Blood-Tied (7 page)

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. She 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 registered 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.

‘Thanks, Esme.’ Lucy raised her glass. ‘Here’s to mystery and intrigue.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’ Esme grinned. ‘Don’t they warn you as part of your training not to get emotionally involved with your clients?’

‘Most definitely not. That’s the whole point of the job, delving into the past and getting worked up about the people you find out about. So what have we got? What’s the significance of Polly Roberts?’

Esme hesitated. A stab of loyalty to Gemma? More likely her own protection mechanism. She still felt predominantly foolish about her ignorance of Elizabeth’s adoption. But Lucy was a good friend and a discreet one, too. If there was anyone she should be able to confide in, it ought to be Lucy. She knew Esme better than anyone.

‘It’s rather difficult,’ began Esme, fiddling with the stem of her glass.

‘Oh, I see. Don’t worry if it’s confidential.’ Lucy smiled but didn’t fail to look disappointed.

‘No, you don’t understand. I didn’t mean that.’

Lucy smiled. ‘Don’t look so distraught, Esme. I just thought this was some more of your family history you were looking into.’

Esme felt uncomfortable. ‘Well, it is in a way, but not as I might have imagined.’

Understandably Lucy looked puzzled. Esme gave a half-laugh. ‘I’m sorry, this is sounding quite ridiculous and I’m not making any sense.’

The waitress arrived at the table with their meals. By the time they had organised their food Lucy had either forgotten Esme’s confusing remarks or had chosen to disregard them. The perfect opening for Esme to explain the situation had evaporated.

Esme concentrated on her salad, asking herself whether she should simply spill out everything. But if that was her intention her brain and mouth didn’t seem to want to co-operate with one another. She kept eating.

‘So do I get to know who Polly Roberts is?’ asked Lucy casually.

Esme told herself to come right out with it and say, she’s Elizabeth’s grandmother, but the words stuck in her throat. If she said that much, she would have to explain everything and she didn’t feel she could cope with Lucy’s reaction, right now. She lost the second opportunity.

‘Elizabeth knows her. She lives in a residential home not far from here.’ Esme tried to lighten the cool atmosphere which she sensed was gathering between them. ‘They know her there as
Mrs
Roberts,’ she added with a wink.

Lucy smiled and seemed to relax. ‘Ah, now I see why her name was significant. Roberts was her maiden name and so it looks like she never married. So her daughter was illegitimate.’

Esme tried to ignore the fact that it was Elizabeth’s mother they were talking about. She carried on as if she was discussing someone else’s life history.

‘Which could explain why I couldn’t find her birth in the indexes. Maybe it was never registered, under the circumstances.’

Lucy shrugged. ‘So what else? There must be something. Babies born out of wedlock are not exactly a new phenomenon.’

‘I’m not really sure, but Mrs Roberts is fretting about something and she’s not letting on what. Of course, she doesn’t know me very well, so she’s hardly going to pour her heart out so…’

‘So you thought you’d do a bit of digging.’

Esme flashed Lucy a look. She recalled Gemma’s comment about digging the dirt. ‘You make it sound unethical.’

Lucy laughed and shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I know you. You hate not knowing things. That’s why you’re good at what you do.’ She paused with her fork in midair and looked hard at Esme. ‘But I get the impression there is something more to this.’

Esme put down her knife and fork and stared at her plate. Go on, she told herself. Just tell her. ‘It’s about Eizabeth…’

‘Yes?’

Esme paused, not knowing how to proceed. She picked up a roll and tore off a piece. ‘You remember they thought Elizabeth had been attacked?’

Lucy looked concerned. ‘But they think it was an accident now, don’t they?’

‘Apparently the doctor said she could have got her injuries in a fall, if someone had pushed past and knocked her over.’ She shrugged. ‘So it could have been accidental.’

Lucy frowned. ‘Could have, but they can’t be absolutely sure. Is that what you’re saying?’

Esme nodded. ‘And of course there’s still the matter of the argument with someone.’

‘Have the police said any more on that?’

Esme slumped back in her chair. ‘Apparently not. As Gemma said, if everything’s pointing to it’s being an accident, why look for a crime that doesn’t exist? I’m sure they’ve plenty else to do.’

Lucy took a mouthful of food and chewed it. Esme could feel Lucy’s eyes on her.

‘Go on then,’ said Lucy, when Esme didn’t say anything. ‘I’m guessing you were about to tell me why you think there’s a connection with Elizabeth’s attack and this old lady?’

‘It was when I went to visit her,’ Esme explained, recalling Gemma’s reaction to the proposed visit. ‘I thought I ought to go as she’d wonder why Elizabeth hadn’t been to see her.’

‘And?’

Esme picked up her wineglass and took a sip, debating how best to convey her concerns. ‘It was her reaction when I told her the police had thought it was an attack rather than an accident.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe I should have dismissed it as over-imagination but she seemed genuinely alarmed.’

‘Well, hearing that someone you know has been attacked is going to be alarming, isn’t it?’

Esme shook her head. ‘It was more than that. Elizabeth had visited her that day, you see, and I got the idea that Mrs Roberts knew something about it.’

Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure? Have you told the police?’

Esme sighed. ‘What could I say? It’s a feeling, that’s all.’

‘So you thought if you could get some background on this lady, you might find something you could use to persuade the police to take your concerns seriously?’

‘Something like that.’ Esme didn’t like to think what Gemma’s reaction would be. Would she welcome the fact that the perpetrator of the crime might be caught, or would she be angry that her mother’s life was being intruded upon all over again?

‘So what have you got so far?’ said Lucy, clearly warming to the task. Esme relaxed a little. For Lucy this was just another intriguing research project. She wasn’t going to bother about the whys and the wherefores of Esme’s interest. She didn’t need to get caught up in the anxiety and emotion. Lucy would only worry about Esme’s sensitivities if she knew the full story. Better that she enjoy the detective work for its own sake. Esme could tell her everything another time.

Esme rested her elbows on the table and counted off the items she had accumulated to date. ‘An unmarried mother, a child whose birth appears to be unregistered and a link with a family whom the mother used to work for. The link being the cottage which she now owns but which once belonged to the estate where she worked.’

‘Sounds like a good story. What’s next?’

‘But hang on. There’s more.’

Lucy leant closer, conspiratorially. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘The matron where Polly Roberts lives says that the cottage was left to her by the family, but she told me that Polly worked for them for years and years.’

‘That’s why you were thrown by finding that Markham Hall burned down in 1942? Because you assumed she still worked at the house and she couldn’t have?’

‘Exactly.’ Esme picked up her glass and drained her wine. ‘Of course, there were several farms on the estate which would have been unaffected by the fire. Maybe she married a farm worker and lived on one of them.’

‘Except it looks like she didn’t marry, and had Daisy as an unmarried mum.’ Lucy wrinkled her nose. ‘Not an enviable situation to be in, in those days.’

‘So the obvious next question is, though I don’t know whether I’m likely to find the answer very easily…’

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ said Lucy, pushing her plate to the side and wiping her fingers on her napkin. ‘Who was Daisy’s father?’