Chapter 35

If Danny Longhurst seemed to be relaxed enough, his mind told a different tale. He knew he’d done the right thing by linking up with Harry McFry, but he was starting to worry that it wasn’t going to be easy getting Lillian McFry’s medals to Laurel. He’d noticed that Harry had spotted the inscription on the back of them – something he hadn’t done, even though he’d had them a couple of days before he’d sent them to Harry. The problem he was grappling with now was how he might get them to Laurel without her linking them to the current investigation. Danny realized, too, that his knowledge of world history was sketchier than it might have been – what he knew about the Spanish Civil War he could probably write on a beer mat. He’d assumed that the medals had belonged to Lillian’s husband, but now he was starting to wonder – what if they were actually awarded to Lillian herself? What could that little old woman in Telford have done to merit them?

While Harry refilled the coffee jug, Danny looked around the office. When he’d ‘called in’ to collect his portfolio yesterday, he hadn’t had the luxury of much time, and had hardly noticed the surroundings as he’d homed in on the notebook on Harry’s desk. Now, he surveyed the scene more carefully, A couple of battered, three-drawer filing cabinets. An old desk, and a computer that didn’t look much younger. A bookcase, crammed with files and folders, alongside standard family history reference books.

The whole place looked as if it could do with a good clean – that dusty Venetian blind, in particular, And the stale smell of tobacco, mingled with coffee that it took a non-smoker to detect. Danny thought it didn’t give much of an impression about ‘Harry McFry Genealogical Private Investigations’. Yet he knew Harry’s reputation, and had seen him at work over the last fifteen minutes. He’d learn a lot by working with Harry, he was sure.

Harry returned with the coffee jug filled with water, and poured it in the filter machine.

“Where’s our Miss McFry, I wonder?” he asked Danny, but just then, a buzzer sounded, and Harry reached to press the intercom button on his desk. It was Laurel, and she was heading up to see the two of them. “Remember – don’t give anything away,” Harry cautioned Danny: “The first rule of a genealogical private investigator is the client only gets to know what we want them to know.” Danny shifted, uneasily, in his chair, hoping he wouldn’t give the game away. Harry watched him: “Oh – and don’t forget rule two: a genealogical private investigator never looks nervous.”

Author's Note

Well, we seem to be getting a little bit closer to sorting out those medals! This is my first attempt at fiction, and I'm grappling with the technicalities (did you notice?!). But I've been very heartened by the comments I've had from readers so far, both publicly and privately. I still don't understand how (and why) so many people in Canada are reading this - perhaps the TV schedules aren't too good there?

Anyway, whether you're in Winnipeg, Manitoba, or Toronto, County Durham, you're more than welcome!

Stand by for some more twists and turns as Harry tries to solve the case of Laurel McFry's missing family!

Kind regards, and thanks for reading!

THJnr

Chapter 34

Danny arrived at Harry’s office about a quarter to ten: Harry had wanted a few minutes before Laurel arrived to check something out with him. Danny made himself at home, taking a mug of coffee Harry poured from a filter machine perched on top of a filing cabinet in the corner.

“We’ve got a bit of a problem here, Danny,” Harry said, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded behind his head.

“We haven’t got a motive for why anyone would go to quite such extreme lengths to hide Laurel McFry’s ancestors. I figure we’ve got to get some more information out of our Miss McFry, or this investigation is going to run up against the buffers. Are you absolutely certain she knows nothing about Lillian McFry?”

Danny considered the question a moment. “I don’t think she does. And the problem we’ve got is, we can’t tell her. My professional obligation is with Lillian, not Laurel,” he said.

The more Harry saw of Danny, the more he liked his style – ‘professional obligation’ weren’t words that figured heavy in Harry’s lexicon. But he saw the boy’s point.

“The starting point in all of this has got to be what we know,” Harry said. “And what we know is this: Lillian McFry, our little old lady in Telford, has a set of medals from the Spanish Civil War that are inscribed with the initials ‘LB’. Stan’s looking into that, by the way, and after we’ve finished with Laurel we’ll go across to see what he’d found.” Harry sat forward now, and took a glug of his coffee. “And we know that Lillian McFry claims to be Laurel McFry’s grandmother. So who was Laurel’s mother?” he asked Danny.

“Laurel told me she doesn’t know much about her mother. Her name was Colleen Blyth, and she died in 1981, aged 44,” Danny replied, scanning a notepad on his lap. “Laurel hasn’t been able to trace a birth for Colleen between 1930 and 1940. She’s got a copy of a marriage certificate for her father, Philip McFry, and Colleen, June 1970. Philip’s father is given as James McFry but Colleen’s father is given as ‘unknown’.”

Harry pulled a sheet of A3 paper from a shelf behind his desk, picked up a pencil and started to sketch out a rough family tree for Laurel McFry.

“OK. Let’s presume Lillian McFry is Laurel’s grandmother. We don’t actually know whether she’s her maternal or paternal grandmother, do we?”

Danny shook his head. “No, we know that James McFry – Laurel’s paternal grandfather, married an Anne Lawrence. She’s got all that. So it’s pretty safe to assume that Lillian is Colleen’s mother.”

It was Harry’s turn to shake his head. “We can’t assume anything in this business, Danny. She’s a McFry – either by birth or by marriage. That’s pretty much all we know.”

Harry could see that Danny was looking slightly embarrassed. He softened the blow: “But let’s assume she is, just to see where it takes us. Lillian would have had to have been born Lillian Blyth, and had her daughter out of wedlock. Or else her maiden name was McFry and she married a Blyth. Or maybe she just had a relationship with a Blyth. Then again, she might have been married more than once. Her maiden name might be something totally different.”

Danny was thinking of the old woman he had visited in Telford. It wasn’t easy to process thoughts of a 102 year old woman having had ‘relationships’. “I see what you mean,” Danny said, “it’s all starting to look pretty complicated.”

Harry adopted a sage-like countenance, nodding his head slightly: “It usually is where women are concerned, Danny – it usually is.” As he said this, he added a dotted line between the name Colleen Blyth and Lillian on the sheet in front of him.

“Now … what else do we ‘know’?” he asked.

Danny was scanning his notes again. “James McFry had three sons: Stuart, born in 1908, Thomas, born in 1911 and Philip, born in 1924 – Laurel’s father. Stuart died in 1944, Thomas in 1970,” he said.

“Where’s this information from, Danny?” Harry asked.

“It’s what Laurel told me when she asked me to look for her missing ancestors.”

“Have you checked it?” Harry asked. Danny had to admit that he hadn’t. “Well, let’s not worry too much about that now – we can always check it later,” Harry said, sketching the new names on the tree.

“Do we know anything more about Anne Lawrence – who married James McFry?” he asked.

“She had a brother, John James Lawrence. And he married…” Danny was flipping through his notes now, “…an Amy D Peterson.”

Harry added the information to the tree. He checked his watch. It was a couple of minutes from ten: Laurel should be here any minute. “Well here’s what we’ll do, Danny. We’ll start with scratch with Miss McFry. I want to find out what’s behind all this. No-one goes to the trouble of doctoring census images just for the sheer hell of it. My guess is there’s money behind all this – and I think our Miss McFry is holding something back.” With that, he folded away the sheet he’d been sketching on, stood up and made towards the filing cabinet. “You stay here, Danny,” he said, reaching for the coffee jug, “I’m just going to organize us all some brain fuel.” And he left the office, clutching the empty jug, and made his way to the small kitchen further up the corridor, just as the Town Hall clock started to strike the first of ten notes, faintly, in the distance.

Chapter 33

Stepping off the train at Liverpool Lime Street, Colin McAllistair still hadn’t shrugged off that faint feeling of unease that had been with him ever since he’d received the call from Cyril Galloway the previous day. As he made his way to the underground line that would ferry him under, rather than across, the Mersey, his mind was still trying to dash the painful memory of what he’d done in Thirsk, North Yorkshire, all those years ago.

Returning to Cyril Galloway’s little antique shop early on the day after he’d first called there, he’d been hopeful of good news on the medals. He wondered now when the thought first occurred to him that he might take a cut of their value. Had it been a dream, as he drifted off to sleep in the bedroom of the small bed and breakfast he’d found the previous night? It probably didn’t matter. What did matter was that, when Cyril Galloway had welcomed him into his shop, he’d noticed his wide smile.

“Ah … Mr McAllistair! Won’t you come in! I believe I have some good news for you.” Galloway had ushered him into the back room, filled with furniture. “Please, come into my office. I take it you’ve got the medals?”

Colin had nodded, and entered the small office situated just off the larger room, taking a seat that Galloway had pulled up.

“Well, I should perhaps start by saying I could find nothing at all about your Jonathan Harcourt, other than that he was a writer on the Daily Herald. I suppose, perhaps, that you already knew this?” Galloway asked.

“Yes. Quite a celebrated one, from what I could gather,” he’d said.

“I may as well get to the point, Mr McAllistair. After you left last night I made a long-distance call to Madrid.” Colin remembered how he had emphasized the words ‘long-distance’: that’s what people did, in those days. Nowadays, he mused, people thought nothing of international calls. But he remembered he had been impressed at Mr Galloway’s approach.

“I discussed the medals with a collector in Spain. He’s very interested in your medals, Mr McAllistair. Very interested indeed.” Galloway waited for a response from Colin, but when there seemed to be none, he continued: “What would you say if I told you he is prepared to offer … £2,000 for them?”

Colin recalled how he had struggled to hide his astonishment. It was 1970. That was almost enough to buy a small flat in London…

“I would say … that’s amazing!”

“Well, I have his authority to buy them from you here and now. They are very important medals, you see. He seems to think that there may only ever have been two sets issued. Of course, it may take a day or two for the money to transfer. But he’s a reputable person, Mr McAllistair, and if he says he wants to offer £2,000, that seems to me a more than fair and reasonable amount,” Galloway had said.

Thoughts of Jonathan Harcourt receiving a handsome cheque from a Spanish museum suddenly seemed to have been displaced in Colin McAllistair’s mind. Instead, he was thinking how, when he left Oxford, he could set himself up with a head start in life. Of course, he would have to give Jonathan Harcourt something. Maybe £500? Still a tidy sum. In what seemed like an age, but was really only a matter of seconds, he had made his mind up:

“I would be obliged very much if you could sell them, then, Mr Galloway,” he found himself saying.

Galloway had studied him. “I would have to charge a commission, of course. I have my living to make. But since this is such a significant sum, I could perhaps agree a reduced amount: shall we say just two and a half per cent?” There was a slight twist at the edge of his mouth as he said this.

McAllistair’s mind did the maths in a trice: £50 - a handsome payment for a simple telephone call, he’d thought, but a price he’d have to pay.

And so, it was agreed that McAllistair would leave the medals with Galloway. And the auctioneer had been as good as his word. Within a week, Colin McAllistair was paying a cheque in the sum of £1950 into his account, much to the evident pleasure of his bank manager. He’d been true to his word to Jonathan Harcourt, too: he drafted off a letter to the old man, explaining how he had been able to sell the medals for the not insignificant sum of £450 (he’d decided it was reasonable to deduct Galloway’s commission from Harcourt’s portion of the money, after all), and enclosing a cheque made out to him for that same amount.

Months had passéd, and many bank statements had been studied, before McAllistair realized that the cheque was not going to be cashed. He wondered, then, whether Jonathan Harcourt might perhaps have died.

Chapter 32

Lillian McFry never enjoyed using the telephone. Few people called her these days, and the times when she needed to call others were few and far between. She caught herself looking in the mirror, smoothing out a curl in her hair, before she picked up the receiver – “Stupid woman!” she said to herself, reminding herself that whoever she was calling wouldn’t be able to actually see her. She studied the card that Danny Longhurst had left her. She didn’t recognize the code, thought it must be one of these ‘mobile’ phones everyone seemed to have now.

It was about 9.30am – not too early to ring him, she thought. Still standing by her sideboard, she dialed the number. Danny answered after a few rings.

“Mr Longhurst? It’s Lillian McFry from Telford here.” She waited for his response.

“Yes, Mrs McFry – I was just thinking of ringing you,” Danny replied (although he hadn’t been). In fact, he was gathering together a file of papers ready for his meeting with Harry McFry.

“I was wondering if you had been able to deliver my medals to Laurel yet?”

There was a slight pause on the other end of the phone, which Lillian noticed, before Danny replied: “Not yet, Mrs McFry. There’s been a complication.”

Lillian didn’t like the sound of that. What if Dacre Lawrence was smarter than she imagined, and had somehow managed to track them down? “What kind of complication?” she asked, fearing the worst.

Danny realized he would need to re-assure her. “Nothing serious. It’s just that your grand-daughter is looking for her family members. She’s approached a colleague of mine to do some research for her.” Danny waited a second to allow Lillian to take in the implication of what he was saying. “I didn’t want to give her the medals yet, in case she made the connection with you.”

Lillian was wondering what had prompted Laurel’s interest in her family all of a sudden.

“You’ve done the right thing, Mr Longhurst. I don’t want Laurel to know about me. Please keep the medals safe, though. I think there are other people after them.”

Danny thought of the medals which he’d put in the post to Harry, but which were now in a shop in Birkenhead. Lillian didn’t need to know this, he decided. “Don’t you worry, Mrs McFry,” he lied, “I won’t let them out of my sight. I’m meeting Laurel today, in connection with the other matter. But I’ll hold onto the medals for a day or two, if you don’t mind. I’m sure I’ll get a chance to get them to her when the time is right.”

Lillian pondered a moment or two: the medals were probably safer with a stranger in Birkenhead than anywhere else she might put them. Then, she had another thought: “Mr Longhurst? If you are meeting Laurel today, perhaps you would be so good as to ring me later today. I’d like to know … what she’s like.”

There was a wistfulness in her tone that Danny picked up immediately.

“Don’t worry, Mrs McFry. I’ll do that. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go now. Can I ring you around five?”

Lillian had agreed, and their call was ended. She sat down. Things seemed to be getting complicated - typical, where there were McFry’s involved, she thought.

Chapter 31

Time was running out for Harry McFry, and he knew it. As he lit another cigarette and leafed through a file on his desk, he was aware that the clock was ticking down to the day when it would become illegal to smoke in public places in England. That would include, he supposed, his office. He’d be consigned to grabbing a quick smoke on the pavement outside Meldew Buildings, just like those office workers he often saw huddled in doorways. Well, Mrs Shipman would have won again: she never liked the idea of Harry smoking in his office, but she hadn’t been smart enough to alter the lease before he’d signed it: ‘one up to you, Harry’, he’d thought, at the time.

Harry was looking at notes he’d taken some years ago when researching his own family tree. There was enough there (just) for Harry to piece together the trail of where his search had taken him, but he was annoyed with himself for not having kept much in the way of references. Sure, those were his first forays into family history, and he’d since learned to keep meticulous references to save himself the awkward task of repeating searches he might have done before, but that didn’t stop him feeling a little bit foolish. What was clear from his notes was that, once he’d located the Shropshire McFry’s, he hadn’t followed Laurel’s branch down from James McFry. But he did have a note from the 1881 census, showing James and his wife Amelia, living in Bridgnorth and running a haberdashery, even if he hadn’t had the foresight to jot down a census reference number.

He turned to his computer, and pushed a few keys to interrogate the Ancestry database. No sign of James and Amelia in 1881. A few clicks later, and he was searching the same census index on Family Search, the site operated by the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. The result drew the same blank. So, Laurel McFry had been right all along – her family was missing. And it was starting to look as though young Danny Longhurst was right, too. Someone, somewhere, had excised all references to James McFry from the census.

Harry had given Danny something of a dressing down last night, before they left the bar. If they were going to work on this case together, it was better that Danny knew from the start who was in charge. Harry recalled, for a minute, the young man’s discomfort when he’d asked him whether, if they were going to be working together, he planned breaking into his office to steal things again.

Danny had been suitably embarrassed, but he’d come back, quickly enough: “That was a mistake, Harry … but I just wasn’t sure what you were going to do next with the medals. I knew you must have picked up my notebook at the library, and I couldn’t be sure at that stage that you were on side” Harry had decided, there and then, that Danny had probably been right - he’d have done much the same, in the circumstances.

“OK, Danny,” he’d said. “Let’s just make sure there are no more secrets if we’re on this case together.”

Now, Harry had a couple of calls to make. He picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers, listening as the call rang out. A few seconds later, an answerphone clicked in.

“Julian? It’s Harry here. I wonder if you could do me a favour? I’m looking for a James and Amelia McFry in Bridgnorth in 1881. I can’t find them on Ancestry, but I wonder if you could check them on the microfiche down at the library. Get back to me if you can.” Julian lived in Devon, far away from any of the established McFry families; if Danny was right, the microfiche copies of the 1881 index held by his reference library would not have been doctored.

Next, he rang Stan Redfearn. “Any news on the medals, Stan?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact I’ve got somebody coming in to see them this morning. Why don’t you come over around eleven, and you can meet him?” Harry agreed he would.