The Merchant's Daughter Page 2

  ‘Yes, Professor, but what does it mean?’ The TV host overacted her sigh and gurned towards the camera, producing a dutiful laugh from the audience.

  ‘It means that one of Miss Marlowe’s ancestors in the not-too-distant past was an African from the Gold Coast, in particular, the area of present-day Ghana. From the result, we can postulate that one of her ancestors was a member of the Ashanti tribe. Interestingly, the Ashantis are one of the few ethnic groups where lineage is traced through the mother and the maternal ancestors…’

  ‘And so they should. Thank you, Professor Jacobs.’ Danielle Hurst cut him off just as he was about to explain the complexities of matrilineal ancestry. She turned towards her guest. ‘How do you feel about this news, Rachel?’

  The actress had recovered from her shock by now. ‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? Somewhere I could have African relations that I know nothing about.’

  ‘What are you going to do next?’

  Rachel Marlowe smiled at the camera. ‘I’m going to find out all about them.’

  Chapter FOUR

  Friday, August 16, 2019

  Didsbury, Manchester

  Jayne Sinclair was tired. It had been a long day driving to Buxton to see her father and stepmother, fighting constantly with the traffic on the A6. At one point, she had been so frustrated at an old driver dawdling along at 20 mph in a 40 mph zone, she had banged on her horn twice, urging him to hurry up.

  Immediately she had realised the ridiculousness and rudeness of her behaviour. Quietly whispering a word of apology to the driver in front, she signalled left and pulled in to the kerb. Why was she so stressed? Was it the heat? Manchester was built to withstand long days of cold and drizzle, not temperatures of more than 30 degrees. Her house at night was stifling. Even Mr Smith had decided to seek shade away from his usual sleeping place beside the window in the hall.

  Or perhaps it was because she had been working too hard recently. Maybe it was time for a rest. Since she had come back from her cruise with Robert and Vera at the beginning of the year, it had been non-stop, one case after another. Had the investigation into her biological father and her grandmother taken too much out of her? She thought perhaps it had. Without realising it, the stress had simply built up and she was now beeping her horn at some old bloke in a beaten-down car.

  Time for a holiday. Paris? Rome? Or somewhere cooler. Iceland? She had never been to the north. Her ex-husband, Paul, had always preferred the city, or lively beaches like Ibiza for holidays, and she had always gone along. Since their separation, it was now time for her to go somewhere she wanted.

  It looked like Iceland could be it.

  She took three deep breaths.

  Relax. You’ve been working too hard. Just be patient.

  But patience was never a strong suit. Even when she was with the police, she was never happy on a stake-out. Sitting outside a suspect's house waiting for something to happen used to annoy the hell out of her. Even worse was sitting in a cold car with another detective grumbling about his sex life, his home life or his kids, the stench of stale coffee and even staler sandwiches accompanying every moan.

  She realised this lack of patience was a major character flaw and had worked to make it better, but knew she still had a long way to go.

  She took three more deep breaths and put the BMW in gear, signalling right to pull out into the traffic heading down the A6 into Stockport.

  Twenty minutes later she was parking outside her home among the tree-lined streets of Didsbury. She loved this house, bought with her ex-husband as soon as they had married. And despite the marriage having gone south – more her fault than his, she felt – it was still her house, her home.

  She levered her tired body out of the car’s bucket seat, gathered her papers on her latest cases and walked slowly to the front door, feeling every bone in her body creak with age. A glass of wine and a good night’s sleep should soon make her feel right as rain. She had only just opened the door when Mr Smith ran out from his place in the kitchen to greet her, his tail and body rubbing up against her leg.

  ‘I know, I know, you’re hungry.’

  Three letters were lying in wait for her on the hall carpet. She picked them up and walked into the kitchen, followed by the cat mewing loudly.

  Jayne switched on her computer to check her mail. The cat, meanwhile, continued to whine with all the insistence of somebody protesting at this cruel and heartless treatment of having no food in his bowl. How dare she not attend to his needs immediately?

  She opened the fridge door and took out one of his gourmet dinners. Rabbit in a luscious sauce. ‘You eat better than I do,’ she said out loud to the attentive cat.

  She had been talking to Mr Smith more often now. Perhaps it was the silence of living alone? Or the desire to hear the sound of a human voice, even if it was her own? Or perhaps it was simply because he seemed to understand her far more than most people.

  Probably the latter, she decided.

  She filled his bowl to the brim and topped up his water from the sink.

  Mr Smith approached the bowl cautiously, sniffing constantly, before settling down to lap up the meat and its juicy gravy.

  Jayne grabbed a glass from the countertop and went back to the fridge for a nice cold New Zealand sauvignon blanc. It was one of those times when she had to be revived and resuscitated with the tart, grassy flavours of gooseberry and passion fruit that only a Marlborough wine contained.

  She opened the Cloudy Bay and poured herself an extra big glass. One sip later and she was in heaven, enjoying the fruity wine as it tripped across her tongue.

  Perhaps she would take a day off tomorrow. Not drive to Buxton, just stay at home with Mr Smith, reading or checking out a box set from Netflix.

  She thought back to her own childhood, something she had been doing a lot over the last six months, memories flooding back at the strangest moments. The discovery that her father had, in fact, still been alive and was in prison had shaken her to her bones.

  When he had died shortly after their meeting – the first since she was five years old – she had been left bereft for a while. It was as if there was an emptiness inside her. Something missing.

  She wanted to ask him so many questions. Did he remember his mother? What was growing up in Hereford like? Did he know anything about his family? Why had he married her mother? Did he love her?

  Too many questions, and now, no chance of any answers. That was the problem with death; all the person’s memories died with them. That’s why she counselled all her clients to talk to their parents before they passed away.

  She had solved the feeling of emptiness by throwing herself into work.

  Too much work.

  As she sat down, feeling the tartness of the sauvignon blanc circulating around her veins, she decided it was time for a holiday.

  ‘So, Iceland it is then,’ she said out loud. The cat looked up briefly before returning to his juicy rabbit.

  She took another sip of wine. You should stop raking over the past, Jayne, it doesn’t do you any good. You can’t ask questions of a man who is no longer alive. The past has to remain dead and buried.

  She smiled to herself. This was a ridiculous statement to make, given that her whole job was to rake over the past of her clients and discover the truth. There were still aspects of her family history she hadn’t investigated. Where did the Sinclairs come from? And what about her mother’s Irish family? She would do the research one day.

  But not yet.

  Not yet.

  She picked up the wine again, noticing the letters next to the computer. All three looked official. She opened the first; it was an electricity bill. Her jaw dropped at the amount they were demanding. How had she spent so much on bloody electricity? There was only her and the cat in the house. Had Mr Smith been switching on her electric blanket to keep himself warm during the day? She wouldn't put it past him.

  She picked up the second letter. A parking fine for overstaying ten minutes i
n some car park, demanding £65 on pain of death. She checked the dates. She had parked in that car park and come back late one day. They even had a picture of the rear of the BMW with a time stamp next to it.

  Another bill to pay. Damn.

  The third letter was still sitting next to the computer. Should she open it? After all, bad luck does come in threes.

  She reached out and pulled it towards her. The front was stamped with the name ‘Threlkeld and Son, Solicitors’, with an address in the centre of Manchester.

  What had she done wrong now?

  The paper stock was very fine and had that lovely smell that belonged to all good writing paper. She pulled out the document inside, seeing the headline immediately, typed in big, bold, black letters.

  PETITION FOR DIVORCE

  Jayne read the document carefully. Paul was asking for a divorce based on the irretrievable breakdown of their marriage.

  Well, she couldn’t argue with that. After he had been promoted to the job in Brussels, he had asked her to go with him but she had refused.

  How could she leave a father with early-onset Alzheimer’s in a nursing home in Buxton all on his own? How could she leave her genealogy business? A company she had spent a long time setting up after she had left the police, and one which was just gaining a reputation for completing difficult genealogical investigations?

  But she knew deep inside that if she really still loved Paul, she would have found a way to resolve those issues. The truth was, she didn’t love him any more. He was a good man, but somehow, somewhere, they had drifted apart.

  The document felt heavy in her hands even though it couldn’t have weighed more than a few grams. The word ‘divorce’ stared back at her. She never thought of herself as a divorcee. What an old-fashioned word.

  Did Paul want to be free now? Had he met somebody else? Or did he just want to move on with his life, creating something new without her?

  Despite everything, there was still a tinge of sadness that it had come to this. But Paul was always the more pragmatic of the two of them. It was no surprise that he was making the first move. They had no children – Jayne had never felt grown-up enough to bring up a child – so the divorce should be relatively easy and uncomplicated.

  She glanced at the document one more time. One sentence in particular caught her attention. ‘It is hoped that an amenable and equitable distribution of the marital assets should be achieved by fair negotiation.’

  What did that mean? What marital assets?

  And then it struck her.

  The house. The only thing of value they owned was the house. Did he want her to sell it and divide the money between them? Where would she live? Where would Mr Smith live?

  The cat raised his head from his food for a moment, as if he knew she was thinking about him, then lowered it back down to begin devouring the meat once more.

  Why hadn’t Paul called her or at least sent her an email before applying for a divorce? She realised they hadn’t spoken in more than a month. She had been so busy with her research she hadn’t noticed the passing of time.

  Why hadn’t he called her?

  Her mobile rang, rattling on the countertop as if encouraging her to answer.

  This must be Paul now, ringing her to explain.

  She picked it up. ‘I would have thought you might call me to talk about the divorce first rather than just sending me a solicitor’s letter.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is this Jayne Sinclair?’

  A woman’s voice. A well-educated woman’s voice.

  ‘Speaking. Sorry, I thought you were somebody else... I was expecting another call...’ Jayne felt the end of the sentence trail into nothingness.

  ‘I gathered that.’ The voice had a smile in it. This woman was laughing at her.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Jayne said curtly.

  ‘I believe you carry out genealogical investigations?’

  ‘Yes, where did you hear that?’

  ‘From my agent. She knows somebody you helped, Lord Radley. He confirmed your credentials. You made sure his line didn’t die out.’

  ‘A relative, transported to Australia. Not a difficult investigation.’

  ‘But done under difficult circumstances, wasn’t it?’

  ‘All investigations throw up obstacles.’

  ‘I also heard about the Hughes case. Another one of yours, I believe.’

  Jayne was reminded of one of her first cases. ‘Mr Hughes was adopted by an American family. He asked me to find his Irish roots.’

  ‘Which you did, of course. Mr Hughes was very impressed.’

  ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘I don’t, but my father does. They do business together.’

  Jayne placed the divorce letter back on the counter. ‘You said you had an agent?’

  ‘I’m an actress. Rachel Marlowe. You may have heard of me. I was in The Pallisers and Charles II.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t watch much television. No time.’

  ‘Oh.’ The actress sounded disappointed. ‘Well, I’m at the Exchange Theatre in a couple of months, Love’s Labour’s Lost, you must come and see me.’

  Love’s Labour’s Lost. Sounds like her and Paul. ‘I must. How can I help you, Miss Marlowe?’

  ‘Please call me Rachel, or Rach if you prefer. Everybody else does.’

  ‘How can I help you, Rachel?’

  ‘It’s rather a long story and I couldn’t possibly be able to tell you over the phone. Could we meet tomorrow?’

  Jayne thought about the day off she had promised herself and Mr Smith. ‘I’m very busy at the moment, I don’t know if I have—’

  Before Jayne could finish the sentence, the woman said, ‘I’ll make it worth your while. Five thousand pounds if you can solve the case within the next week.’

  ‘Why the rush, Rachel?’

  ‘I just want to know the truth and I can’t wait any longer.’

  Impatient. Perhaps this woman and Jayne had something in common. ‘I don’t know...’

  ‘It won’t be a long meeting, and if you decide to take the case I can give you the money immediately. Plus another five thousand if you can find out the truth.’

  Jayne stared at the bills on the countertop, finally fixing on the open letter from the solicitor petitioning for a divorce. She would have to hire a solicitor herself now, and that would cost money. ‘I don’t know. Sometimes in family history you don’t discover the truth, just hit a brick wall. And besides, I don’t know anything about your case. There may be no truth to discover.’

  ‘I think there is, and if you come to San Remo tomorrow at, say, noon, I can reveal all the details.’

  San Remo was a chic, expensive Italian restaurant in King Street, favoured by footballers and actresses. For some reason, the two always seemed to go arm in arm.

  ‘You’re being very mysterious, Miss Marlowe.’

  ‘It’s Rachel, and will I see you tomorrow at noon?’

  Jayne stared at the bills in front of her. At least she could enjoy some good Italian food for lunch. ‘See you there. How will I know who you are?’

  ‘Oh, just tell Enrico you’re meeting me. I eat there all the time.’

  ‘See you tomorrow, Miss Marlowe.’

  But the phone had already gone dead.

  Rachel Marlowe was an impatient woman.

  Chapter FIVE

  July 05, 1842

  Wickham Hall, Cheshire

  Emily poured the glass of milk laced with laudanum the maid had placed on her bedside table out of the bedroom window. She was supposed to drink it before she went to sleep, but if she did, she would not wake up until late the following morning.

  She took the lamp from beside her bed and put it on her writing table before searching out her hidden notebook.

  She listened for a second. The house was quiet. Outside her window a nightjar chirped monotonously and, off in the distance, an owl hooted.

  She took up her pen and began to write.

  18
16 – Perseverance Estate, Barbados

  Of course, the trouble had been brewing for a long time but, obsessed as I was with my own childish amusements, I never saw it coming.

  I was lying in bed after a long day, with my personal maid, Rita, lying at my feet gently snoring, but I was still awake. It being Easter Sunday, we had been to church that morning. I was wearing my new bonnet, specially bought for the occasion. Mother wasn’t with us, she had decided to visit relatives in Bridgetown for the week, but I wore the pretty bonnet anyway.

  Sunday School with Reverend White followed. That good man spent a long time explaining to us the inequities of the Papist celebration of Easter. I must admit I found myself yawning as he went into great detail, as I do find the Reverend’s voice makes me sleepy. He speaks softly, as if the devil were hiding in the corner listening to his words.

  Afterwards roast lamb was placed on the table by Cook and, of course, hot cross buns had been baked for the occasion. Mr Howard and two of the junior overseers, also from Ireland, joined us for the repast, a rare event. I tried to talk to him but I find the man sadly lacking in conversation. In particular, I found it very difficult to avoid staring at the oily juices of the lamb that seeped from his mouth and covered his whiskers.

  After dinner the men remained in the dining room to drink and smoke. I was sent to bed despite my protestations that I would prefer to sit up and listen to their conversation. Father said he had never heard such insolence. As if young girls would attempt to elevate themselves to the position of listening to the thoughts of their male elders! My brother was allowed to remain, though. Obviously, hearing them was not going to damage his mind at all.

  It was three hours later, around ten o’clock, and I was on the edge of falling asleep, when I heard a commotion at the front of the house. I quickly dressed in my nightgown and rushed out in my bare feet to the balcony.