‘Why write an in-joke to someone who’s still unconscious?’
‘True.’ The nurse slid off her chair. ‘I’ll go and see what I can find out and let you know.’
Gemma nodded. ‘OK. Thanks.’
She wandered back into her mother’s ward and pulled up a chair by the bed. Watching her mother made her think of Esme and this obsession with seeing things where there was none. Trouble was with Esme, if she got her teeth stuck into something, she was terrier-like in her tenacity. She’d always been like that, apparently. Gemma remembered comments her mother had made about it getting her into hot water. At the time she hadn’t understood what she’d meant. She’d probably been too young. Now she could see how it could happen.
Gemma shifted in her chair. Had her reaction to the flower message been caused by Esme creating doubts in Gemma’s mind? Her mother was here because of an accident, which had been misconstrued as something more sinister. That was all. Wasn’t it? Or was that just wishful thinking, because she couldn’t deal with the idea of anything else? She felt a flash of irritation. Esme’s assumptions were clouding her own reasoning.
She sighed and glanced at her watch. Only eight o’clock. It felt like the middle of the night. She rubbed her eyes and slid herself down in the chair so she could rest her head on the back. In a couple of minutes she was feeling drowsy. No problem. She might as well take a nap if her body was telling her to. She let her mind drift.
She had no way of telling how long she had been dozing but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. She woke with a start, and with the distinct impression that someone was in the room. She sat up, blinking, expecting to see the nurse returning with information.
‘Did you establish anything?’ said Gemma groggily, but the room was empty. She shifted in her chair and looked towards the door. Had someone just left the room? She forced herself off her chair and staggered to the door. She snatched it open and peered frantically up and down the corridor.
The nurse she had spoken to earlier was walking towards her from further up the ward.
‘Did you see anyone, just then?’ asked Gemma.
‘No, why?’
Gemma looked back down the corridor. The swing doors at the entrance to the ward were twitching slightly. Had someone just gone through them? Gemma dashed down the passageway and burst through the doors. The lift was closing but she was too late to see whether anyone was inside. She banged her hand on the call button, but the lift carried on its journey. The lift next door gave an audible indication that it was on its way.
‘That’s no bloody use, is it?’ she shouted at it. She turned to see the nurse at her shoulder.
‘You OK?’
Gemma sighed. ‘I think there was someone in Mum’s room.’
‘Do you want me to call security?’
Gemma shook her head. ‘To say what? I was half asleep in the chair. I could be dreaming for all I know. That’s why I wanted to see if there was anyone. To see if it was my imagination.’ She began to walk back up the ward.
‘Sorry. I didn’t see anyone.’ The nurse fell in step along side her. ‘And I’m afraid I drew a blank with the flowers. No one saw them arrive. They were left at the nurses’ station while my colleague was called to a patient. He found them when he got back a few moments later.’
‘Phantom flower deliverer and now phantom visitor.’ Gemma wrinkled her nose. ‘Ah, well, thanks anyway. It’s probably nothing.’ She watched as the nurse went back to her duties. Was she making something of nothing? For goodness’ sake, she was getting as bad as Esme, seeing mysteries where there was none. She mustn’t let it get to her.
She marched into her mother’s room and glared at the flowers. Then she hoisted them out of the vase and shoved them, blooms downward, into the dustbin.
11
Lucy found the name of the old gardener who, Andy had mentioned, had been interviewed by the newspaper. He was Albert Jennings and Esme soon located him in the telephone directory. The next stage was less fruitful. She failed to get an answer on three separate occasions during the morning and there was no facility for leaving a message. At the third attempt Esme dropped the receiver back on to its cradle with a sigh of frustration. She decided to visit the records office instead. Andy said that the documents relevant to Markham Hall had been deposited there.
When Esme arrived it was quiet. Lucy had warned her that as the record office had only recently acquired the documents no one had yet begun the onerous task of cataloguing everything. Consequently there was no way of knowing whether there was anything there relevant to Esme’s cause. The one positive note, however, was that there were several estate maps amongst the collection. Esme decided that a study of these would be a good place to start so Lucy promised to have them available for Esme’s arrival.
Lucy was on the reception desk when Esme arrived. She was in her early forties but was one of those enigmatic individuals, whose age was difficult to assess, looking anything from twenty-five to fifty. Her straight shoulder-length hair was cut with a fringe and she wore plain, old fashioned clothes. Considering the enthusiasm Lucy showed in her work, Esme thought she ought to be dressed in flamboyant patterned fabrics of bright colours, not the grey functional outfits she invariably wore. Perhaps it had something to do with being influenced by the sober environment of archive establishments.
Esme signed herself in at the reception desk.
‘Not rushed off your feet this morning, then?’ she said, indicating the short list of names on the pad.
‘Must be the rain,’ said Lucy, wrinkling her nose. It had been wet for days now. Esme couldn’t remember the last time she’d left the house without a waterproof and an umbrella.
‘I’ve put the maps out,’ said Lucy. ‘What is it you’re looking for exactly?’
‘No idea,’ said Esme. ‘I’m interested in finding out about the family who owned the estate before it was sold to the trust.’
‘They were called Monkleigh,’ said Lucy. ‘Sir Charles Monkleigh would be the one relevant for you, I think. He inherited the estate in 1930.’ She slid a thick book across the counter towards Esme. ‘I looked him up in an old Who’s Who but it doesn’t say much.’
Esme opened the book where Lucy had marked it with a slip of paper. She ran her finger down the page until she came to his name. Monkleigh, Sir Charles Edward Mortimer. She scanned through the significant items. Born 3 Sept 1904…married 1937 Rosalind James-Barrington…one daughter. The remainder of the entry was details of his education and a long list of activities associated with his political life.
‘He was a bit of a philanthropist, apparently,’ said Lucy. ‘Well into his nineties when he died, which wasn’t that long ago, actually. He was involved with all sorts of projects right up to the end.’ She handed Esme a photograph. ‘Here he is at some local fund-raising event in the seventies.’
Esme took it from her. ‘Where did you get this?’ She looked at the man in the picture, tall and upright in a suit, with a head of thick white hair. He was standing beside a thin woman holding a toddler’s hand.
‘It was on file in our photograph collection. Taken by the local paper.’ She gave Esme a smug smile. ‘Our new computer cataloguing system is showing its mettle. I put in his name and, bingo, it referred me to this.’
‘That’s great,’ said Esme. ‘What else did it throw up?’
Lucy looked crestfallen. ‘Give us a chance, it’s an on-going project. Not everything’s logged on the system yet.’
Esme looked back at the photograph. ‘Is this his wife?’ she said pointing to the woman and child. ‘The entry said they had a daughter, but this looks like a boy to me.’
‘No, that’s his sister and her son, apparently.’
Esme put the photograph down on the counter. She scrutinized the old gentleman’s face, wondering what he would be able to tell her if he’d been alive. Sh
e slid the photograph back towards Lucy. ‘That’s a great find, Lu. I’d better go and see what else I can learn from the maps.’ She turned to go into the search room.
‘By the way, I’ve got the copy of that newspaper article you were after about the botanical trust,’ said Lucy, scanning the desk. ‘I’ll bring it over to you when I put my hands on it.’
Esme raised a hand in thanks and went through the double doors into the main search room. She passed microfiche readers, filing cabinets and shelves of box files. People were engrossed at their screens, scribbling notes or poring over lists.
She continued into the next room. Here there were huge layout tables. In the far corner there was a large, grey, faded roll which stretched the width of the table. She put her notebook and pencil down and unrolled the maps, holding the corners down with weights so she could examine them more easily.
The area covered a huge part of the county. She peeled back the top map to reveal another of a larger scale which showed the heart of the estate. She could identify the main house and other outlines identified as ‘dwellings’ in several places on the periphery. She studied the map carefully, trying to get her bearings as to where the land extended and to see whether she could identify any places she knew.
Then she saw it. Almost on the boundary, in the far corner of the map. It was clearly identified with its name, Keeper’s Cottage. If what Mrs Rowcliffe said was true, that Polly Roberts had worked with the family for many years, this might have been her home for a long time. At the time of the photograph she might have lived in the staff quarters, of course. Perhaps over the years she had moved into the cottage and then on her retirement it had been made over to her. It was a very generous gesture. A secure tenure for life would have been the more usual arrangement. She must have had a significant part to play in the life of the family to warrant such consideration.
Esme glanced up and saw Lucy coming towards her with a newspaper in her hand.
‘Here’s that article,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ve just had a quick sneak look at the heap of stuff. The Monkleighs were obviously considerable landowners in their time.’
‘So I see, looking at these maps. What state’s the “heap of stuff” in?’
Lucy rolled her eyes to the ceiling. ‘The proverbial haystack. It’ll be a slow job to go through all that lot. I don’t think it had been organised for years, so there’s no sense of order, just boxes of papers and books.’
Esme was disappointed. The staff would be hard-pressed to trawl through such a collection of documents quickly, despite the enthusiasm they might feel about the fascination of such a valuable historical source. Their time and expertise were called upon from many quarters and they were always under pressure one way or another. She was tempted to offer her own services but she had to be realistic. Her days were already stretched visiting the hospital and working on her paid research. Her personal investigations would be time-consuming enough without getting sucked into such a project. Besides, if the documents proved irrelevant to her case, she might learn nothing for her efforts.
‘I do intend to make a start, though,’ said Lucy, with her usual optimism. ‘You never know. I might throw up something of note.’ She looked over Esme’s shoulder. ‘Found anything?’
Esme shrugged. ‘Nothing of any great significance. Just confirmed the location of a cottage of someone I know who lived on the estate. Polly Roberts. She worked for the family for years, from around 1937.’
‘On the estate?’
‘No, she was part of the household staff.’
‘Not for long she wasn’t.’
‘How do you mean?’ Esme took off her reading glasses.
‘Markham Hall burnt down, you know.’
‘Yes, I know. But wasn’t that recently?’
Lucy shook her head and held up the paper. ‘It’s all in this article. There wouldn’t have been household staff after the fire, because the house was never rebuilt.’
Esme sensed she was about to learn that her information didn’t add up.
‘So when was the fire?’ she asked.
Lucy handed her the newspaper. ‘1942.’
12
Esme cursed the lack of clarity of the microfiche she was studying, not to mention its small print. Even with the magnification of the reading machine as high as it would go, it was still difficult to decipher and extremely tiring to look at. She sat back in her chair and rubbed her sore eyes. Her shoulders were beginning to ache too, from crouching over the machine for so long. And she hadn’t even learnt anything to compensate for her discomfort.
What Lucy had told Esme of the fire at Markham Hall completely undermined Mrs Rowcliffe’s theory that Polly’s cottage had been left to her for ‘long and loyal service’. If the house where Polly was working had burned down in 1942, she would only have been employed there for a few years. Had the matron been misinformed or had she simply jumped to a false conclusion?
Lucy proffered a suggestion that some staff might have moved down to the south east after the fire, to the other family home. It was possible. But would they have needed the extra staff? Or perhaps Polly had found different work on the estate and remained. But if the family had moved permanently down south, in what way would she have managed to establish such a close relationship, resulting in her being left an estate cottage? There was something here that wasn’t quite right.
It was then that Esme had thought of Daisy. Esme hoped that if she could find the record of Daisy’s birth and send for her birth certificate, it would show where her parents were living at the time and thus establish whether Polly had moved down to Brighton as additional staff or whether Daisy was born on the estate in Shropshire. That was the theory, but it was not proving an easy task.
The filming of thousands of records on to neat postcard- sized pieces of celluloid was a brilliant device, saving time- consuming journeys to see the original documents which were held all over the country. But the quality of the film varied considerably. There was nothing to better scanning through the originals, large journals in the Family Record Centre in London which listed all births, marriages and deaths across the country since 1837. Esme’s favourite volumes were the earlier issues when entries were written in beautiful copperplate handwriting. Later on the records were typewritten and for entries of recent events access was via a computer screen.
But despite her checks and rechecks she could find no record of a Daisy Roberts being born in the time period that would fit the facts as she knew them.
She did the calculations again in her head to check that she hadn’t got the time wrong. If Daisy was, say, twenty years old when she had Elizabeth, who was born in 1956, that would mean that Daisy was born around 1936. Adjust the date to take account of the fact that she could have been younger or older and the dates would be somewhere from 1925 to 1940. Esme had searched the four quarterly records of births in each of those years. Twice. And come up with nothing. Nothing that fitted, anyway. There were several Daisy Roberts listed but they were born in Yorkshire, or Cornwall or Suffolk. It wasn’t impossible that Daisy had been born in one of these counties but there needed to be something else in Esme’s information armoury to link them before she could order a copy of the birth certificate with any hope that it was the Daisy she was looking for.
After rechecking the last few fiches once more, in case her concentration had lapsed, she switched off the microfiche reader, returned the fiche to its envelope and took it back to the filing cabinet.
Esme replaced the packet, slid the drawer shut and rested her elbows on the top of the cabinet. If Daisy’s birth wasn’t in the index there could be a number of reasons. Perhaps it was never registered. By law, births had to be registered within a period of forty-two days. If too much time had passed and the parents were concerned about the fine they would incur, they might have decided not to bother with the formalities at all. Or it could be that she was re
gistered in some name other than Daisy. Esme made a mental note to look Daisy up in her name dictionary and see if it was short for something. Alternatively, it could be an administrative error. There was ample opportunity for human error when the indexes were compiled. Maybe it was a simple matter of someone having missed her off the list.
Something caught Esme’s eye and she realised Lucy was waving at her from the main desk. She stood up and walked over. Lucy’s face was beaming and she was clutching a brown leather-bound book to her chest.
‘You look pleased with yourself,’ said Esme, glancing at the book. ‘What’s all the excitement?’
‘You’ll love this,’ said Lucy. She was almost hopping about, much to Esme’s amusement. ‘I’ve been trawling through the Monkleigh documents.’
Esme felt that surge of expectancy she always got when she knew she was on the brink of discovering something new after a long and unproductive search. ‘What? What have you got?’
Lucy held out the book. ‘It’s some sort of household record from 1937. Isn’t that the date you mentioned? I don’t know if there’s more but this is the only one I’ve come across so far.’ Esme took it from her. ‘Look towards the back pages. There’s a list of the wages paid out and the names of some of the staff.’
Esme laid the book open on the desk and began slowly turning the pages, guided by Lucy’s instructions.
‘A bit further on. There!’ She pointed to a name on the list. ‘Look. That’s the name you said, isn’t it?’
Esme adjusted her reading glasses and focused on the line Lucy was indicating. In neat, careful handwriting was written: Wages 10s paid to Miss Polly Roberts.
She read it again. There was no question. Polly Roberts was unmarried.
*
‘Lunch is on its way,’ said Esme, edging around the café table. She slid into the chair opposite Lucy and set down two glasses of white wine.
Blood-Tied Page 8
