The Irish Inheritance: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

by M J Lee

  An old woman came out from one of the neighbouring houses. She took him by the arm and led him to her step. 'It looks like you could be wanting a drop of tea.'

  She placed a cracked cup in his hands and he slowly raised it to his lips.

  It was sweet and warm and bitter all at the same time.

  'Did you know the family that lived here?'

  He didn't answer, raising the cup to his mouth one more time.

  'Well, you may and you may not. But, you can't be standing there all day and night so. What will people think?'

  He took another sup of tea. 'I suppose not,' he mumbled.

  She reached into her apron. 'Here's sixpence, why don't you go and get yourself something to eat? You're as thin as an 'oul tinker.'

  He looked down at his hands holding the cup. They were bony and wrinkled and old. Not hands really, more like claws. She pressed the sixpence between his fingers.

  'Thank you,' he mumbled.

  'Don't be thanking me. Thank himself.' Her eyes flicked upwards to the grey sky. 'He's the one you ought to be thanking.'

  Slowly, he placed the cup down on the step and stood up.

  'Thank you.'

  He hadn't touched alcohol since. Sure, he had been tempted many a time, but the image of the child's hand clutching the ribbon always strengthened his resolve.

  As he got better, he realised that he still had unfinished business. He had to go to Bradford and give the effects of John Clavell back to his family. It wasn't much: the letters, a watch, a notebook, a silver cross, but he had to go. It was almost as if by going he could be absolved for his responsibility in the killing. Not released from it, simply absolved.

  It had taken him a long time to work out how he was going to do it. He couldn't just knock on the door and say, 'Here I am. I was involved with killing your son.' And sending the effects anonymously through the post wouldn't have been right. He had promised to deliver them to the man's family. He had to do it in person.

  It was reading the letter that Clavell had written to the family about his dead comrade that gave Michael the idea. All he had to do was pretend to be a fellow officer from Clavell's regiment. He already had the name of one man he could use. Charles Trichot. The man was dead, killed in France, but nobody else would know that except him. Adopting his identity would make the initial approach to the family so much easier. Give them the effects and walk away. They would be none the wiser.

  It was so simple, yet utterly believable. And here he was, six months after conceiving his plan, walking the driveway to John Clavell's house sober as a judge.

  The house was small and solid, in that dark-stoned Yorkshire way. A house like the people; stolid, steadfast, not given to extravagance or frippery. He knocked on the door. A maid opened it almost immediately.

  'Could I speak to Mr Clavell?'

  She looked at him for a moment, then turned away to run down the hall, crying.

  He was left standing at the door. Not a good start. What had he done wrong? He was tempted to run away, get as far as he could from this house and these people.

  An elegantly dressed woman appeared at the door. 'You are looking for my father?'

  Michael nodded.

  'I'm afraid he passed away two months ago. Can I help you?'

  She was beautiful in an austere way. Dressed in black from head to toe, her dark hair stood in vivid contrast to her alabaster skin. There was no hint of make-up, not a trace of powder, rouge or the fashionable lipstick. And in the middle of that naturally beautiful face, a pair of ice-cold blue eyes. They looked through him, piercing him with their knowledge and candour.

  The resolve he had spent six months constructing seemed to ebb away in an instant. Once again, he was tempted to run away. Not to answer her question, but turn on his heels and run back down the drive and away from her. It was only her voice that stopped him as she repeated her question.

  'Can I help you?'

  'I...I... was looking for Mr Clavell.'

  'As I explained, he passed away two months ago. Is there anything I can help you with?'

  Michael took a deep breath, remembering everything he had learnt on the train coming here. The letter in his pocket the perfect introduction to a man who was already dead. A man whom he would now bring back to life. 'My name's Trichot, Charles Trichot.' He stammered again. Take a breath, Michael, compose yourself. 'I used to serve with your brother, John.' He left the details of where and when they had served together deliberately vague. For a moment, he saw a small spark of hope in those ice-blue eyes and then it died just as quickly as it had sparkled.

  'My brother, he died. In Ireland, last year.'

  'I know. I knew him there.'

  She opened the door wider. 'Pardon me, I forgot my manners. How could I be so rude as to leave a comrade of John's standing at the door? My father would have scolded me for...' At the mention of the word father, her voice trailed off. She recovered herself. 'Please come in.' She stepped aside and indicated that he should enter.

  The hall was old fashioned, decorated in a style that had gone out of fashion with the death of Queen Victoria. She led him to a drawing room. It too looked like it had been untouched since the Boer War; heavy furniture, topped with china and bric-a-brac, a black mahogany writing desk in the corner and a large fire roaring in the grate. The room was warm, almost too warm. The young woman rang a bell.

  The maid who had answered the door came immediately. 'Tea for our guest, Daisy. I'll take a cup too.'

  'Yes, ma'am.' The maid curtsied prettily and exited without raising her eyes to look at him.

  'I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name.'

  'It's Trichot, Charles Edward Maurice Trichot. A bit of a mouthful I'm afraid. Everybody calls me Charles. And you are?'

  'I'm John's sister, Emily.' She stopped talking for a moment and stared into the fire. Then quickly recovered herself, remembering that there was someone else there. 'Did he ever mention me?'

  Michael thought back to the evening before John Clavell's death. They had talked about everything that night; his parents, the war, friends who had died or lost their minds, his sister. They had even talked about Ireland. The eyes were still looking at him.

  'I forget my manners again, here I am asking questions and you haven't even sat down yet.' She pushed an errant lock of hair back into her chignon nervously. Her fingers were long and elegant. Artist's fingers.

  He sat down on the edge of the couch, not daring to make himself too comfortable. 'Your brother did talk about you.' He tried to remember what his prisoner had told him that night. 'He said you were his annoying little sister.'

  She laughed. 'That was what he used to call me. His 'annoying little sister'. Even though, we were born quite close together, less than a year separated us.' For a moment, she stared into the fire. 'He always seemed older than me, perhaps it was the war, things he saw, things he did.'

  'Wars age us all, turning young men old before their time.'

  'Yes, he thought that too. He thought that he was old before his time. You must have known him well?'

  'Quite well,' Michael answered slowly.

  'You know, you are the first of his comrades to visit since the funeral. I don't remember seeing you there.'

  'I couldn't make it. Still on duty.'

  'That terrible Irish war. You know, he died three days before the truce. Two weeks later and he would have been safely home here, with Father.' Again her voice trailed off.

  'What happened to you father?'

  She sat up straighter, visibly trying to control herself. Her voice changed, becoming colder, more detached. Winter descended on those ice-blue eyes. 'Father wasn't the same after John's death. Oh, he tried to keep up appearances, going to the mill, trying to drum up new orders, but his heart wasn't in it anymore. He came home every evening and sat there.' She pointed to a chair next to the couch. 'He started to drink. A few glasses in the evening became a whole bottle and then he began drinking before he went to work. I tried to help
him. To stop him, but he wouldn't listen. Couldn't listen. Daisy found him one morning, still sitting there in the chair. An empty bottle of whisky by his side and an empty bottle of pills on the floor.' She stopped speaking and stared into the fire.

  'I'm sorry for your loss.' These were the only words Michael could think to say. The words used for such a long time to console the grieving but only alleviating the consolers of the need to express their real emotions.

  She stopped staring at the fire and looked directly at him with those blue eyes. The blue shimmering in a water of barely formed tears. 'He never really got over John's death. He was the last hope, you see. My other brother had died in the war, and my father was old-fashioned. A woman's place was in the home, not running a mill. My brother was to take it over when he left the army.'

  Michael thought back to the night before John Clavell's death when they had chatted about life and war and memories. 'He told me he was going to leave.'

  'We thought he was safe in Ireland. He had survived the war, survived that butchery. A couple of months more in the Army and he would have been home with us. Father would have retired and John would run the mill.'

  'What happens now?'

  She sat up again, her back becoming straighter. 'Now, I prove them all wrong. I have taken over the management with the help of Mr Thwaites.'

  At that moment, the door opened and Daisy bustled in with a tray. Placing it down on the table next to Emily. 'Milk and sugar, Mr Trichot?'

  'Both, please. And call me Charles.'

  She poured the milk into the china cup, followed by a long stream of dark tea. Michael noticed once again the elegant fingers as they held the sugar tongs, dropping two cubes of sugar into the cup. He stood up and took his tea from her, sitting back into the same place on the couch.

  She poured herself a cup adding just a splash of milk. 'Enough about me and my family, Mr Trichot…Charles. You have not come all this way to Yorkshire just to hear about my woes. You are Irish yourself, am I right?'

  'How did you know?'

  'Your accent, a way of speaking.'

  'You have a good ear, Miss Clavell.'

  'Please call me Emily.'

  He took a sip of tea, giving himself time to remember his story. 'Actually, I was born in Surrey. My father was a vicar there. We moved to Ireland when I was a child and stayed on for my education when my father went back to a new vicarage in Surrey again.'

  'Oh, you must be the man John talked about. The man who swore like a trooper but whose father was a vicar. He talked about you often.'

  Michael felt his face blush. The story he had found in the letter had been true.

  'You shouldn't be embarrassed, Mr Trichot…Charles,' she corrected herself, 'I'm sure I have heard worse down at the mill.'

  She had misinterpreted the reddening of his face. 'I'm so glad he talked about me to you,' he stammered, his face reddening even more.

  'He talked about you a lot.' She stopped for a moment. 'He said you had been killed in the last days of the war. Was very upset by it.'

  Those blue eyes staring at him again. He had been expecting this. 'Reports of my death have been exaggerated,' he joked.

  For a second, her eyes didn't move and then her mouth widened to a broad smile. How beautiful she looked when she was smiling, he thought.

  'Who said that?'

  'I'm afraid I stole it from Oscar Wilde.'

  'So you did.'

  'I was injured for a long while. Everybody thought I was dead. A shell, I lost my memory. It was a hard time. A year before I could rejoin the regiment.'

  'John was already in Ireland by then.'

  'I joined him there.'

  'I'm sure he was happy to see you.'

  'I think I was happier to see him, to see them all.' Once again, she smiled, a beautiful smile when the ice-blue eyes lost their coldness and became the loveliest, warmest visions he had ever seen.

  'Thank you for coming all this way to see me. You don't know how much it means.'

  'Thank you for having me. But there is a reason for my journey.'

  She leant forward. The eyes staring at him again.

  'I came to return these effects of his to you.' He pulled out a small bag from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  'But they said everything had been lost when he was captured...'

  'It was. After the truce, one of the local IRA commanders gave these things to me before the regiment left the town.'

  'You met my brother's killer?'

  'It wasn't the man who killed your brother. They said it was outsiders, men from Dublin, who killed him. We never found out their names.' He opened the bag. 'It's not much I'm afraid.'

  She took the bag from him.

  'There's just four things; a small notebook. Most officers carry them. Used for writing down all the stuff one has to remember.'

  She took out the book, inside the spine was a stub of a pencil, the end still had tooth marks. She opened the book and flicked through it. 'John always had the most appalling handwriting. His school often complained about it.'

  'Some letters. He kept all of them your family had written.' He turned over the envelope with its return address on the back. 'That's how I knew where to find you.'

  She took the letters and placed them beside her. Not looking at them. Not opening them.

  'A silver cross.'

  'I gave him this to keep him safe. Wasn't much use, was it?'

  'He loved the cross. Wore it all the time,' Michael lied, hoping to comfort her. It seemed to work. Her long fingers stroked the cross, feeling its simple sharp lines and the smoothness of the silver.

  'The last effect that they gave me was his watch.'

  Emily reached into the bottom of the bag. Inside a pocket, she found a box.

  'I packed it into a small box. I hope that's ok?'

  She opened the box. Sitting there was John's watch. The tears began to flow down her face. 'My father gave each one of his sons a watch before they left for their regiments. 'So you won't be late,' he told them.' She stopped talking.

  Michael reached over and handed her his handkerchief. She wiped her tears away and once again recovered. 'My father thought timeliness was next to godliness. 'Never be late,' he would say, 'punctuality is a virtue.' She stopped talking again. She turned over the watch again and again in her hand.

  Michael remembered the day of the execution. John waiting and ready the morning Michael had gone to fetch him. 'He was always on time, your brother. He kept your father's words close to him.'

  Tears began to run down her face again. She wiped them away with his handkerchief. Once again, she fought to regain control of herself. 'Thank you for bringing these effects of his. Before, we had nothing. They said there was nothing. But now a little part of him has come back to me. Does that make sense?'

  Michael knew exactly what she meant. A little piece of us rubs off on the things we own, the things we hold most dear. 'He's always here with us,' he said finally.

  Then she stopped crying and looked at him once more. 'You are right, Mr Trichot. He's always here with us.'

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Bradford, Yorkshire. November 20, 2015.

  'Hello, Mr Hughes, it's Jayne Sinclair. How is your uncle?'

  'He's a little better, Mrs Sinclair. He's out of intensive care now, but still at the hospital under observation.'

  She heard a shout down the phone, followed by a loud crackle.

  'Mrs Sinclair,' a hoarse, old voice breathed through the earpiece, 'there's life in the old dog yet. Not much mind you, but still enough to kick these stupid doctors halfway into next week. What have you found?'

  Jayne held the phone away from her ear, the voice was so loud. 'I'm glad to hear you sound so well, Mr—'

  'Enough of that, Mrs Sinclair. I pay you to research my life not to flatter me. I have my nephew for that. What have you found?'

  'Well, there's a lead in Yorkshire...'

  'That's where the home was.'

&nbs
p; 'And where the marriage of your parents was registered. I think I may have found a link to a man called Michael Dowling. He fought during the Easter Rising and your cap badge could have belonged to him.'

  'May have. Could have. Should have. Have you found anything concrete, Mrs Sinclair? Or am I paying you for hot air?'

  'You're paying me to find out who you are, Mr Hughes, which I am in the process of doing. I am following up leads in Yorkshire and will go there today.'

  'Get a move on, Mrs Sinclair. We will be leaving the UK on Monday evening. And I don't need to remind you my health is not as good as it once was.' As if on cue he began coughing, a harsh, barking, noise.

  The coughs continued in the background as Richard Hughes came on the phone again. 'I keep telling him you are working on it, Mrs Sinclair, but he refuses to listen. Never listened to anybody else in his life and he isn't going to start now.'

  'Are you still leaving on Monday?'

  'We are going. He's decided to check himself out of the hospital against the doctor's advice today. We're moving back to the hotel. They won't let him drink or smoke here. Our flights are booked for Monday evening. You have till then I'm afraid.'

  'I understand, Mr Hughes. I'll do my best.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Sinclair.' She heard more shouts from the background, then the line went dead.

  She was sat out in the car park in front of her father's nursing home. Should she go back and pack? She couldn't see the point. All she needed was her notes. Everything else she could pick up in Yorkshire.

  She looked all her around her. Nothing.

  For a moment a feeling of dread surged down her spine. The awful sense she was being watched, being followed. She wondered if she wasn't paranoid, the shock of being in the back of the taxi, threatened by that little man, had somehow affected her more than she thought.

  The carpark was empty, she couldn't see anybody watching her. Her mind flashed back to the face in the other car in Dublin, the white Volvo. Were they following her or the IRA men? She didn't know. Just because you're paranoid, it doesn't mean they're not out to get you. She remembered the old joke and shrugged her shoulders.