The Merchant's Daughter Read online

  ‘It can’t be the answer.’

  ‘Listen,’ said Vera, ‘“Old boys reportedly get to grips with a problem”. Old boys is usually OBS, and so the answer must be “obstacle”, because the end sounds like tackle.’

  ‘Happen you’re right, lass. I’m so glad I married a clever woman.’ He went to give his wife a kiss.

  Jayne coughed and, like two naughty teenagers, the couple pulled away from each other.

  ‘Hi, Jayne, great to see you,’ said Vera.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but I thought I’d pop in.’

  Vera glanced across at Robert. ’You’re not interrupting, dear, we’re just doing the crossword.’

  ‘Actually, Vera’s doing the crossword, love, I’m just inking in the letters.’

  ‘But you do it very well, husband.’ And this time she did kiss him.

  Jayne sat down with them.

  ‘You look a bit tired, love, what’s up?’ asked her stepfather.

  ‘Nothing really, just a new client and not enough time, as usual.’

  ‘People these days are always in a rush to get answers. Never take their time, do they, Robert?’

  ‘No, love. What’s the case?’

  ‘It’s an actress, Rachel Marlowe.’

  ‘Ooh, I saw her in Charles II, she was one of his mistresses. Was it Nell Gwynn or the Duchess of Portsmouth? One of the two, anyway.’

  Jayne explained the research she was doing. Robert understood the problem immediately. He had researched his own family extensively and introduced Jayne to genealogy when she was young.

  ‘You know me, lass, a bit old school. Can’t really get my mind around this DNA stuff. Give me a good parish register any day.’

  ‘I tested myself a couple of years ago,’ said Vera. ‘Apparently I’m Irish and Scots with a bit of Scandinavian thrown in for good luck.’

  ‘That’s probably the bit I like,’ said Robert with a twinkle in his eye. Vera pinched the back of his hand and he turned to Jayne. ‘If I were you, I’d do it the old-school way, check out the parish registers. You’ll be amazed what you find.’

  ‘Anyway, enough of work. Let’s have a game of Crib, shall we? I’ve had enough of the crossword.’

  They spent the rest of the day playing cards until four o’clock, when Jayne announced that she should leave to avoid the rush hour on the A6.

  ‘When are you coming again, love?’

  ‘Probably after Friday. I’m going to be snowed under with this job.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon you will be. Not many families can trace their line back to William the Conqueror. But one piece of advice from this old ‘un – don’t believe the family trees until you’ve checked every detail yourself.’

  ‘I’ll remember, Robert.’ She kissed him on the forehead and Vera on the cheek before leaving them and returning to her car.

  It always felt good visiting them and watching the beautiful way they reacted to each other.

  Love didn’t have to be difficult at all. It just took work.

  There was hope for her yet.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Monday, August 19, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne stood up and stretched, checking the time on the kitchen clock.

  8.30 p.m. Where had all the time gone? She had been sitting in front of the computer since her return home, checking out the family tree as Robert had advised.

  It was funny how time seemed to vanish when she was researching. Hours went by in the blink of an eye as she delved deep into a family’s history. It was a time she loved. When all that mattered was making sure the details and relationships were correct.

  The problems of the outside world had temporarily vanished; her divorce from Paul, the cost of the solicitors, what to do with the house – all gone for a few precious hours.

  She walked over to the patio doors and stared out at the small garden. The few clouds had passed and it was now a lovely summer’s evening. A blackbird was singing from its perch in the tree opposite. Two doors away, a few children were playing hide and seek. In the distance, the chimes of an ice-cream van with its jangling song, ‘Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clements’ ringing through the still air. Perhaps it was the same van she had heard earlier.

  She stared at her garden. The grass looked dishevelled and overgrown, and the flower borders were choked with weeds. Time to get the mower out and get down on her knees to work on it.

  She loved her garden, just hated the constant care and attention it needed.

  And for a second, a thought crossed her mind. It was a bit like relationships. They needed constant care and attention too, and if that work wasn’t done, they would become disordered and chaotic. Perhaps that was what had happened between Paul and herself. They had been so busy with their own lives they had forgotten to cultivate their relationship.

  Mr Smith miaowed at her feet and strolled out into the garden, leaping on to the top of the fence and walking along it with his tail held high in the air.

  ‘See you later,’ she said as he wandered off. For a moment she felt quite lonely, as if the world was conspiring to isolate her. Then she shook her head and went to get her phone.

  She rang her client. ‘Rachel, it’s Jayne Sinclair. How are you?’

  ‘Could be better. I’ve just done a scene where I’m dying from consumption. Spent the last four hours coughing my guts out. They don’t tell you about this in acting school.’

  ‘Sounds awful.’

  ‘Plus my co-star has the worst case of bad breath since my Labrador, and is about as attractive as a haddock. How he was voted Britain’s sexiest star is beyond me.’

  Jayne found herself laughing. ‘My day was quiet in comparison.’ She then told Rachel of her visit to the museum and her research into the family tree.

  ‘So what are the next steps?’

  ‘I’ve exhausted the census returns, and the registration of births, marriages and deaths only began in 1837. If I want to go back further, I need to research in the parish registers. With a family as prominent as your own, the records will have been entered into the local church. It’s called St Peter’s.’

  ‘That’s where I was baptised.’

  ‘Great, I’ll give the vicar a call and arrange a time tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I go with you? I’ve a day off. Mr Dog Breath has to do his close-ups and has a few scenes where he breathes on his mistress.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘The vicar knows me and I could help open a few doors that otherwise would be closed. And besides, I have to go back to Wickham Hall anyway, you could give me a lift.’

  Jayne laughed at the chutzpah of this. She was now not just a genealogical investigator but a chauffeur too. Amazingly, she found herself saying yes.

  ‘Great, that’s confirmed. Pick me up from the Hilton at ten?’

  ‘Could we start a little earlier?’

  ‘I’m not at my best before then, I’m afraid. I need to drink gallons of coffee and put on my face. A girl has to maintain her standards.’

  ‘Well, ten it is. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘Great. You’ll love the vicar, he’s a bit of a character. Loves his archaeology, but Father won’t let him dig in the grounds. See you at ten.’

  Jayne put down the phone, shaking her head at what she had agreed. Rachel had a certain charm about her that made saying no quite difficult. Nevertheless, she would be able to smooth the way with the vicar, which could be very useful.

  She stared at the fridge. Was it too early for a glass of sauvignon blanc?

  ‘It’s never too early,’ she said out loud. Once she had poured a glass, she would ring the vicar and research divorce solicitors. She was desperate to remain living in the house, whatever happened.

  Bloody Paul. Why did he have to be so difficult right now?

  Chapter TWENTY-five

  Tuesday, August 20, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne’s eyes flicked open. Had she heard a nois
e?

  She glanced across at the alarm clock beside her bed.

  3.00 a.m.

  Had she been having a nightmare? Was that why she woke up?

  The bedroom was silent. Moonlight poured in through a small gap in the curtains, throwing the whole room into a charcoal drawing of light and shadow. Was there something there in the darkness beside the wardrobe?

  A loud hiss, followed by a shriek outside her window and a long yowl.

  She switched on the bedside lamp. Was that Mr Smith? He sounded like he was in pain.

  Still in her t-shirt and knickers, she leapt out of bed and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. She switched on the light, and there was Mr Smith in front of the patio doors, his back arched and the hackles on his fur raised.

  She hurried over to the door and unlocked it. Instantly, Mr Smith rushed in, running between her legs. Instead of heading to his bowl as he usually did, he ran into the hall and up the stairs.

  She stared out into the garden. It seemed quiet. ‘Is anybody there?’ she shouted.

  No answer.

  She switched on the garden light. Instantly, a strong beam illuminated the long grass and weed-strewn borders. She listened for movement but the only sounds were those of the night: the soft rustling of the breeze in the trees. The hum of traffic in the distance. The clicking of a nightjar off to her left.

  She stepped out on to the patio and said again, ‘Is anybody there?’

  No response.

  Mr Smith must have met a fox scavenging for food in the bins. Poor fox, I wouldn’t want to meet the cat as he returned from a night on the tiles. Must have scared the life out of the poor thing.

  She turned to go back into the house when her eye caught a trampled rose bush in the border next to the patio.

  ‘I’m sure that wasn’t broken before.’ She bent down to lift it up, noticing a large footprint in the soil at its base.

  ‘That definitely wasn’t there before.’

  Then her training as a police officer kicked in. She gently moved away the trampled rose bush, revealing the full print of a large shoe, probably a trainer and at least a size ten, she thought. It couldn’t have been the window cleaner as he hadn’t been for a couple of weeks and, besides, he was always so careful with the plants.

  Then she stood up and checked the lock on the patio door. Were those scratch marks? Or had they been there before?

  She breathed on the glass next to the lock. In the moonlight she could see a large palm print for a second, before it vanished as the condensation from her breath disappeared.

  The palm print was far bigger than hers. Somebody had definitely been outside her patio door.

  A burglar? She hadn’t heard of any break-ins in the area recently. She would give the local nick a call to check tomorrow morning.

  Should she call them right now?

  She imagined the voice of the call-centre operator.

  ‘You think somebody was outside your house because your cat yowled?’

  ‘Yes, plus there’s a palm print on the glass and a footprint in the soil.’

  ‘Has there been a break-in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing has been stolen?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There is no sign of an intruder in the area near your house?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you in danger right now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure, madam?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll send an officer down just as soon as one becomes available. It will probably be in the morning.’

  With the recent cuts, her sort of call would not be a priority. Possible burglaries were classed as non-urgent cases.

  She decided there was no point in reporting it. The police had enough to do and, besides, she was confident she could handle anybody who tried to break in. They’d soon regret going anywhere near her house.

  She went back inside and checked the time. It was now 3.30. She didn’t feel like going back to bed. Perhaps a good cup of coffee and a check of the news before she drove out to pick up Rachel?

  As she made her coffee, one thought nagged away in the back of her mind.

  Why now?

  Why had somebody been trying to get into her house now?

  Chapter TWENTY-Six

  Tuesday, August 20, 2019

  Manchester

  Jayne drove into the city centre along the A56, heading towards Deansgate where she could pick Rachel up from her hotel.

  She had stayed awake since earlier that morning, fortified by coffee, the inanities of early morning radio and baking some bread. It was time to relax a little and let her subconscious mind think about Rachel’s problem. There was a wonderful release in kneading the dough for the bread. She found it tactile and tiring, just what she needed. But inevitably, questions flooded her mind.

  Where had Rachel’s Ghanaian ancestry come from?

  Which ancestor was it?

  And who had been outside Jayne’s door?

  What did they want?

  She had no answers at the moment, but she knew they would come eventually. At nine in the morning she had showered and then dressed in a very conservative outfit of jeans and a sensible jacket, adding just a dash of eyeliner and lipstick to give herself a natural look.

  Jayne knew she was not a beauty in the conventional sense, but she made the best use of what she had; sparkling eyes and pronounced cheekbones. And she did it to make herself happy and feel good. Nothing else mattered.

  Rachel was outside the hotel, smoking a cigarette and looking amazing; tall, elegant, beautifully made-up and as thin as a stick insect.

  As soon as she saw Jayne, she stubbed her cigarette out in a plant pot and rushed over to get in the car.

  ‘A ridiculous habit, I know, but one I picked up at my expensive boarding school. It was our one revolt against authority. Now I can’t start my day without a coffin nail, it sort of jolts me awake.’

  Jayne had never been a smoker and could not see the attraction. Paying some company a lot of money to fill your lungs with tar-soaked smoke? No thank you.

  She put the car in gear and headed back the way she had come, looking for the signs to the M56 to take them into deepest, darkest Cheshire.

  ‘I called the vicar last night and have arranged an appointment for eleven fifteen. We should arrive in plenty of time.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing old Arbuthnot again. Did I tell you he baptised me? Apparently, even then he was a bit unsteady on his feet and managed to dunk my head in the font. No wonder I’m scared of water, it’s all his fault.’

  ‘You’re scared of water?’

  ‘Aquaphobia. I turn to jelly when I see the sea or a lake. Can’t help it. Probably why I love the mountains and skiing.’

  They chatted for the next fifty minutes. Or rather, Jayne concentrated on driving while Rachel told her about work, gossiping mercilessly about the eccentricities and foibles of Britain’s most famous people. This man wears a hair piece. Another wears make-up. A third can’t ever remember his lines, so they hold up cards with the words written on them for him just off camera.

  Jayne found herself laughing uncontrollably until Rachel asked, ‘And what about you? Who’s the real Jayne Sinclair?’

  ‘You’re looking at her. An ex-police detective, now a genealogical investigator.’

  ‘Nooooo, I mean you personally. Who’s the real Jayne Sinclair? What’s in your family tree?’

  Jayne told her about her father and the research into her grandmother and the SOE.

  ‘That’s so fascinating. I’d love to play a character like her – your grandmother, I mean. Imagine parachuting into occupied France with the only weapons being your wits and your beauty.’

  ‘I think she had a revolver as well.’

  ‘You know what I mean. It would make a wonderful film with little ol’ me in the starring role.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I’m serious. It would b
e perfect for me.’

  Luckily, they arrived in the village of Little Marden before the conversation could go any further. She parked in a pub car park opposite the church and they walked together across the road and through the lychgate. The church itself sat on a slight rise in the ground and dominated the village, with its clock tower showing the time as four o’clock even though it was just after eleven.

  The vicar was waiting for them at the entrance.

  Jayne was surprised to see Rachel run up to the old man and gave him a big hug.

  ‘It’s been a long time, Rachel. I wondered when you were going to come back.’

  ‘Too long, Reverend Arbuthnot.’ She stepped back and gestured towards Jayne. ‘This is Ms Sinclair, she’s my genealogical researcher.’

  They shook hands. Jayne noticed the vicar’s touch was icy cold as if made from marble.

  ‘I thought your brother had already finished your family tree. The Marlowes have been here for ages, benefactors of St Peter’s long before I was the incumbent, and will be long after I’m gone. Your father has continued the tradition, donating very generously to the clock-tower fund.’

  Rachel reached into her handbag and produced a cheque for five hundred pounds. ‘Here’s my contribution, Reverend.’

  The vicar held up his hands. ‘I couldn’t possibly accept, Rachel.’

  She folded it up and placed it in the pocket of his cassock. ‘Think of it as continuing the family tradition.’

  ‘If you insist. Now, Mrs Sinclair—’

  ‘It’s Ms Sinclair.’

  ‘Of course, Ms Sinclair, would you like to see the church? It’s Grade One listed, you know.’

  ‘Don’t let old Arbuthnot bore you, Jayne, he can speak for hours on the subject of his precious church. I’ve had so many lectures I can recite them by heart.’

  ‘And I’m sure they helped you in your exams, did they not? Shall we go in?’

  They walked through the entrance and immediately Jayne’s eyes were led by the perspective of a row of arches to a small red-baize-covered altar at the end of the nave. The light had a soft, almost pinkish tinge that suffused the church with peace and tranquillity.