The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  'Good morning, Ms Sinclair, My name is Richard Hughes, you don't know me, but—'

  Her husband let go of her arm and walked away in the direction of the cemetery gates.

  'I'm afraid, I can't talk right now.'

  'No problem,' the voice drawled, 'we saw your advert in Family Tree magazine and would like to arrange a meeting. Tonight, at six pm, the Midland Hotel?'

  She began walking after her husband, trying to catch him up. 'I don't know if—'

  'Good, that's arranged, see you in the lobby at six.'

  'Mr Hughes...Mr Hughes?' The line was dead.

  She ran after her husband, catching him up as he was getting into the car.

  'Sorry, work,' she said feebly.

  There was no answer.

  Chapter Three

  Manchester. November 14, 2015.

  'How could you answer the phone at my sister's funeral?'

  He hadn't said a word in the car on the drive back from Southern Cemetery. She knew he would wait until they had stepped across the threshold into their house before he would begin. And right on cue, he had started. She was determined that she wouldn't rise to the bait. After all, he had just buried his sister. Now was not a time to argue.

  'It was work,' she said, hanging her coat on the hook in the hall.

  'It's always work. I thought when you left the police, our lives would be easier. But your hobby seems to have taken over where work left off.'

  'It's not a hobby. It's my job. My new job.'

  'Looking into people's pasts? That's not a job. It's just nosiness.'

  She ignored him, walking into the open plan kitchen. They had remodelled the house twelve years ago when they first got married. Instead of taking a honeymoon, they had built a new space. It was his idea but she loved it. Sitting here in the morning drinking her coffee was the time she was most at ease, when he had gone to work, the house was quiet and she was alone, waiting to start up her computer and plunge into the past.

  She specialised in genealogical research. Not the usual stuff, but more difficult cases; lost relatives, broken timelines, adoptions, hidden secrets. People with a past that they couldn't discover for themselves. She was good at her job, she knew that. Years of police training had given her the ability to dig deep into whatever had happened, even though it was often a long time ago. Her personal life might be a mess but her work never suffered. Not with the police and not with her new job.

  'Even the vicar noticed that you were speaking on your phone. I saw him shaking his head as he left the cemetery.'

  Sometimes, he was like a dog with a bone, unable to leave it alone.

  She put the kettle on. 'Would you like some tea?'

  'No, I don't want any bloody tea.'

  'Well, I'm making some. It'll calm you down.' She realised as soon as the words were out of her mouth that it was the wrong thing to say. Never in the history of human discourse had telling somebody to calm down ever calmed them down.

  'What did you say? I've just buried my sister for God's sake and you're telling me to calm down.'

  'I just thought—'

  'You know I asked people to come back here after the funeral. I thought it might be nice to talk about her and what she meant to them, but nobody wanted to come.'

  'I'm not surprised.' As soon as she said the words, she knew now was not the time for honesty. But she was never good at placating people. Even in the Force, she was never the one sent to tell people their loved ones had been injured or killed. In fact, it was the opposite. She was the last person ever chosen to give bad news. Somehow, she lacked the ability to empathise with people. She tried, but always ended up saying the wrong thing.

  'What do you mean by that?'

  Her husband finally had his argument. The electric kettle started to bubble and steam poured from the spout. With a loud click, it switched itself off.

  'What do you mean by that?' he repeated, louder this time.

  Oh God, she thought, here we go. 'Well, I just meant, she wasn't the easiest person to like. She was an unhappy person who made the lives of others difficult.'

  Her husband stayed silent. 'Did she make your life difficult?' he eventually said.

  Jayne thought for a moment. 'No, I refused to let her.'

  'Your work came first?'

  She poured some hot water into the pot and emptied it into the sink. Taking the caddy, she placed two teaspoons of Darjeeling into the pot. She hated tea bags and all the convenience that went with them. It was the taste of tea she wanted not the ease of a paper bag.

  'Are you sure you won't have any tea?'

  'No. I'm going to bed.'

  'But it's only four in the afternoon.'

  'I just want to lie down.'

  His anger was spent now. He slumped over with his head held between his knees. She knew she should have comforted him then, but she couldn't do it. She would have made a terrible mother.

  He stood up slowly and shakily, taking a second to find his balance, before heading towards the door.

  'Do you want me to bring you anything?'

  'No, I'll be fine. Just need to sleep.'

  The room was silent when he was gone. Above her head, she heard the creaking floorboards as he walked across their bedroom to hang up his jacket, followed by a soft thump as he threw himself on the bed.

  She sipped her tea, enjoying the soft, warm smokiness as it swam past the back of her tongue. The laptop was sitting on the counter. She flipped the Mac open and clicked Safari. Her emails came up immediately.

  The first two she deleted. She had no need for life insurance or penis enhancement at the moment. The third caught her attention, it was from Richard Hughes.

  Dear Ms Sinclair,

  Apologies for disturbing you this afternoon. And additional apologies for requesting a meeting at such short notice. But once you meet my uncle, you will understand the need for speed. In this email, you will find two attachments. My uncle's adoption file and his original birth certificate. We began the process of searching for his antecedents two months ago and have now reached an impasse.

  I look forward to meeting you at six this evening at the Midland Hotel.

  Richard Hughes

  The language was quite formal and educated. Nobody used words like antecedent or impasse any more. But the job looked too straightforward for her skills. And besides, she should stay with Paul in case he needed her. Schlepping across Manchester in the rain held no attraction. She picked up her tea and sipped it, glancing at the address. An ordinary private Gmail, nothing too special about it.

  She glanced at the message again, seeing the two attachments sitting at the top.

  'Bugger it,' she said out loud, opening the first attachment. It was a notice of adoption stating that the child, John Michael Trichot, an orphan aged four years old, was being adopted by an American couple, Thomas and Glenda Hughes. It was dated October 4, 1929, and signed at the bottom by the Matron of the Ilkley Children's Home, a Mrs Glendower, and the Resident Magistrate of the town, James Whittaker.

  A fairly standard adoption certificate, nothing out of the ordinary. She glanced through it one more time. It looked straightforward to her, with all the formalities required by the Adoption of Children Act 1926 fulfilled to the letter. What nobody realised was that from the 1920s to the 1960s over 150,000 English children were sent abroad as orphans, mainly to Canada and Australasia. It seems this man was one of those transported at this time. She checked through the adoption papers, no additional information. Under the Act, there should have been reasons for the adoption and statements from the Children’s Home, but there was nothing.

  Strange. She made a note for herself to check out the Ilkley Children’s Home.

  She clicked on the second attachment, the birth certificate. The baby's name was repeated: John Michael Trichot, born July 16, 1925. She immediately smiled. Not a common name, probably of French origin. The birth certificate was English, so it should make searching for ancestors relatively easy.
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  'Thank God, he isn't a John Smith,' she said out loud. She often talked to herself as she investigated. She had done the same in the police, earning the nickname 'The Whisperer'. It wasn't a bad nickname for the force, better than most. One of her bosses went by the name of 'Lurch'. Not for his resemblance to the television character but for his ability to accidentally bump into the breasts of junior female officers when he was drunk. A quick sharp squeeze of his bollocks had made certain he never attempted another lurch with her.

  She scanned across the certificate. The father's name came next. Charles Allen Fitzmaurice Trichot. Even better, three Christian names. She hoped he had used all three of them in the census or in the army as it would make him easy to find.

  His profession was listed as Gentleman. Funny, I wonder how you got that job? Apply with a CV in triplicate or simply be born with a silver spoon in your mouth? Probably the latter.

  The mother was simpler; Emily Clavell. Fairly straightforward and to the point. Her profession was Spinster. She loved the old descriptions that cropped up on birth certificates. So much better than Housewife.

  Her favourite was a Night Soil Collector, the ancestor of a millionaire football client with a famous temper. She had told him his grandfather was a water dispersal operative. He was as pleased as punch.

  She decided to start with the father as, with his rare name, he was probably going to be the easiest to find. Unlike women, men very rarely changed the names they were born with. She logged on to Findmypast.com and typed in Charles Allen Fitzmaurice Trichot.

  Nothing.

  She restricted the search to the UK and eliminated the Allen and the Fitzmaurice, pressing return once more.

  Nine results.

  She clicked on the 1911 census. There he was, living with his parents in Hertfordshire. 21 years old. The only son of a father who was a vicar. A quick check of the 1891 and 1901 censuses revealed he had grown up at the same address. Not surprising, people moved around a lot less than they do today.

  Then she clicked on the next section in the results headlined, Soldiers, died in the Great War.

  First names: Charles Edward Fitzmaurice

  Last name: Trichot

  Service Number: 4267

  Rank: Captain

  Regiment: Princess of Kent's Own

  Battalion: 1/5th Battalion

  Birthplace: Sheppey, Hertfordshire.

  Enlistment Place: London

  Death Year: 1918

  Death Day: 7

  Death Month: 11

  Cause of Death: Killed in Action

  Place: Sambre Canal

  It was the same man. The name and place of birth were exactly the same.

  But if he were dead, how did he manage to father a child seven years later?

  She sipped her tea, the warm smokiness slipped down her throat and warmed her stomach. Her eyes scanned down to the last result on the list. A newspaper report from The Times for November 30, 1918. The full page of the newspaper opened up with a small article outline in yellow at the top right.

  MM Awarded to Captain Charles Trichot (Posthumous)

  It is gazetted today that Captain Charles Trichot of the First Battalion Princess of Kent's Own has been awarded the Military Medal for Gallantry. During the crossing of the Sambre Canal, Captain Trichot led his men with valour gaining his objective despite losing most of his company to shellfire. With a small detachment of his men, he held off repeated attacks by the enemy, despite being wounded in the leg and chest. Captain Trichot died of his wounds at No.23 Casualty Clearing Station, Auberchicourt on the morning after the engagement. He is the only son of the Reverend Charles Trichot of Sheppey, Herts.

  It was the same man, it had to be. But how does a man father a child when he's been dead for seven years?

  She closed the laptop. Perhaps, she would keep this appointment after all.

  Chapter Four

  Midland Hotel, Manchester. November 14, 2015.

  'I suppose you're here because you saw the same thing we did.'

  Her client was old, very old. He sat in his wheelchair facing her, long arthritic fingers gripping an even older looking walking stick. To say the face had seen life was an understatement. It looked like a half-made bed in a doss house: a shock of white hair covered skin that had last been seen on a Shar Pei. Pendulous eye bags hung down over the cheeks. Inside the mouth, the teeth had a vaguely yellow tinge. But what stood out were the eyes. Deep blue pools of life that seemed to look into and through her at the same time.

  'The man named as your father apparently died seven years before you were born,' said Jayne.

  Her client nodded his head, but it was more like a slow, knowing bow.

  Jayne looked at the printout she had made of The Times article. 'There must be an explanation. Perhaps, he was reported dead, then found alive as a POW?'

  The old man sighed as if he was dealing with a difficult pupil. 'The newspaper report was explicit about him being shot leading a charge across the Sambre canal. They don't give posthumous medals to men who are still alive.'

  The voice was deep, American, like a chocolate milkshake, only smoother and richer.

  Jayne had finally decided to come to the meeting after checking in on Paul. He was sleeping like a baby. With a bit of luck, she would be home before he woke up. 'I don't know. There must be some explanation, otherwise...'

  'Otherwise, how could I be here?'

  'Precisely.'

  'Could I get you anything to drink, Ms Sinclair?' The speaker was Richard Hughes. He had met her down in the lobby, approaching her as soon as she entered and guiding her up to a Midland suite on the seventh floor.

  'Sit down, Richard,' the old man snapped. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Sinclair, my nephew sometimes acts like a love-sick puppy.'

  She glanced at the man. He did have a sort of puppy dog expression, but one that was immaculately turned out in the latest Calvin Klein suit and Gucci loafers.

  The old man twisted in his wheelchair towards his nephew. 'Go and make yourself useful. Get me my Scotch and a glass of something for the lady, here.'

  Jayne caught the malevolent look that dissolved a moment later into a smile. 'The Macallan 18, Uncle?'

  'What else?' snapped the old man.

  'And for you, Ms Sinclair?'

  'A glass of water will be fine.'

  'Coming right up.' He walked over to the drinks trolley.

  'I hate Ms, don't you? A sound like the after effects of a fart.'

  'It's neutral. It doesn't define my status.'

  'Nothing is neutral. And it defines you as much as any other word, Mrs Sinclair. You are married, aren't you?'

  Again, the blue eyes stared at her. 'Yes, but you already know that. You also know my background, what I do, and probably what colour underwear I'm wearing.'

  The old man chuckled. 'I don't know about the underwear, but everything else has been checked. Richard, give me the dossier.'

  'Just a minute, Uncle.'

  'Now, Richard, I can't wait for you all the time.'

  Richard stopped pouring the whisky and handed him a folder from the top of the table. Jayne noticed there were other folders in a neat pile.

  The old man took it without a word of thanks or acknowledging his nephew. He opened the cover and scanned down a typewritten page, reading aloud in his deep voice as he did so. 'You're married, no children. Husband's name is Paul, he works for a software company. You didn't take his surname when you married.' The blue eyes looked up at her. 'Why was that, Mrs Sinclair?'

  'I liked my own name. It's the one I was born with.'

  The old man harrumphed and returned to reading his dossier. 'One brother lives in London, you're not close. Mother dead, stepfather still alive. He has Alzheimer's. You don't know who your real father is.'

  The last words caused a sharp stab of pain in her chest. The old man carried on without noticing.

  'You're ex-police, twenty-one years in the Force. Resigned six months after your partner, Dave Gilmour,
was shot dead in front of you.'

  An image flashed across Jayne's mind. The loud bang of a shotgun, a hole in the door, Dave falling backwards, slowly, so slowly.

  'Three years in genealogy, specialising in investigations. I checked with Lord Radley. He confirmed your credentials. You made sure his line didn't die out.'

  'A relative, transported to Australia. Not a difficult investigation.'

  'But done under difficult circumstances, wasn't it?'

  'All investigations throw up obstacles.'

  The old man scratched his nose with one long, wrinkled finger at the end of which hung a bruised nail. 'No doubt, you'll be wondering who I am?'

  Richard Hughes arrived back with the drinks, giving Jayne her water and a crystal tumbler of whisky for his uncle. The old man held the glass with both hands and lifted it up to his mouth, sucking down a large gulp. 'The ice has melted, don't drown the Scotch. How many times have I told you?'

  Richard reached over and took it off him. 'Sorry, Uncle, I'll make you another.'

  'Useless as tits on a bull, that's what he is. And to think he's going to take over when I'm gone.' The old man stared at the back of his nephew before turning around to face Jayne once more. 'Where was I? That's right, I was about to tell you who I am.'

  'No need. You are John Hughes, Chairman and founder of probably the world's largest distribution company, Hughes Transport. You're here to open Europe's biggest distribution facility in Warrington.'

  'Not a pleasant place, Warrington. Reminds me of Pittsburgh without the excitement. And you are wrong, Mrs Sinclair, Hughes Transport is definitely the world's biggest distribution company. You've been busy.'

  'Fairly easy to check out, Mr Hughes. A call to the hotel to get your name and the rest can be Googled. I don't like to meet new clients without knowing something about them.'