Читать книгу The Fifth Identity - Ray CW Scott - Страница 7

“Has that Salmon woman been inside it?” asked Pelham as he eyed the chest that stood against the far wall of his office where it had been manhandled earlier that morning.

“No!” replied Ruddock. “At least, not as far as we know. And neither have Detective Sergeant Eddington nor myself. After it was unlocked we loaded it straight into the back seat of my car and I drove it straight back here.”

“And they made another key to the front door and started to clean the place out, did they? Can’t say I’m surprised,” snorted Pelham. “I’ve met that damned woman once or twice, bloody dragon!”

Ruddock grinned broadly.

“An accurate assessment,” he commented.

“More than that, a bloody thieving dragon, I’m in two minds whether to sue the bastards,” snapped Pelham. “But I agree with you, it would be a waste of time and energy, and we don’t have too much of either. I gather the police sergeant wasn’t too bothered once he’d got the stuff back.”

“No!” Ruddock shook his head. “He has to spend much time in that village socially, I gather. I believe he’s a vice president of the cricket club and Salmon is one of the groundsmen.”

“I hope they nail down the club equipment,” snorted Pelham. ” OK, let’s see what we have here.”

They opened the lid and looked inside. On one side of the box there was a row of small drawers, none of them had any locks on them. Pelham reached inside and manipulated the top one, it opened easily. There were some old newspapers on the base of the box as a lining, and there was also a deed box.

Ruddock reached inside and drew out an old cricket cap with an insignia on the front and turned it over in his hand. There was a tag inside it at the front behind the peak, there had been some purple writing on it but this was now so smudged as to be illegible.

“Can you read the name?” asked Pelham.

“Not a hope,” Ruddock shook his head. “Looks as if it was done with one of those old copying ink pencils, they were alright until you got any water near them.”

“Yes, you’re right,” agreed Pelham, tossing the cap onto his coffee table. “Dreadful things, if you weren’t careful you picked up purplish stains over all your fingers and clothing. What else is there?”

They extracted all the contents of the box and lined them up on the coffee table. Apart from the deed box and the cap, there was an old penknife - quite a sophisticated item as it possessed many blades and had some insignia on it.

“My God! What’s this?’

“I’ve never seen one of these before, I didn’t think they’d ever been issued.”

Pelham took the item from Ruddock and turned it over in his hands. It was a piece of Doulton ware, a coronation mug.

“What do you mean?” asked Ruddock

“Take a look at this, the monarch is Edward VIII, he ruled for less than a year and then he abdicated in 1936, or was it 1937. He was never crowned and the Coronation never took place. So these, which must have been produced en masse ready for the event, were never generally issued.”

“What happened to them?”

“God knows, maybe they were all junked and replaced by George VI mugs.”

“Could be worth a bit then,” hazarded Ruddock. “There can’t be too many of these around.”

Pelham placed it on the coffee table, replacing it in the small cardboard box and tissue wrapping. Then he held aloft a fob watch.

“There’s a date on this - look - 1831.”

“Does it work?”

Pelham gave the knob on the top a few turns, the second hand began to slowly go round the dial.

“What’s in the drawers?”

They opened up the top drawer and found some old newspaper cuttings. There was no indication of the newspaper itself, merely cuttings. They dealt with details of the firm founded by John Accrington and Kenneth Bilston, and there were some with articles dealing with the Enigma coding machine used by German U-Boats during the war.

“Wonder what his interest was in that?” mused Ruddock.

“Probably to do with the early days of primitive computers,” grunted Pelham. “Cracking that code was a process of mathematics, logic, a lack of logic in some cases, pure luck and dedication. My father was in Naval Intelligence during the Second World War, he knew a lot about this. Many of the decoders were mathematicians, crossword puzzle solvers, university professors in addition to technicians in the embryo computer industry.”

“What’s in the next drawer?”

“There’s a picture of a house, a photograph. Here’s another one of a farm house.”

“What’s in the third drawer?” asked Pelham

“Looks like a tie, what do you reckon? Regimental?”

“Difficult to say, but I’d say it represents something. I don’t think it looks like a casual design.”

Ruddock held it in his hand and it unravelled until it hung down. They both looked at it quizzically.

“Hmmm!” Pelham grunted again, “OK, let’s have a look in the deed box.”

But it was locked.

“Damnation!!” ejaculated Pelham.

“Hold on, there’s a key in the last drawer, will this fit?”

They tried it, it fitted.

“Good!” said Ruddock. “I wouldn’t fancy contacting Mrs Salmon again.”

Pelham grinned and shook his head.

“Amen to that!” he said. “OK, let’s have a look.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” announced Pelham as he drew a birth certificate out from a dusty envelope. “This is his alright, there’s the name - John Arthur Accrington, and there are the names of his parents, where he was born and the date. He was born 24^th February 1924 - hells teeth, he must have been what … … 80 plus when he died!”

Ruddock examined the birth certificate and perused it carefully.

“This isn’t the original, this was issued in 1947.”

“What? Let me see,” Pelham looked at it closely and shrugged.

“I don’t know if there’s anything unduly significant in that,” he said. “I couldn’t find mine when I wanted a passport and had to obtain a copy from Somerset House. It turned up later so now I’ve got two.”

“What do we do now, chase up the family?”

“Yes, but no point in you doing it. This is a private detective or heir hunter’s job, I can’t afford to have you gallivanting around the countryside when there’s work to do here. Get onto Rodney Fillery and get him to deal with this.”

Ruddock entered the building situated in Paddington east of the main railway station. He entered the lift and emerged on the fifth floor. The Rodney Fillery Detective Agency was the fourth door on the left, he entered and was greeted by the young receptionist. Another woman, aged about 40, was delving into a filing cabinet. She looked up and said “Hallo Norman.” She was Dania Ransom, Ruddock knew her quite well.

The Fillery agency did much work for Fell, Pelham & Drysdale. Rodney Fillery was a former member of the Met, he had reached the rank of Inspector before resigning several years before and starting his own security organisation. Virtually all of his operatives were ex-police, those who were not were computer staff, electronics and junior clerical. Dania Ransom was also ex-police. She was a former Metropolitan Police detective and had spent much time in the fine art and antiques investigations branch.

“Alright, Penny, I’ll deal with Norman,” she said to the receptionist and turned to Ruddock. “He’s expecting you. I’ll tell him you’re here.”

Dania was a dark haired woman; she was quite slim, was stylishly dressed and looked years younger than her age. She was married to a Detective Inspector who was still in the Met, and they had two sons in their early twenties who were also in the police force, though they were both constables in country divisions. Dania was also one of Fillery’s field operatives, she had considerable expertise in the field of artistic fakes and forgeries.

Ruddock didn’t have long to wait, he was admitted to Fillery’s office and invited to take a seat. Fillery was a big man, about 15 stone but little of it was excess fat. In his younger days he had played Rugby Union for many years as a front row forward, and still spent quite a few hours in the gym. He had fair hair, though this was tending to recede now, and he had a small bald patch on his crown. He had a reddish complexion, with heavy jowls, and a ready smile.

“Good to see you Norman,” he rose and extended his hand. “What have you got for us? I understand it’s an intestacy case.”

“Looks fairly simple on the face of it,” explained Ruddock. “We’re trying to trace the family of the deceased. We’ve got his birth certificate, he was born in 1924 and he died recently. Surprisingly he never made a will.”

“Much money involved?”

“Quite a bit, his name was John Accrington, he was a millionaire, not sure how much offhand, but he was a wealthy man.”

“And you say there’s no will,” mused Fillery. “It looks as if he fell out with them all, though they usually leave it to charity if they want to spite anyone.”

“No, he didn’t even do that. Matthew had been on at him during the last few years, but he did nothing about it. We can’t quite get our heads around it, why he did nothing. Matthew reckoned he was coming around to doing something about it when he began to suffer ill health, but events caught up with him before he could act.”

“What do you mean, events caught up … half a mo! John Accrington? Wasn’t this the man who was murdered in a hotel room some weeks back?”

“That’s the one,” Ruddock nodded. “They haven’t arrested anyone yet.”

“So now he’s died intestate, and you want us to find any offspring or relatives. Are any heir hunters onto this yet?”

“Not that I’m aware,” Ruddock shrugged. “Accrington’s name could well appear on the next list issued by the Treasury.”

Fillery nodded. He was referring to the firms of professional heir hunters who investigated people who died intestate in the hope of finding relatives, and therefore beneficiaries. These firms worked on a percentage of the value of the funds allocated to any beneficiaries they found.

“Well we’ll get cracking at once, we may have a few weeks grace,” grunted Fillery. “But this is very strange, if he fell out with his family he would have surely willed it away somewhere, wouldn’t he? That’s the best way of saying ‘Up yours, you buggers!’ ” Fillery scratched the end of his nose. “By doing nothing, being intestate, he’s ensuring that they’ll all receive a proportion, assuming we can find them.”

“That very thought has struck us,” Ruddock spread out his hands. “It’s almost a contradiction.”

“OK, we’ll have a look at it.” Fillery stretched out his hand for the file. “What’s the time slot?”

“We’re not being besieged by claimants as yet, but if any heir hunters get involved it could upset matters. But that is another strange thing. There are no claimants at all.”

“That’s odd, very odd,” said Fillery. “Matt said that Barry Freedman was following it up, I gather they knocked sparks off each other. If it was anyone but him I’d probably ask a favour, but not that bastard. OK, I’ll put Rex Seymour onto it. This is all there is of the file, is it?”

“That’s it.” said Ruddock. “All the detail is in there, but I agree there isn’t much, the main item is the birth certificate. I’ll leave it with you, I guess it shouldn’t take too long.”

Rex Seymour sat before Rod Fillery and his thoughts were much the same as those of Ruddock and Fillery. Why hadn’t Accrington made a will? If he had fallen out with family members; dying intestate was one method of ensuring that the estate would be divided amongst whoever could be found, so if he wanted to spite them this would not have the desired effect. Or maybe he just wanted to spite his more immediate family members!

Rex Seymour was the odd man out as far as Fillery’s organisation was concerned. He was not a former member of any police force. He was aged about 31, and had spent some years in the army in which he finished with the rank of Captain, with tours in Ireland, Kosovo and the Middle East. When his tour of duty expired he decided that was enough, resigned his commission and re-entered Civvy Street, but found many occupations that were open to him were boring and mundane. He did not fancy a desk job, while the police force didn’t appeal, especially as he would be starting at the bottom and be under the command of people several years his junior.

When Fillery had offered him a job he had taken it with some reticence, but discovered that it suited him and he had settled in quite well.

He was roughly six feet in height, was well built and was an individual who could look after himself, being hardened by his years in the army. His fair hair was cropped short, this was one characteristic he had retained from his army days. He had married about four years previously, his wife had also been an officer in the army. She had also resigned her commission and was currently a civilian employed by the Ministry of Defence in their Defence Intelligence Department. That had been another factor that had swayed Seymour when pondering his future, both he and his wife had decided that marriage and the army were not compatible. He was also different from most of Fillery’s organisation in that, coming from an Army family, he spoke with what could best be described as ‘officer’s mode of speech’, where Fillery himself and most of the others spoke with a definite London intonation.

“Seems an open and shut case,” he remarked, as he studied the birth certificate in his hand. “There are probably traces of the family in the area, I see it was registered in Aylesbury, that’s in Buckinghamshire isn’t it?”

“Yes, not too far away, the place where he was born is a small village nearby within the registration district. You’re right, shouldn’t take long,” said Fillery. “When you’ve done that I’ve a couple of other cases lined up. OK?”

“Very well,” responded Seymour as he picked up the file and rose to his feet. “I’ll get cracking on this straight away.”

Seymour departed for Buckinghamshire the next morning. He made good time, turned off the main road and headed for the small village mentioned on the birth certificate as being the address of the Accrington family. The parents were given as Arthur Accrington and Janet neé Havering, and Arthur’s occupation was given as a self employed carpenter. The village of Bishopstone was not far from Aylesbury and Seymour parked opposite the church. There was no specific address on the birth certificate, it just described the place of abode as Bishopstone.

He was undecided as to his first port of call, then decided that the church was as good a place to start as any. He crossed the road, walked up to the gate, and then up the path to the church. He entered the main door, the building appeared to be deserted.

“Good morning, isn’t it a beautiful day?”

Seymour swung around; a man in shirtsleeves had emerged from a doorway behind him holding a brush in one hand and a dust pan in the other. He was a man of about 35, hair sleeked back and parted down the middle, and wearing horn rimmed glasses.

“Oh …er…good morning,” he responded.

“Can I assist you? I am the vicar here, although …” his eyes twinkled “…you couldn’t guess from my mode of dress right now. Have we met before?”

“No.” Seymour shook his head. “I was enquiring about past parishioners to this church.”

“Indeed, are they relatives of yours?”

“Well…?” Seymour hesitated, then salved his conscience with the thought that in a sense they were, inasmuch as he represented Matthew Pelham, who in turn represented John Accrington. “Yes, it’s a family connection I am trying to chase up.”

“Ah! You’re pursuing family history?”

“I …well … yes.” again Seymour reconciled himself to the fact that family history was precisely what he was pursuing.

“What is the name you are researching, maybe I know of the family.”

“There are two families involved, Accrington and Havering.”

“Accrington and Havering,” the other pursed his lips and inclined his head to one side. “Neither of them seem to ring a bell, when were they living here?”

“We had lost track of them, they were certainly living here in 1924,” said Seymour, by this time feeling much more confident.

“1924 indeed,” said the other. “That’s well before my time, I’ve only been here for three years. Accrington or Havering, no I can’t say I’ve heard of either of them. What were they, were they farming stock, tradesmen, professional people, carpenters, tilers, any idea?”

“He was a self employed carpenter, presumably in these parts that means an agricultural self employed carpenter,” said Seymour.

“We can have a look in the register, I’ve nothing else to do except cleaning up some of the mess from the weekend - you’ve no idea what the children throw down during the service, they think the church is just one big dustbin. I’m going to make an announcement about it next Sunday. I’ve been saddled with the job as my cleaner is in hospital. Will that assist you?”

“Yes, I think it will, thank you very much.”

“Good. My name is Tampion, James Tampion, who are you?”

“Rex,” answered Seymour. “Rex Seymour.”

“Oh, not Accrington? Are you directly related.?”

“No, indirectly, a collateral line,” answered Seymour. He was quite pleased with that answer. His cousin Mark was investigating the Seymour family, convinced that they were descended from the powerful Seymour family living in the days of Henry VIII and Queen Elizabeth I. The last time they had been closeted together Mark had used the word ‘collateral’ to describe distant relatives such as cousins, second cousins and their descendants.

“Alright, the registers are kept through here.”

Tampion led the way through a doorway behind the altar and Seymour found himself in a room of about 20 feet square. The temperature was noticeably lower in there, the only daylight came in through a small window near the top of one of the walls, which were built of light coloured stone. Tampion switched on the neon lighting and led the way to a bench top which had some drawers underneath, pulled one out and seized hold of a register, which he placed on the top surface.

“Now, let’s see what we can find.”

Tampion began from the back end and grunted to himself.

“It seems that this register ended about 1970, let’s have a look at the start.”

He turned all the pages over and perused the first entry, then shook his head.

“Nothing in this one, not that far back - 1924 did you say?” Seymour consulted his notebook and nodded.

“We’ll try the next book, but that’s the only other one here.” said Tampion, and replaced the first register and then pulled out another that looked a little more dog eared.

He opened the front of the register and shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said. “This doesn’t start until 1936.”

“Where’s the one before that?” Seymour was a little terse as disappointment flooded his system. He had been anticipating it would be just a case of finding the local address, making a few enquiries and then heading back towards London and Rod Fillery, triumphantly waving the information aloft.

“They would be at the County Record Office,” said Tampion. “That’s where this earlier register should be.”

“Why are they sent there?”

“For safe keeping,” answered Tampion. “It’s to guard against the risks of fire and water damage. We have had cases of registers being stolen by thieves from churches, amongst other things, and then later discovered vandalised. One church in Middlesex had its register stolen by some idiots and was thrown into the Thames, rendering it utterly useless for any kind of research.”

“Why would people steal registers?”

“Why indeed?” Tampion sighed. “That’s what happens these days, they’ll steal whatever happens to be at hand, then when they find out it’s of no monetary value they just vandalise it or destroy it. It was ever thus, I’m afraid!”

“So where are the County Record Offices?”

“In Buckingham,” said Tampion. “There should be no problem asking permission to examine it, but you may have to make a prior appointment.”

“Alright, I’d best do that then,” said Seymour. “Thanks for your assistance.”

“Thank you for yours,” Tampion smiled. “I’ve been remiss and hadn’t realised that this older register was still here, I’ll have to make arrangements for it to go to the Record Office. They’ve been remiss too, they should have sent for it.”

“Would all of these records be irretrievably lost if thieves stole the register?”

Tampion shook his head.

“Not necessarily. Most information is duplicated. That is to say, with the modern registers these days when an event takes place, it is all sent to the Government Registry. This has been so since 1837, when Somerset House accepted all records of births, deaths and marriages. They still do, ceremonies such as marriages are conducted here and the copies are sent to Somerset House …or nowadays it’s St Catherine’s House, the records have now been moved there. With baptisms and funerals, the information has already been registered to the government authority by the medical authorities, maternity hospitals and doctors who sign the death certificates.”

“So my next step is the County Record Office?”

“Depends what you want, don’t you have the birth certificate already?”

“I want the address where they lived.” said Seymour.

“Ah, I see. It’s possible the original baptismal entry may contain that information, or it may not. It may just give the name of the village here, or a nearby one, or they may have used another church - sometimes people tend to fall out with the local vicar.”

“So, for the present, I’m stuck.”

“Not necessarily, have you tried the local pub?”

“The pub?”

“The usual fount of information,” Tampion grinned. “You may find someone at the watering hole who still remembers them - though it may cost you!”

“A good thought,” Seymour held out his hand and Tampion shook it. “I could do with a pint.”

Seymour entered the Harrow public house, looked around him and then headed for the bar. The landlord raised his hand in greeting.

“Morning, sir, what can I get for you?”

“Pint . . bitter,” replied Seymour and waited while it was poured.

“Stranger in these parts?”

“Yes, I’m looking for some old family members,” rejoined Seymour, continuing the tack he had commenced with the local churchman. “I’ve been conducting some family research and this village came up, together with Sedrup…!” he added, having already noticed the name on signposts pointing in a north westerly direction.

“Family eh?” the landlord placed the pint pot on the bar. “What families were you chasing up?”

“Accrington, and Havering,” answered Seymour, extracting his note book from his pocket and flicking over the pages. “Long time since my family members were here though, last heard of in the 1920s.”

“Hmmm!” the landlord pursed his lips. “Long before my time, I’ve only been here since 1990, I came from Aylesbury originally so I can’t assist you. There may be some who can, old Josh Wilkins has been living here all his life, as has Sam Cuddeston. They still come in here some nights; maybe they can help you. They usually come in on Saturday nights, all the local dart and domino players come in then. I reckon they would have been living here then, they were born just after First World War.”

“What about the others,” Seymour indicated the few customers who were in the saloon.

“Nah!” the landlord shook his head. “Some of these are strangers, just passing through like you are. I know the others, they’ve been here a few years, maybe a few decades, but nothing like the 1920’s. I’d say Josh Wilkins and Sam Cuddeston are your best bet for anyone that far back.”

“Saturday nights, you say?”

“Never miss.”

“OK. Thanks for your help.”