,' she whispered in his ear and laughed, her mouth open and her head thrown back.

  God, he thought, how he loved her laughter.

  They walked to the edge of the main pavement. 'Thank you for your help, but I have to be going home now.'

  'Where do you live?'

  She pointed vaguely over her shoulder. 'Over there. Not far.'

  'But you have no money, and your clothes…'

  For the first time she noticed the policeman had ripped her shirt when he had molested her. Her shoes had come unbuttoned and her skirt was covered in mud. Quickly, she pulled her coat around her to hide the torn shirt. 'Don't worry, my father will fix it, he's a haberdasher, better than my mother with a needle and thread.'

  'Let me at least take a cab with you.' He turned and his arm shot into the air. 'Taxi.'

  A cab appeared as if out of nowhere and pulled to the side of the road. 'Let me escort you home.'

  'I can't… I couldn't.'

  'You can't walk home in such a state.'

  'Do you wanna a cab or not? Can't wait here all day,' the cabby shouted from behind the wheel.

  David opened the back door and ushered Rose into the back.

  'Where to, miss?'

  'Curtain Road, Shoreditch, please.'

  'Here's some money for the fare.' He shoved a ten shilling note into her hand.

  'It's far too much.'

  'You can pay me back when you see me next.'

  'I don't even know your name.'

  The cab began to pull away from the kerb.

  'Lieutenant David Russell. And yours?'

  'Rose, Rose Clarke,' she shouted as the cab pulled away, 'Thank you, Lieutenant Russell.'

  The cab pulled out into the traffic and moved away down the road, her face framed in the rear window looking back at him. As he lifted his arm to wave goodbye, he felt something in his inside pocket. The medallion and bows he'd picked up from the street.

  He ran after the cab waving his arms in the air. But it was moving down Charterhouse Road quickly, pulling further away with every second.

  He looked down at the silver-mounted medallion lying in his hand with its purple, white and green bows.

  To Rose from E.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rusholme, Manchester. March 29, 2016.

  Jayne ran through the entrance of the Tea Hive. Maeve Kennedy was already there enjoying tea and a scone. A young woman in her early thirties, with large spectacles and short blonde hair. The very archetype of the professional woman.

  'I'm really sorry, Maeve, one day I'll get my act together.'

  'No worries. I'm just enjoying a quiet start. I've a presentation to write for this afternoon, and anything I can do to avoid it is a bonus.'

  Jayne indicated the counter. 'Can I get you anything?'

  'I'm fine,' she said taking a bite out of her scone.

  Jayne ordered a latte from the girl and returned to the table. 'How are you, Maeve?'

  The woman held her hand out horizontally and let it wobble.

  'Still seeing the psychiatrist?'

  'Her? Waste of my time.'

  Jayne had first met Maeve four years ago. She was a doctoral student at the University of Manchester. On her way home one evening, she had been attacked and robbed by two young thugs on bicycles. Maeve had been shaking and shivering as Jayne had tried to interview her following the incident, unable to remember much about what had happened.

  A week later Jayne had gone round to the address she had been given. The young thugs had been arrested and they needed an identification in a line-up. She had been shocked to discover Maeve in her apartment, the curtains closed and the lights switched off. The young woman was just sitting there staring at the wall. A phone call to the university revealed Maeve hadn't been in to the department since the attack. Hadn't been anywhere at all.

  'It takes time, you know, getting over what you endured.'

  'It's been four years, Jayne.'

  'There's no time limit on it.' The girl came over with her latte and put it down next to her. 'PTSD is not something that's there one moment and cured the next. Talking helps. It's what the psychiatrist is for. Someone to talk to.'

  'I'm fine most of the time, just occasionally, when I'm alone in bed at night…' Her voice trailed off.

  Jayne nodded. 'For me, it's loud noises. One moment I'm as right as can be, the next I'm a gibbering mess. It meant I couldn't do the work any more.'

  'That's why you left the police?'

  'After Dave was killed. Useless I was. Six months on leave. Then I went back and two days later resigned. I couldn't risk it, you see. Couldn't risk letting another copper down.
'

  Maeve took a sip of her tea. 'The psychiatrist says not to blame myself, but I do. I shouldn't have been so stupid, those men…'

  'The psychiatrist is right. And those men will be spending another seven years inside. You weren't the only victim.'

  Maeve nodded. 'I know, but…'

  'It doesn't help?'

  'Not much.' Maeve took another sip of tea. 'What are you doing now, if you've left the police?'

  'That's what I'm here for. I need to pick your brains.'

  'Pick away.'

  Jayne pulled out the two envelopes from their acetate folder. She opened up the first envelope and held the medallion and its ribbons in the palm of her hand.

  Maeve's eyes lit up. 'Oooh, I haven't seen one of those for a long time.'

  'What is it?'

  'You don't know?'

  Jayne shook her head. 'Haven't a clue. I'm researching the family background of one of my clients and this belonged to his great grandmother.'

  Maeve picked up the medallion and read the inscription on the back. 'To Rose from E.'

  'Rose was the name of my client's great grandmother.'

  Maeve whistled. A strange sound coming from such a quiet academic. 'The inscription confirms it for me. This is a picture of one of Manchester's most famous daughters.'

  'Who is it?’

  'I'm amazed you don't know, Jayne.'

  Chapter Fifteen

  London. May 2, 1913.

  The week passed quickly for David Russell in the time following his meeting with Rose Clarke. As a lowly lieutenant, his duties at the War Office were hardly onerous. Mostly they involved escorting visiting dignitaries into meetings with illustrious personages such as Lord Kitchener. That week, a delegation from the General Staff of the German High Command had been paying one of their visits.

  The Germans were so much easier to handle than the French. At least they were always punctual.

  All week as he escorted the various stubble-haired Germans through the long corridors from meeting to meeting, David had carried the medallion and its ribbons in his jacket pocket, a constant reminder of Rose and her smile.

  On Saturday, a day off for him when so many others were working, he dressed in his best Anderson and Sheppard suit and set off for Curtain Road. He didn't know exactly where she lived but thought it shouldn't be too difficult to find. He asked the porter in his club to call a taxi and waited just inside for the man to come and fetch him.

  At this time in the morning, just after 10.30, the club was empty, the only sounds the gentle swish of the pendulum of the grandfather clock and the soft scratch of the concierge's pen in his ledger.

  The porter arrived and David deposited sixpence in his hand. 'Where shall I tell him you're going, sir?'

  'Curtain Road, Shoreditch.'

  'Are you sure, sir? Not many people go near that end of town at this time in the morning.'

  'I'm sure,' David said firmly.

  The young porter shrugged his shoulders. 'Right you are, sir.'

  The same questions were repeated by the cabbie. 'Are you sure you wanna go 'dere, sir?'

  What was wrong with these men? 'Of course I am, just take me,' he snapped.

  The cabbie also shrugged, put the car in gear and double de-clutched to move the taxi forward.

  David had just learnt to drive in Derbyshire last year, so he watched each move of the cabbie with interest. The casual way he drove with his left hand resting on the gear stick, the eyes flicking up every few seconds to check the rear view mirror, the casual adjustment of the pace of the vehicle as it approached each junction.

  'Do you drive, sir?'

  'Learnt last year in the country.'

  'Different from driving in London, sir.'

  'It does seem so.'

  'You gots to keep yer eyes open in London. Them pedestrians are the worst, always crossing the road without a care in the world…'

  As if hearing the cabbie speak, an old man stepped off the pavement in front of him. The cabbie reached out and squeezed the horn, causing the old man to look up in surprise and jump back with all the agility of a 20-year-old.

  'I do likes to give 'em a fright, sir. Only bit of amusement I gets, sir.'

  'What make of car is this?'

  'It's a Unic four cylinder, type C9, 14 horsepower, brand new, sir. Them frogs knows how to build a cab. Faster than an ‘oss, sir. And you don't have to feed it oats. But expensive to run, sir. You don't know the money I have to pay out. Only last week…'

  David switched off as the driver talked in detail about some obscure engine part. Would he be able to find Rose? And if he did, would she be pleased to see him?

  For the last week, her face had continually popped into his mind at the most inopportune moments. He had been so distracted, he spilt tea on the uniform of a German general. Another time, he lost his way in the labyrinthine corridors of the War Ministry whilst escorting a group of staff officers. Luckily, they didn't realise he had led them astray.

  He had to find her again, even if she told him to go away. At least then, he would know he had tried. He took out the medallion once more and looked at it. The stern face stared back at him. His excuse for going to her home was to return this to her. Not much of an excuse, he knew.

  The cab screeched to a halt.

  'Curtain Road, it is, sir. Don't normally take toffs like yourself to places like this. You want me to wait?'

  'No, this is fine.' He handed over the fare and added a shilling as a tip, receiving an extravagant salute in return from the driver.

  David stepped out of the cab. Which way should he go? The road stretched endlessly to both right and left. Rose had given him a clue when she said her father was a haberdasher. He must have a shop somewhere along here. But, he hadn't realised the road was so long. She could be anywhere on it.

  The cab pulled away in a haze of blue fumes pouring from the exhaust. He looked up into the sky. The sun was a faded yellow glow behind a mist of coal smoke. It was fairly high in the sky, if he headed to his right he would be going away from town, to his left, towards town.

  People were everywhere, out for their Saturday morning shopping. Most were poorly dressed in the roughest of clothes. A few stared at him rudely as he decided which way to go. One man, a rough-looking fellow in a cap and homespun trousers looked him up and down.

  'Ye wan’ anyfing?'

  David ignored him.

  The man persisted. 'Wha' ye wan’?’

  David turned to face his questioner. 'I'm looking for Clarke's Haberdashery. Do you know where it is?'

  The man nudged another thug standing next to him. 'Bert, 'ark at 'im. Clarke's? Never 'eard of it, chum.'

  His mate touched a bent finger to his forelock. 'Dahn that a way, sir. But the likes of you won't find nuffin' 'dere. It's not what you might call a gentleman's place.'

  David lifted his hat. 'Thank you anyway.'

  He headed east, the way the man had pointed, away from town.

  The further he went away from the centre of the city, the thicker the crowds became, and the more shabbily dressed. On each side of the road, he passed small alleyways leading to vast tenements. These must be the infamous Shoreditch rookeries. Areas full of thieves and vagabonds, where no police were allowed to enter.

  Outside each one, young men lounged against the walls smoking. A few stared at him as he walked past, obviously wondering what a man dressed like him was doing in such a place.

  He walked for 15 minutes and still the road stretched to the east. He was about to stop and turn around when he saw a large painted sign over a shop with two mannequins in the window. One was of a man and the other a woman. Both were dressed in clothes fashionable in the old queen's reign. The sign said Clarke's in a golden cursive script. Beneath the name was the description: Ladies’ Haberdashery and Gentlemen's Outfitters. Founded 1890.

  The shop was cleaner and smarter than the rest in its row, with a new awning sheltering passers-by from the rain or occasional sun.r />
  He crossed the street, took a deep breath and opened the door. A bell above his head rang.

  The shop was empty.

  Then, out of nowhere, popped a thin man wearing a bowler hat with a tape measure draped around his neck. 'Good morning, sir. How may I help you?' he asked in a pronounced European accent.

  David hadn't prepared for this. He had imagined walking into the shop and seeing Rose there. She would immediately recognise him and they would begin to talk. But this wasn't the lovely Rose, but a rather plain old man with a walrus moustache and an extravagant bowler hat.

  'How may I help you?' the man repeated.

  'D-Do you sell ladies' gloves?' David blurted out. He didn't know why he asked for them. It was the first thing that popped into his mind.

  'Of course, sir. Leather, cotton or silk?'

  Leather, cotton or silk? Which one? He didn't know. 'Leather,' he finally said.

  The man looked at him strangely. 'Rose, could you bring the ladies' leather gloves to me, please.'

  A voice from the back answered immediately, 'Brown or black, Father?'

  'Brown or black, sir?' the man repeated as if David had been unable to hear the words.

  'Black, I think.'

  'Or would you like to look at both, sir?'

  David pretended to think. 'No, just the black will be fine.'

  'Please bring the black ladies' gloves, Rose.'

  'Yes, Fath…'

  She stepped out from behind a curtain at the end of the shop carrying a wooden box filled with black ladies' gloves.

  David took off his hat and made a small bow. 'Good morning, Miss Clarke.'

  The father looked from Rose and back to David. 'You know this gentlemen, Rose?'

  She recovered herself quickly from the shock of seeing David in her shop. 'This is Mr Russell, father. He was the kind gentleman I told you about. The one who escorted me away from the trouble last Sunday.'

  The man came out from behind the counter and shook David's hand. 'Thank you very much, sir. I am most thankful. The police can be extremely rough with the demonstrators these days.'

  David looked surprised as the man shook his hand.

  'Don't be shocked, Mr Russell, my father is supportive of my activities in the movement.'