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

by M J Lee

  His head was so cold, so cold.

  What was that above his head? The sound of another plane? But they didn't fly at night. Was it night? The room was dark. He couldn't see anybody or anything any more.

  Have they covered my head?

  Why have they covered my head?

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Le Cateau, behind the German lines. July 11, 1916.

  Hauptmann Redel hated the war. So many broken bodies, twisted and maimed beyond recognition. For what? To advance 20 yards further, gaining a small slice of somebody else's cake?

  He finished the glass of wine, grimacing as he did so. Far too acid. The bottle was empty again. Had he drunk it so quickly? His hand shot up into the air. A waiter appeared almost immediately.

  'Encore du vin,' he ordered.

  The waiter bowed and scuttled away to bring him another bottle. He was sat outside a dirty old estaminet in Le Cateau, or what was left of the town. Wagons rumbled past loaded with supplies for the front. Soldiers ambled along the street looking for the nearest brothel. Two officers sat down at the next table, ignoring him, recognising the flashes of the Medical Corps and leaving him to drink alone.

  It was how he wanted it. Alone, drinking, his hand shaking as he gripped the glass.

  The only time it didn't shake was when he held a scalpel or a saw in his hands. One to slice, the other to chop. Legs, heads, arms, feet, toes, brains, fingers, hips, knees. He had cut them all.

  'To the bits of the human body,' he said out loud.

  The other officers stared at him, finally turning their bodies away.

  One day I may slice your injured nose from your face, he thought as the lieutenant shifted his chair, then you won't be able to look down it at me.

  So many had died recently, English as well as German. And they were still in the same place now as they were the day the attacks began.

  'To moving forward.' He lifted his glass and toasted the officers at the table next to him. They ignored him. 'No, well here's to standing still.' He rose from his table and finished the glass of wine in one gulp.

  The officers answered him by picking up their glasses and moving inside the estaminet.

  He slumped back on his chair. 'Fuck you, too,' he mumbled under his breath.

  Then he remembered why he had come into town in the first place. He pulled five letters from the inside of his soiled jacket. His orderly had given them to him, asking what he should do.

  'You have taken the notebooks and sent them back to the British?'

  'Yes, Hauptmann Redel, exactly as you ordered. Two separate bundles. One for those who survived and another for those who died.'

  At least the British will know what happened to their men.

  Redel had taken the letters, shoving them in his overall pocket, only finding them later at the end of the night. Now here he was, on his enforced leave, sitting in a dirty cafe in an ugly town, looking at the last words of some British soldiers.

  He spread the letters out in front of him. Five different hands, but always the same standard envelope; the cheap British army paper that crumpled like soft tissue.

  He had a fondness for the British, developed in the arms of a woman from Brixton when he had been studying at St Mary's in London. A strange people, so insular and convinced of their superiority, yet inferior in almost everything, from their beer, to their food, to the way they lived and to their health.

  He had lived in London for two years; enjoying the opera and Covent Garden, even becoming fond of the strange brown liquid the English called beer. Thank God, the French made all their wine for them.

  He picked up his glass. It was empty again. The waiter came running with another bottle, leaving it on the table and scurrying back into his cafe.

  Hauptmann Redel poured himself another glass, spilling some on one of the letters. He wiped the spillage off, only spreading it even more across the envelope. The address was slightly smudged. A Rose Clarke, at a hospital near Manchester.

  He remembered Manchester. A black, dirty city with a big German population, and smoke pouring from a myriad of factory chimneys. Cottonopolis they called it. He wondered how his old German friends from the city were faring now. Were they in jail? Or something worse? You never knew with the British.

  He looked at the envelope again. Was this woman a wife? A mother? A sister? A lover?

  He would never know.

  He put his hand up in the air. The waiter shuffled out to serve him. 'Avez-vous timbres pour envoyer ces lettres en Angleterre?' he asked the waiter in his heavily accented French.

  'Angleterre?'

  Redel sighed, he had been through this before. 'Bien sûr, Angleterre.'

  The waiter scratched his head and wandered inside, returning five minutes later with a book of stamps. 'Timbres,' he announced proudly.

  Redel placed the stamp at the top left-hand corner, writing in German on the back of each letter. He had decided not to write in English. The family who received the letter had to know it was a German who sent it. That one man had done them a kindness in the middle of this rotten war.

  The post box was opposite the estaminet. Redel lurched up from his seat and tottered over to it, putting each letter one by one into the gaping mouth.

  He staggered back to his seat at the table, poured himself another glass of wine. A tear ran down his face. When would this war ever end?

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Holton Hall, Derbyshire. July 18, 1916.

  Lady Lappiter chose a black silk dress and matched it with a grey hat from her wardrobe.

  'Jennings, whatever happened to the black felt hat I used to have?' She searched through the wardrobe but it wasn't there.

  'You gave it to charity two years ago, ma'am. Said you wouldn't be needing it any more,' her lady's maid answered.

  'Bother.' She put the grey hat on again. 'I can't wear this again. I wore it yesterday. And anyway, the grey is fighting with the deep black of the silk.'

  'No, ma'am.'

  'Have we time to go to Marchant's?'

  'The funeral is at 3 p.m., ma'am.'

  She made a quick decision. 'Ask Silcock to bring the car around, we'll have to go. And telephone Marchant's to tell them I'm on my way.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  Lady Lappiter looked at herself in the mirror. Not bad for somebody in her fifties. She would cut a fine figure at the funeral for her husband this afternoon. All the good and great of Derbyshire would be there, of course, even the Duke of Devonshire. She had been invited to tea with the Duchess next week to commiserate her on her losses; her husband to a heart attack and her son on the fields of Flanders. What would she wear? A trip to Manchester would be needed again. She couldn't wear something old and tattered to tea with the Duchess, even if it did have to be black. Such a fetching colour on her, she thought.

  Her son bustled into the room, followed by the maid. For some reason he was agitated, holding a piece of paper in his hand and waving it about.

  'Mother, Mother, it's from David…'

  'Don't be stupid, Toby, David is dead. We received a telegram three days ago from the War Office.'

  'It's a letter from him, he must have…'

  She held up her hand and stopped him in mid-sentence. There were certain things one never talked about in front of the servants. 'Jennings, you can leave us. Make sure the car is at the front and waiting. I want to leave in precisely eight minutes.'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  As soon as her maid had closed the door, Lady Lappiter spoke to her son in a low voice. 'Take three breaths, Toby, and then quietly tell me what has you so troubled.' She turned back to face the mirror. Perhaps this dress was a little too tight.

  Toby did as he was told and took three breaths before sitting down. As calmly as possible, he said, 'You don't realise, Mother, he's left everything to the trollop.'

  Lady Lappiter's eyebrow rose a fraction. 'I will not have that sort of language in this house, Toby. Explain yourself.'

  'I
was going through Father's mail, the letters he has received since passing away. I recognised David's handwriting and the yellow army notepaper. Here, read it for yourself.'

  He passed over the letter to his mother. She ignored him for a while, searching for her pince-nez on the dressing table before taking it and reading.

  Dear Father,

  I am writing this to you on the eve of the big push. By the time you read it, we will probably be advancing on Germany with the Kaiser's armies in full retreat. At least that is the plan. The men are in good spirits and I couldn't have asked for a finer bunch of chaps to command.

  I remember you telling me of your time in India with the regiment. The excitement you felt before battle. I never understood what you meant but now I do. A sense of not knowing what the future holds or where I will be tomorrow. It gives one a strange sense of elation, of almost god-like understanding of everything and everybody.

  That is why I am writing this letter to you as I know you will carry out my wishes without fear or favour.

  Father, I married Rose in Gretna Green last month. I know this was against your and Mother's wishes. But you have to understand I love her with all my heart and wish to spend the rest of my life with her.

  I know you didn't marry Mother for love. As you explained to me, it was a matter of expediency, the estate had to be protected. But I am different, the world is different from your time. I have married Rose for love and when you meet her, I'm sure you will love her as much as I do.

  Rose and I are expecting a baby. I hope it is a boy and he can carry on the family line. I am writing this to you, Father, so you understand whatever happens to me in this war, this child is your grandchild and my heir. I know I can rely on you to follow my wishes.

  I've just been called by my sergeant, we are assembling the men before the attack. Wish me luck Father. I know, whatever happens, I won't let you or the men down.

  Your loving son,

  David.

  Lady Lappiter threw the letter onto her dressing table. 'The bitch, she's given him a child.'

  'What are we going to do, Mother?'

  She checked the letter once more, reading it quickly. 'Has anybody else seen this?'

  Toby shook his head. 'I don't think so. It was lying with a pile of other letters on Father's desk, Walters must have put them there.'

  Lady Lappiter's mind was racing. Her son's fleshy lips were making an unappealing sucking sound.

  'You're sure nobody else has seen this?'

  Toby nodded.

  She took the Dunhill lighter, a present from her late husband, off the dresser. She pressed down on the gold lever and a small bright blue flame shot from its mouth. 'You must tell nobody about this. You are Lord Lappiter now and will remain so, is that clear?'

  Toby nodded again, his cheeks wobbling and his hair falling across the high forehead.

  She brought the small blue flame up to the bottom edge of the letter. Immediately, the paper began to blacken and burn. As the flame began to shoot up to her long elegant fingers, she dropped the burning fragments into the onyx ashtray.

  Toby was leaning over her, the flame reflected in his eyes, burning brightly.

  'You are Lord Lappiter. That trollop and her child will receive nothing, do you understand me, Toby?'

  He watched as the last of the flames died away, leaving just blackened ashes, where writing could be vaguely seen.

  'Now wash the ashes down the sink before Jennings returns. We don't want anybody finding them, do we?'

  'No, Mother.'

  Chapter Sixty

  Wibbersley Hospital, Flixton, Manchester. July 20, 1916.

  ‘And summer's lease hath all too short a fate.' Rose didn't know why this suddenly popped into her head as she was preparing the trays for lunch. It was wrong anyway. Wasn't the line from Shakespeare ‘And summer's lease hath all too short a date'? She would have to look it up later in the copy of the Sonnets in the hospital's library.

  She had lost count of the number of trays she had prepared. She returned to her trolley and counted; 48. Still another 36 to make up.

  Only five minutes to go before she was due to start. Sister Colman was on duty today and Rose would receive a telling-off and a note in the ward diary if she were just ten seconds late.

  Where had all the time gone? She knew exactly where. In the toilet being sick again. God, she hated this feeling. All she had to do was look at food and her throat would fill up with bile. It was worse in the morning when the smell of bacon frying and the sight of eggs swimming in fat combined to bring vomit racing up her throat.

  The cook was no help, delighting in seeing her suffer. 'Had six myself. First one's always the worst. Should've kept your legs shut. That's what I always tell my girls. Keep your legs shut and the buggers can't get in to do the dirty. Mind you, two of my daughters have already had kids with their men in France, so nobody listens to me, do they. Here, where you goin', your bacon and eggs is goin' cold.'

  Rose tried to stay in the toilet for as short a time as possible, particularly if Sister Colman was working. She'd already received two warnings from her. A third would mean a visit to the matron.

  As she was coughing what remained of yesterday evening's dinner into the white porcelain, she thought of David. Why hadn't she heard anything yet? Was he wounded? Had his letters been sent to the right place? She had checked the list of casualties every evening in the newspapers and his name hadn't appeared at all. There were other officers from his regiment in the obituaries but not him.

  No news was good news, wasn't it? Perhaps the letters from the front were sent to the wrong place. Or held up waiting to be put on a boat across the channel?

  She stood up and wiped her mouth. Please let him be alive.

  The clock ticked over to 12.25. She had to stop daydreaming or she would get nothing done. Perhaps this was another symptom of being pregnant. Dash and bugger it.

  Quickly she put the last glasses on the trays and placed them on the trolley. She pushed it down the kitchen to where the cook was ready and waiting with the plates of food and their aluminium cloches. Today was Wednesday so it was Irish stew. Most of the men liked their stew, said it reminded them of the trenches; all brown and soggy. The cook was in a good mood and loaded the plates quickly.

  Rose pushed the full trolley down the corridor to the first ward. Only a few seconds late, if she ran, she would just make it. She broke into a trot, stopping only when she reached the ward door, entering at exactly 12.30.

  Sister was stood behind it, watch in hand. 'Good to see you finally, Miss Clarke. Do get a move on, won't you?'

  'Yes, Sister.'

  She pushed the trolley to the first bed. Captain Harris, both legs amputated above the knee. He was always a little morose so Rose put on her best it's-a-wonderful-day smile. 'Good afternoon, Captain Harris. And how are we today?'

  'We are fine but still sitting in here, waiting to go home. When am I going home, Miss Clarke?'

  The sister was listening so Rose became the perfect nurse. 'When the doctors think you are well enough, Captain Harris. Now, set a good example to the rest of the men and eat all your lunch. You need to build up your strength for when you leave, don't you?'

  'I suppose so.'

  As she adjusted his pillow, she leant in and whispered, 'They're coming round this afternoon. I think you're going soon.'

  A broad grin crossed Captain Harris' face. 'This afternoon?'

  'Eat all your stew. It does build you up.'

  The sister turned away and padded back to her desk at the head of the ward.

  'That's what I've heard but don't quote me. And start smiling. You know they like to see a happy patient.'

  'I don't know what we would do without you, Rose. Old Buggerlugs over there hasn't smiled since hell froze over. Right old sourpuss, she is.'

  'Shhhh, and eat your food. They are coming at 2.30.'

  The Captain sat up a little straighter. 'Right you are, Rose. Happy as a lamb, me, now I k
now I'm going home.'

  The rest of the lunchtime passed quickly and without incident. Rose was just about to go back to her room for a lie-down when Sister came with a letter. An army letter.

  'You're supposed to receive these before 9 a.m., Miss Clarke. For some reason, somebody put it on my desk.'

  It must be from David. She snatched it from the sister's hands and tore it open.

  It was from David. But it was dated before the attack. He must have sent it before then. She quickly read it through. He told her he loved her and said he had sorted everything out with his parents. At least he had managed to convince them. But where were his other letters? This was two weeks old. What had happened since then?

  The sister was still standing in front of her holding another envelope, a frown creasing the space between her eyes. Rose snatched it from her. The stamp was German. Had David been captured? Was he a prisoner of war? There was German writing on the envelope; a crabbed Teutonic hand. What did it mean?

  For the first time, Rose noticed Sister Colman looking at her. There was a sadness, a sorrow in her eyes.

  'The writing… it's in German. Is he a prisoner?’ Rose stammered.

  Sister Colman touched Rose's hand. In a soft voice, she said, 'The words mean found on a British officer in a casualty clearing station.'

  For what seemed like a long time, Rose didn't understand. She tried to ask a question but her mouth just opened and closed like a goldfish breathing air.

  And then she finally understood.

  A keening scream came from deep within her body.

  Was that her? Was it her making the sound?

  And then she was on the floor and the sister was holding her head on her lap and stroking her forehead.

  She felt a surge of pain in the depths of her stomach and screamed out loud at the world.

  Her baby, what would happen to her baby?

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Sale, Manchester. April 2, 2016.