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

by M J Lee

  David's section halted as the coffin was removed from the hearse and carried by the undertakers into the church. He saw Rose and waved.

  She didn't wave back.

  The rest of the day passed in a blur for David. He waited outside while the service was in progress, casually smoking a cigarette. After half an hour, the coffin was carried out of the church and remounted on its bier.

  The procession formed up once more and moved off through Bloomsbury to King's Cross where the coffin was to board a train to Morpeth in Northumbria.

  The crowds became even denser, shoving the police as they spilled out from the pavement. The mourners, though, just carried on walking behind the hearse, heads held high.

  When the coffin was finally unloaded and carried through an honour guard of white-robed women into King's Cross, David went looking for Rose. He found her sitting all alone on a bench.

  'It was a moving occasion. The women should be proud,’ he said.

  Rose looked up at him. 'We are.'

  He sat down beside her. 'What's the matter, Rose?'

  She thought for a moment before speaking, her teeth pulling at the skin of her bottom lip. 'Why didn't you tell me you were the son of a Lord?'

  'I was going to, Rose, but it never came up, or it never seemed the right time.'

  'You kept coming to my father's shop, buying things for your mother, was it all just a joke? A silly tale you could tell your friends and laugh about at our expense?'

  'Of course it wasn't.'

  'But why, why did you keep coming?'

  'I thought it was obvious, Rose.'

  'But why me? I'm just a shopgirl from Shoreditch.'

  He took hold of her hand. 'To me, you're much more than that, you're Rose, my Rose.'

  'But we're so different, from different backgrounds, different lives, different everything.'

  He looked down at his hand holding hers. 'There's just you and me, Rose and David. Two people, who have become more than friends, who support each other. Whatever you face, I will face. For good or ill, in happiness or sadness, come riches or poverty. All we should have together is the deepest joy.'

  Rose smiled. 'You're not a common kind of soldier, are you, Lieutenant Russell?'

  David noticed the time on the station clock. 'We should be off. Your father will begin to worry.' He stood up and hailed a taxi.

  On the short drive back to Shoreditch, they held each other's hand out of sight of the driver, enjoying the closeness between them and the absence of any necessity to speak.

  As they got closer to Curtain Road, it was David who finally spoke. 'I meant every word I said tonight, Rose.'

  She just nodded. 'I know, it's just neither of us can escape out pasts, it's who we are and where we came from.'

  ‘It’s not our pasts I’m interested in, it’s our future…’ He began to say more, but she placed her finger across his mouth to stop him. 'Let's just enjoy being together for now.'

  And with those words, she rested her head on his shoulder, leaving it there until the cab jerked to a stop outside her father’s shop on Curtain Road.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bakewell, Derbyshire. March 29, 2016.

  'I'm a busy man, Mr Small, what do you want to see me about?'

  Eamon Dunphy hadn't greeted him when he was shown into the man's office. There was no offer of tea or biscuits. No preliminary chat to make him feel at ease. Dunphy just carried on writing without looking up. Well, two could play at that game.

  Herbert Small took off his hat and unwound the scarf from around his throat. He always wore one when he travelled out into the countryside, one couldn’t be too careful these days. He paused for a moment before saying, 'Would you like to save millions of pounds, Mr Dunphy?'

  The man stopped writing and looked up. 'And I suppose you're going to tell me exactly how I can save the money?'

  'I am, Mr Dunphy. And I will need more than 15 minutes to do it.'

  The property developer sat back in his leather executive chair, bought by his wife for a small fortune.

  Herbert Small took off his coat, laying it next to his hat and scarf on the couch. He sat down opposite the property developer. 'My name is Herbert Small…'

  'I already know.'

  Herbert continued anyway, '…I specialise in genealogical investigations on the unclaimed estates list.'

  'What's it to do with me?'

  'You have an interest in Holton Hall, I believe?'

  'It's no secret, I'm planning to develop the site. People are looking to escape the cities and return to a quieter, safer, more rural way of life. I offer them a chance to enjoy a rural lifestyle with all the amenities of a city.'

  'You have spent a lot of money on your plans, Mr Dunphy. Four million pounds is the figure I heard.'

  The skin around Dunphy's eyes tightened and a growl entered his voice. 'That information is confidential, Mr Small, how did you…?'

  'My sources do not matter, Mr Dunphy. What matters is you are about to lose everything you have invested so far.'

  Eamon Dunphy sat forward. Herbert knew he had his attention now. Money was always the clincher for these kind of people.

  'But before I tell you my story, I wonder if your secretary could make me a pot of warm milk. It was such a long drive out to see you here today.'

  Chapter Nineteen

  Manchester Airport. March 29, 2016.

  'Did you wait long?' Paul gave his wife a hug. He had put on weight in his time in Brussels.

  'Not too long.'

  'I had to wait ages for the bags. Two flights just came in from the Canaries. I was surrounded by drunken suntanned people, wearing white vests and tattoos. I often wonder what the poor Spanish must think of us.'

  'I think they probably see the wallet rather than the person.'

  Her husband attempted another hug. Strangely, she was glad to see him, realising she had missed him the last couple of months. She attempted to pick up his bag, but he took her hand instead. Together, they walked to the car park.

  'How long are you here for?'

  'Trying to get rid of me already?'

  Why did it have to start like this? The constant bickering between the two of them. She remembered when she loved him. When they were first married, they had spent all their time together, resenting the intrusion of others into their lives. And when she had been on leave from the police, after Dave's death, Paul had been her rock. Listening to her, caring for her, holding her. It was as if he preferred her dependent on him, not an individual with her own wants and needs.

  She put some coins in the car park machine. 'You didn't need to be so blunt.'

  'I've only just arrived and you're asking when I'm leaving.'

  'I didn't mean it like that.'

  A silence descended between them as they walked to the car and it continued as they drove home. It was another thing that annoyed her about him. The constant melodrama. He always knew how to turn a drama into a crisis. Jayne blamed his mother. A diva if ever she saw one. His mother hadn't been amused when Paul had announced he was going to marry a lowly copper. Oh no, her beloved son deserved somebody far better and far more refined than a bloody plod.

  Of course, the old harridan hadn't come out and said it as such, but she had insinuated it in so many ways. Ways in which Paul, blind to her faults, could not possibly see. The old witch had passed away five years ago, so she shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but if her grave was in Manchester, not down south, Jayne would have gone once a year to dance on it.

  He finally broke the silence as they neared the house. 'As you're interested, I'm here until Monday. I’ve a meeting with a prospective client in London on Friday; I may be up for a promotion. But the weekend is free. I was thinking we could spend it together. In London. Take in a few shows, eat at a few good restaurants. Just the two of us, like it used to be.'

  Jayne thought of her client. They had till next Tuesday to discover the truth about his great grandmother. After then, the inheritance wo
uld pass to the crown. 'Sounds like a plan,' she finally answered, 'but I have a client at the moment…'

  'Another one of your bloody genealogy clients? It's not a job, Jayne, it's a hobby.'

  She gripped the wheel tighter. Why was he so discouraging about the work she loved? 'It is a job. It's my job.'

  'Look, Jayne, trust me, looking into people's past lives is not a proper job. You'd miss the chance of a weekend in London, just to research someone's family tree?'

  'I promised I would finish by next Tuesday…'

  'The family isn't going anywhere. If it's an old ancestor, they'll still be dead next Tuesday, whatever you come up with.'

  She glanced across at him, anger burning in her eyes. 'So your work matters and mine doesn't?'

  He put his hand on her shoulder. 'Jayne, it's just we don't see each other often and now we have a chance to spend a weekend together in London. Doesn't your husband deserve a little time with you?'

  There it was again. His poor little-boy voice. God, it annoyed her. She didn't answer him, just stared at the road ahead, her fingers gripping the wheel tightly.

  Chapter Twenty

  Didsbury, Manchester. March 29, 2016.

  Jayne was alone in the kitchen, Paul had gone to bed in the spare room.

  They had decided to go for a meal in Azzurro on Burton Road, and all had been well, they had chatted inconsequentially for most of the meal, both ignoring the one subject they knew they had to talk about.

  It was Paul who broached it as the limoncello arrived. 'Where are we going with this, Jayne?'

  There it was, the question both of them had been avoiding all evening. It was time for her to be honest. 'I don't know. I thought I would know when I saw you, but I didn't.'

  'Have you missed me at all?'

  It was the time for truth. 'I've missed you being around the house and going for meals and…'

  'But have you missed me?' he interrupted.

  Why was she such a coward about these things? Why did she avoid telling him? In her professional life, she prized honesty above everything. She’d had no problems telling a colleague he was an arsehole when she was in the police. She had no difficulty telling a client the truth, so why did she avoid it now?

  Paul was looking straight at her, waiting for an answer.

  'I've been so busy recently, what with the new case and tying up all the loose ends on the Hughes investigation…'

  Paul smiled. 'I think you've given me my answer.'

  The walk home had been made in silence. Inside the house, Paul had stretched, yawned and said, 'I'm off to bed, lots to do tomorrow. I think it's best if I sleep in the spare room, don't you?'

  Before she could answer, he had already launched himself up the stairs.

  She sat in front of her computer for a long while, staring into mid-air, before the loud miaows of Mr Smith, begging to be let out, brought her back to the present.

  She opened the patio door and he hurried out, desperate to be away from the house. If only it were as easy for her, she thought.

  She went back and switched on the computer. While it booted up, she poured herself a glass of water. No wine, not tonight.

  Something Maeve had said stuck in her mind. If Rose had been a member of the WSPU, the militant arm of the suffrage movement, perhaps she had been arrested at some time in the past?

  She logged onto Find My Past and immediately went into the courts and legal section, typing in Rose Clarke's name. As she waited for the results to appear, she thought about the certainties of research. Everything was cut and dry; either there was a record or there wasn't. So unlike the problems of being married. Here, she was always bedevilled with the unpredictability of other people, the difficulty of understanding what somebody else wanted. She would have to tell her father what had happened tomorrow, he would know what to do.

  Two results appeared for a Rose Clarke before 1914. Jayne clicked on the first in 1912 and then on the icon of a camera on the far right. After a few seconds a page from an old ledger appeared on her screen. Rose's name was in the left column in the middle of a group of other women, some arrested for similar offences, others for theft or prostitution. Her age was given as 19 so this was definitely the Rose Clarke she was looking for. Jayne read the rest of the details on the prison sheet.

  Name:Rose Clarke, 19, shop assistant

  Degree of Education:V11

  Committing Magistrate:H. M. Bennett, Esq. Bow St Police Ct.

  Date of Warrant:March 2, 1912.

  When in Custody:March 2, 1912.

  Particulars of Offence:Maliciously damaging one plate glass window, property of Philip Dunne, value 15 pounds.

  Before Whom Trial Set:L Wallace Esq., K.C. March 13, 1912.

  Verdict of Jury:Guilty

  Sentence of the Court:Three months imprisonment in Holloway Prison. (Sentence to start from March 5, 1912.)

  'Well, well, Miss Clarke, you were a militant. But I'm sure Holloway wasn't easy jail time in those days.'

  She went back to Find My Past and clicked the second result. Another prison record appeared, much like the first.

  Name:Rose Clarke, 21, shop assistant

  Degree of Education:V11

  Committing Magistrate:R. T Alderson, Esq.

  Date of Warrant:May 22, 1914.

  When in Custody:May 22, 1914.

  Particulars of Offence:Obstructing a police officer, Constable M Talon, in the course of his duty.

  Before Whom Trial Set:P Creichton Esq., K.C. May 29, 1914.

  Verdict of Jury:Guilty

  Sentence of the Court:Six months imprisonment in Holloway Prison.

  (Sentence to start from May 25, 1914.)

  Jayne smiled. Obstruction. The classic police charge when an offender couldn't be charged with anything else. Standing in front of a policeman was obstruction. Breathing whilst in front of a policeman was obstruction. Anything was obstruction as long as it was said to be obstruction by the police. It was a great Catch 22 of a charge.

  Jayne checked the sentence once more. Six months. They must have wanted to teach her a lesson.

  She opened another window and typed in the date of the offence and the word 'suffragette'. An article from the Daily Mirror appeared, accompanied by photographs, dated May 22, 1914. It was a special edition, priced at one halfpenny. The headline shouted out in bold capitals:

  MRS PANKHURST ARRESTED AT THE GATES OF BUCKINGHAM PALACE IN TRYING TO PRESENT A PETITION TO THE KING.

  Jayne checked out the pictures. A police horse and constables pushing into the crowd had a caption beneath saying 'Forcing back the women at Constitution Hill.' Another had a woman on her back lying on the ground. 'Suffragette faints after a scuffle', but it looked to Jayne like she had been hit over the head rather than having fainted. The third picture had a burly copper with both his arms around an older woman, and a plain clothes detective wearing a natty straw hat, holding on to her arm. The caption read 'Chief Inspector Rolfe arrests Mrs Pankhurst.'

  Jayne looked closely at the woman in the picture. She was sure it was the same woman on the medallion. It was Emmeline Pankhurst.

  'Maeve was right. Perhaps there's more,' she said out loud. She looked up from the screen, suddenly aware she was talking to herself. The only answer was the slow ticking of the clock. 1.30 in the morning.

  One last search.

  She typed 'Rose Clarke, suffragette' into Google. As ever, the time of the result was trumpeted with pride. 0.17 seconds.

  If only all her searches were as quick. She scanned the results. Most seemed to be mentions in academic books for active suffragettes at the time. But then she noticed a Google Images result.

  She clicked on the page and a picture of a single dishevelled woman dressed in rough linen and a white apron with dark prison arrows on it appeared.

  The photograph was taken from a distance, but, despite the roughness of the clothes, Jayne could see the pride, bearing and defiance in the posture.

  The caption read, 'Surveill
ance picture of Rose Clarke, suffragette, taken in the exercise yard of Holloway Prison, 1912.’

  Jayne clapped her hand across her mouth. ‘Oh, my God.’ Quickly, she scrambled for the acetate file. She opened the envelope inside and took out the pencil drawing. It was her. The drawing was definitely Rose Clarke. But a happier, more contented woman, not the gaunt, sad, prisoner in the surveillance photograph.

  Jayne stared at the picture for a long time, drawn to the strength in the woman's eyes.

  She was going to find out what happened to Rose Clarke, with or without the help of the Russells. She owed this woman something for all she had suffered in her fight for other women. Even now, over 100 years later, Jayne felt she could still right the wrongs of the past. It was why she did what she did.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Holloway Prison, London. July 23, 1914.

  David walked through the gates of the prison carrying his bouquet of flowers. It was Rose's birthday today and he desperately wanted to talk to her before he returned to his regiment in the North. He had visited her every Saturday morning since her imprisonment. His commanding officer didn't approve, but he didn't care. Rose meant more to him than anything, including his career in the army.

  The iron doors slammed behind him. The place smelt of boiled cabbage and humans, lots of humans. A male warder rattled a large bunch of keys and let him into a waiting area, full of men and children. Some of the men were smoking, others reading newspapers, still more just sitting staring into mid-air, a lost look in their eyes.

  He sat down on a rough wooden bench against the wall as he had done every weekend since Rose had been imprisoned.

  He had asked her, pleaded with her, not to go to the demonstration outside Buckingham Palace.

  'They're going to be waiting for you there.'

  'We know.'

  'They want to make an example of you all. Teach you a lesson. The papers have all been asked to be there with photographers.'