Jayne Sinclair Genealogy Mystery Box Set

  The Jayne Sinclair

  Genealogical Mysteries

  Books 1-3

  M J Lee

  M J Lee

  Martin Lee is the author of historical crime novels. This book is the first time he has managed to combine two of his passions - crime and genealogy - into one series. It is also the first in a new genealogical mystery series featuring the investigator, Jayne Sinclair.

  Also by M J Lee

  Jayne Sinclair Series

  The Irish Inheritance

  The Somme Legacy

  Inspector Danilov Series

  Death in Shanghai

  City of Shadows

  The Murder Game

  Fiction

  Samuel Pepys and the Stolen Diary

  Writing as Martin Lee

  The Fall

  Contents

  The Irish Inheritance

  The Somme Legacy

  The American Candidate

  The Irish Inheritance

  A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery

  M J Lee

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my grandfathers, neither of whom are alive at the moment. One of them fought for the IRA in both the War of Independence and the Civil War. The other fought for the British Army and the Free State Army.

  They may have met, but I doubt it.

  Chapter One

  The Dublin Hills. Ireland. July 8, 1922.

  From a distance, it looked like a jaunt into the countryside for a picnic.

  Three men, possibly friends, sat in the back of the Austin, chatting quietly. Two more men rode in the front. All except one were casually dressed in light jackets, open-collared shirts and sturdy boots.

  The one exception was the young man who sat in the middle at the back of the car. He wore the uniform of a British officer: Khaki jacket, cavalry trousers and knee high boots, but no hat. He didn't know when his hat had vanished. He had looked for it before he got in the car but couldn't find it anywhere.

  All knew where they were going except for the British officer.

  'Well, it's a grand day for it,' said the man in front, O'Kelly was his name.

  The sky was a bright blue, the sort of blue that occasionally comes along in April to chase away the showers and tempt people with dreams of summer.

  'It is indeed,' said Declan Fitzgerald, one of the men in the back, known as Fitz to his friends. 'I always love the hills above Dublin on days like this. It makes me think of fishing. Just sitting on the banks of the Erkne back home with a rod in my hand and the trout dancing in the stream below me, waiting to become my dinner.'

  He nudged the man sitting next to him. 'Do you fish at all where you come from?'

  The British officer snapped out of his reverie. He had been dreaming of escape. Imagining the door flung open and him running down the road, the wind rustling in his hair, his arms pumping him forward, away from the men who sat on either side of him.

  'Well, do you or don't you?'

  The British officer tried to focus on the question. The lazy heat of the spring day, the noise of the engine as it climbed the hill and the tight fit in the back of the small car had muddied his mind.

  The other man repeated the question with a tone of exasperation in his voice. 'Do you or don't you fish?'

  'No, not really. Not many trout streams in Bradford.'

  'Is that where you're from, then?'

  The British officer mimicked the Yorkshire accent of his youth, knocked out of him by the teachers of his public school. 'Sunny Bradford. Famous for wool, worsted, women and nowt else. A warm place despite the cold winds,' he added as an afterthought.

  'Aye, sounds like Mayo, don't it, Fitz?' O'Kelly spoke again from the front of the car.

  'I wouldn't know. Never been there.'

  The driver changed down as the car climbed another hill, the engine making a high squeal as it argued against the weight of the occupants. Everybody inside had fallen silent, staring out of the window at the knee high vegetation, spotted with ferns and the occasional Mountain Ash. There were no people in the landscape, though. They had passed a few old stone walls, the remnants of houses abandoned in the famine and never inhabited again. But this wasn't an area where men lived or farmed anymore. Life was too tough here, too wild, even for the land-hungry Irish.

  'Where are we going?' asked the British officer.

  'Sure, we'll find out when we get there,' said Fitz adding a little laugh at the end of the sentence, making light of the situation.

  'When will that be?'

  'By and by.' This time Fitz finished his words with a small smile that said 'I'm not telling you any more, so stop asking foolish questions.'

  'What time will we get there?'

  Fitz turned to face the British officer. 'We're not allowed to tell you, you know that, but it's not far. So just sit back and enjoy the beautiful Irish countryside stretched out beneath you. Haven't your lot been coveting it for centuries?'

  The officer, a captain, took the hint and stared out of the window past the man on his right. Silence descended on the car again, broken only by the whine of the engine as the driver changed gears to deal with the hills and dips in the road.

  After ten minutes, when they had reached the top of one hill and were just about to descend into another valley, Fitz leant forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. 'I think we'll stop here and stretch our legs, Davy, it's quiet enough.'

  The driver changed down and the car whined to a gentle stop.

  'Michael, will you take the prisoner off over there?' He pointed to a spot next to some rocks seventy yards from the road.

  Michael took the officer's arm and urged him out of the car. The fresh air was a welcome relief from the staleness of the rear seat. Up above, a lark sang its song to welcome them.

  'Michael, where are we going?’ asked the British officer.

  'I'm afraid, it's time.'

  The officer stopped. 'But you said I was going to be exchanged, I...'

  'Orders have changed. I'm sorry.' Michael Dowling shook his head and held his hands palm upwards. 'There was nothing I could do.'

  On the other side of the car, Declan Fitzgerald stepped out from the back of the car and inhaled deeply. 'Will you smell that? Nothing beats the smell of Ireland in the spring. Fresh as a cow's backside.'

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Webley that had been sitting heavily there, revolving the barrel to make sure it turned smoothly. He had cleaned, oiled and loaded it the night before in preparation for today, but one more check wouldn't hurt anybody.

  'Just let me run, Michael. Nobody will know.'

  Michael shrugged his shoulders. 'I can't do that. I'm sorry.'

  The officer looked over at the rocks. A narrow path cut into the ferns trailed down the hillside. If he ran now, he might get away.

  'Don't stand here all day, Michael. Let's get it over and done with.' Fitz stood next to Michael now, the Webley pointing directly at the British officer. 'I'm fair parched and a drop wouldn't go amiss.'

  He waved the Webley in the direction of the rocks. Michael Dowling reached out and touched the prisoner on the arm. It was a gentle touch but enough to let the man know there was no chance of escape.

  The prisoner's body slumped, his shoulders forming a rounded bow and the chin sinking to the chest. 'You won't forget what you promised?'

  'I'll return your things to your family.'

  'Thank you. I have one last favour to ask.' He reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. Michael could see it was creased and smeared as if it had been opened and read many times. 'Could you send this too? I've meant to post it to his family but I've never had the
courage.' He handed it over. 'He died next to me, a good man.'

  'I'll send it on, saying it's from you.'

  'Thank you.'

  Fitz pushed the officer towards the rocks. 'Let's get it over with.'

  The shove seemed to awaken the man. For a moment, Michael thought he was going to punch Fitz as his hands balled into fists, but the anger subsided as soon as it had appeared. The hands relaxed and he tugged the back of his army jacket down, straightening the collar. He strode over to the rocks, followed by Michael, Fitz and O'Kelly. The driver remained beside the car smoking a Sweet Afton.

  The view from the rocks was breathtaking. A long valley stretched out beneath them, dotted with tiny houses. From each one, a trail of thin smoke rose to the blue sky. A chaotic pattern of black lines stretched between the houses. Some formed squares, others long rectangles. Most had straight sides but, here and there, a curved wall bent around a stream or ancient boundary.

  'Will you kneel down and say your prayers?' said Fitz, more as a statement than a question.

  The officer smiled. 'I don't believe in God. Not many of us do any more. Four years in the trenches can do that to a man.'

  Fitz shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, say a few prayers anyway. You never know who's listening.' He pointed upwards.

  'You will send my things to my family?' The British officer ignored Fitz and spoke directly to Michael.

  He nodded. 'I've got the address.'

  The British officer dropped to his knees. Despite himself, he closed his eyes and began to whisper the words he remembered from going to Queensbury Chapel in his youth.

  Fitz stepped forward and shot him in the back of the head.

  The sound reverberated through the hills, echoing off the rocks. The stench of cordite filled the air. Up above, the lark continued trilling its song, beating its wings into the breeze, proclaiming its joy at this beautiful spring day.

  Next to the rocks, on top of the hill, three men surrounded a body lying prone on the ground, blood flowing from the hole in the back of his head.

  'But...he hadn't finished... he was...' stammered Michael.

  'Always better to do it when they're least expecting anything. Avoids the drama.'

  'But he was still praying...'

  'Ach, he can continue when he's up there. Talk to the man direct.'

  Michael stared down at the body. He had spent the last evening chatting with this man, learning about his life and telling him about his own. Now, his body lay stretched out on the bare Irish soil, the eyes still and unblinking. Already, the face had that paleness which is the mark of the dead. He immediately thought of his father lying in his coffin at the wake. Staring out at all those people that had come to visit and drink his health. Too late for his father to hear any of the words. It was a shame they hadn't visited him during his life.

  'Get the 'oul shovel from the car. We'll dig a hole for him beneath the ferns over there.' Fitz pointed to a patch of bare ground surround by a miniature forest of ferns ten yards away.

  Reluctantly, Michael staggered back towards the car, each step felt like he was walking through peat.

  Behind him, he heard O'Kelly say, 'Will I check his pockets?'

  There was no reply from Fitz.

  After what seemed like an age, Michael reached the car and opened the boot.

  'Himself doesn't waste any time, does he?' said Davy, the driver.

  Michael took out an old shovel and walked slowly back to the rocks.

  'The pockets are empty, except for this.' O'Kelly held up a silver lighter, the rays of the sun glinting off its shiny exterior.

  'Keep it. He won't be needing it anymore,' said Fitz.

  Michael walked past the two of them and began digging in the stony soil, a fierce determination on his face. Isn't that what we've always been good for? Digging in the earth like badgers, scraping away at the skin of the land.

  The shovel bit into the ground, striking small pebbles, lumps of dirt and scraps of decayed vegetation. Michael heaved it to his left, building a small hill beside the long rectangle of the grave. The deeper he dug, and the longer he scraped at the ground, the faster his muscles worked. The smell of the fresh earth filled his nostrils, driving him on, driving him deeper.

  Dig. Lift. Throw.

  Dig. Lift. Throw.

  It was as if his muscles had some memory of this work even though he had never done a day's digging in his life. 'No son of mine is working the fields,' his father had repeated again and again. 'Study. Study hard. And then study harder.'

  Dig. Lift. Throw.

  Dig Lift. Throw.

  'That's enough,' shouted Fitz, 'we're not putting him in Glasnevin.'

  Michael collapsed at the rim of the trench he had dug, his chest fighting for air.

  'You grab his legs and I'll get him under the arms.'

  O'Kelly took hold of both legs. 'Sure it's a terrible waste of a good pair of boots.'

  'Leave them. We can't bury the man in his socks.'

  They both lifted the British officer and scurried over to the grave that Michael had dug.

  'Are you going to be getting out of there, or are you both going to share?'

  Michael climbed out of the shallow grave. Fitz and O'Kelly swung the body and it landed like the proverbial sack of potatoes in the bottom but with one leg still sticking out at the side. Declan bent down and gently pushed the boot into the grave, adjusting the legs and the arms so that they were straight. It looked as if the officer was standing at attention.

  'Will we say a few words?' asked O'Kelly.

  'Aye, we better. You never know who's listening.'

  Fitz clasped his hands in front of him, closed his eyes and lowered his head. O'Kelly followed suit, mimicking his pose.

  'Lord, we commend to your grace, the body of this man. May he take his place by your side now and forever more. Amen.'

  'Amen,' repeated O'Kelly.

  'Now, let's get him covered up and we can go for a drink. I'm as parched as an owl.' He picked up the shovel and began to shift the earth back into the grave.

  Michael watched as the dark soil slowly covered the officer's face and body, swallowing him up in the land and the stones and the moss.

  Chapter Two

  Manchester. November 14, 2015.

  The rain came down like the day before the launch of Noah's Ark. The Catholic priest, hidden beneath a large blue and white golf umbrella, intoned the final words trying to prevent the water soaking into his Bible.

  A small group surrounded the open grave. Black suits, black dresses, black umbrellas, all huddled together. As the priest mumbled his words, the gravediggers in their orange high-vis jackets, lowered the coffin into the ground.

  Jayne Sinclair was the third person to step forward, picking up a sodden clump of earth and throwing it into the grave. It landed with a loud thump on the lid of the coffin. She said a quiet prayer and edged to the right to allow other mourners to throw their lumps of earth.

  She wouldn't miss the bitch. Her husband's sister had been a pain throughout her marriage. Needy, spiteful, bitter, and those were just her good points.

  She looked across at her husband, Paul. His eyes were red-rimmed. Despite herself, she felt sorry for him. She knew he would miss his sister. They had both bonded in their early years and remained close right to the end. Her cancer bringing them even more together in that strange way that a pain shared is a pain doubled.

  There weren't many people at the funeral. Two of her ex-husbands had stayed away, while the last in a sorry bunch was throwing his earth into the grave now, showing no signs of emotion. Luckily, or unluckily, she had never given birth. Perhaps if any of her marriages had been blessed with children, it may have softened her edges, made her less self-absorbed.

  But Jayne knew she could hardly talk, not having children herself. She had blamed the job, her old job. A detective has little time for children: the odd hours, the unpredictable schedule, the shifts, the all-consuming work. But she knew that was jus
t an excuse. The truth was she never felt comfortable bringing children into a world where there was so much suffering and hate. And now she had left the job, she didn't know if she loved her husband enough to make a child with him.

  He was still standing there in the rain, with his head bowed. She took his arm and led him away from the grave. They were followed by the other mourners, all nine of them.

  Her phone rang. Without thinking, she reached into her bag and pulled it out. She didn't recognise the number. Spots of rain were already splashing on the screen. Her husband was looking at her as if to say how could you answer the phone at a time like this?

  'Hello.'

  'Is that Ms Jayne Sinclair?'

  The voice was American and the amount of static on the line sounded like he was shouting across the Atlantic through a storm.

  ‘Speaking.’ She spoke as quietly as she could into the mobile.

  '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