Harry McFry is not stupid. Here's the extract from the document he found in the medal box that he tried to translate via Babelfish. If you can do better, and make more sense of it than Harry, then you'd better let him know. And the sooner, the better, as far as Laurel McFry's fate is concerned.
Kind regards
THJnr
By the time the fax machine had stopped printing in the corner of his office, Harry had assembled a selection of birth, marriage and death certificates that he thought might help Danny and him unravel the mystery of Laurel McFry’s parentage and – more particularly – that of her mother, Colleen Blyth. It suddenly seemed to Harry, however, that the thought had been midwife to a stillbirth.
He’d sent Danny out for lunch, and his new colleague had told Harry he’d go home to collect his laptop, so they could work alongside each other in the afternoon. While Danny was out, Harry poured himself a whisky and savoured its brackish flavour.
He’d rung Stan Redfearn, who gave him the number for McAllistair’s dealer, one Cyril Galloway. “Say, Harry,” Stan had said, “you got a problem with Colin McAllistair?” Harry was careful how he’d replied. “Not a problem, Stan. It’s just I’ve seen his type before. I’d rather deal with the organ grinder than the monkey.” Stan seemed to accept this, and they’d rung off with Harry promising him he’d let him know how much he got for the medals, when he sold them. “Don’t forget your old pal Stan, Harry!” he’d exclaimed. Harry had reassured him he wouldn’t.
Harry had found Cyril Galloway easily enough on Google, and saw that the telephone number tallied with that of an auction house in Telford where
Whoever this Cyril Galloway was, there was a chance he was key to part of the mystery they were working on. He’d turned to look again at the paper he’d pulled from the medal box. It was in Spanish, alright, and he’d cursed himself for not having learnt the language. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had the opportunity. He’d traveled too and fro between
Typing them in as best he could, he’d pressed the ‘translate’ button and waited to see what the programme made of them. As he’d read the result, his heart had sunk: ‘…and the foregoing shall revert at all opportunity to the daughter, before the son shall take it. If it shall proof that no-one succeeds it will go then to another…’. It sounded like a will of some sort, Harry thought. But Babelfish was useless - he needed a fluent Spanish speaker, he’d thought. And he only knew one of those.
By the time Danny had returned with his laptop, the fax machine had stopped spewing out the results of their earlier researches.
“Still raining out there, Danny?” Harry asked, as Danny set the laptop up on the desk beside Harry’s PC.
“’Fraid so, Harry,” Danny had said, turning to hang his jacket on the peg over Harry’s coat.
“Here we are, then,” Harry said, pleased that Linda had been able to get the results to him so quickly. He presented the young man with a sheaf of papers. He’d make sure he paid her extra for this one, he thought; another mental sticky note: ‘Take Linda out for a meal sometime.’ “Now we can really start to put
As the two of them began trying to make sense of the birth, marriage and death certificates in front of them, though, it became clear that Harry’s optimism was misplaced.
Stan Redfearn wondered what was eating into Harry, when he seemed to cut the discussion with Colin short, with a curt: “Well, thank you for your information, Mr McAllistair, but I think I’ll hold onto these medals a while longer,” and he’d scooped the medals off Colin’s lap and stuffed them into his pocket. McAllistair had seemed genuinely surprised: “The valuation I suggested can only be a provisional one, Mr McFry. Unless you have a competent dealer look at them, you won’t know their true worth.” Colin had waited for Harry’s response, but when there was none, he went on: “Perhaps you could give me your number, and I could ring you when you’ve had time to think about it?”
“Sure,” Harry had said, and he’d scrawled his office number on a piece of paper he took from Stan’s counter. “I’m sorry we can’t talk longer, but Danny and I have some business to attend to.” Danny had caught the cue, and stood up just as Harry did, and they’d both bid McAllistair goodbye.
As Stan rose, too, to let them out, he tapped Harry on the arm as they stood by the door. “What’s wrong, Harry? That’s a good price. More than I thought they’d fetch.” His voice was low, so McAllistair wouldn’t hear him.
“Do me a favour, Stan,” Harry had said, equally quietly. “Get me the name of that ‘competent dealer’ he mentioned: but don’t let him know I want to know.”
Stan had smiled as he let them out. So Harry did want to sell the medals after all … but he just didn’t want McAllistair to know. Well, that was Harry’s business. He was a deep one alright, that Harry McFry.
Stan had returned to the counter where Colin had collected his folder and was sat down again, waiting for Stan to return.
“He’s a bit of a strange one, your Harry McFry, isn’t he?” he’d asked Stan, but in a friendly enough way.
“He’s an enigma, wrapped in a riddle, enveloped in a mystery,” Stan had replied, enjoying the pleasure of quoting Churchill’s description of the
Colin had seen the opportunity, and seized it. “Of course. Tell him to ring Cyril. Cyril Galloway. Here’s his number. Between you and me, Stan, it was Mr Galloway who helped Jonathan Harcourt sell his medals all those years ago. He’s got connections in
Back in his office, Harry hung up his hat and coat, digging the medals from his pocket as he did so, and took up position in front of his computer. Danny pulled a seat up beside him.
“Hey, Harry – what was all that about, back there?” Danny asked.
“Let’s just say our Mr McAllistair knows more about these medals than he’s saying,” Harry replied. He pulled open the drawer where he’d put the box the medals had been in, and fished it out.
“I don’t get it. Why would he hold anything back? He’s obviously interested in them. What does he know that he didn’t tell us?”
Harry was beginning to wonder whether Danny was as smart as he’d thought. Still, it was a good feeling, having an apprentice. Maybe, when all this was over, Danny would sit back and appreciate just how lucky he was to be apprenticed to Harry McFry.
“What’s this, Danny?” he said, holding the cardboard box in his hand, and looking at it.
“It’s the box, Harry. The box the medals were in. Lillian McFry gave it to me. So what?”
“So how come Colin McAllistair knew about it?” Harry asked, reaching into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. He saw Danny grimace as he pulled one out, tap it against the desk, and light it.
“Say, Mr Longhurst – have you got a problem with my smoking?”
Danny didn’t know what to say. Yes! He did have a problem, actually. He hated cigarettes. His mother and father had smoked when he was younger – but they didn’t now. They’d had the sense to stop. It seemed like Harry didn’t have that same sense.
“No … I mean … it’s not very pleasant. Not for your clients, Harry … coming in here. Do you think
Harry took a deep drag on the cigarette. “I’m not the only genealogical private eye in the country, Danny,” he said. “If my clients don’t like it, they know what they can do.”
Well, it was a view, Danny thought.
“There are worse things in life than tobacco,” Harry said. “Like duplicity. Now that’s something you wouldn’t want to get addicted to.”
Danny considered the comment. Harry was right, of course. “So you’re saying Colin McAllistair wasn’t telling us the truth?”
“Oh, he told us the truth, alright. In fact, he showed more of his cards than he realized.” Harry looked at Danny, but saw he’d lost the train of discussion he’d started earlier, side-tracked by his smoking a cigarette.
“Think, Danny – think! How come McAllistair knew about this box?”
Suddenly, Danny saw what Harry was getting at. “OK – I see what you mean. But what was all that about a certificate?”
Harry lifted open the lid of the cardboard box in front of them.
“I think we’ll find something here that Mr McAllistair wants even more than the medals, Danny,” and as he said it, he pushed aside the tissue paper in the box, revealing a folded piece of dog-eared paper.
“What’s that, Harry?” Danny asked.
“I’m not entirely sure, Danny. But I don’t think it’s a certificate.”
As he unfolded it, Harry realized that, within a day or two, he might be meeting up with Ana for the first time in longer than he sometimes cared to think.
Harry and Danny made their way diagonally across
Harry and Danny had found the door to the shop locked, and had waited while Stan came to open it. “Don’t say anything, Danny – leave this to me,” Harry said. Danny hid his relief at this instruction well enough.
“Come in, Harry, come in!” Stan said, his smile saying ‘I’ve got some good news for you’. “Who’s your sidekick?” Harry introduced Danny as his assistant, working on a case at the moment. “Nothing to do with the medals, Stan,” he said, even as he noticed the middle-aged man near the counter rising from his seat.
Stan made the introductions. Colin McAllistair seemed to look at Harry as if he knew him from somewhere. Harry had already worked out that he’d come across McAllistair before, about 8 years BG, he thought. Probably at a conference somewhere. He remembered he was something of an expert on the Spanish Civil War. Stan had done well to draft him in, he was thinking, as the shop owner collected a couple of chairs from his back room and brought them through.
“Harry McFry – I seem to know that name from somewhere. What’s your line of work, Mr McFry?” Colin asked, his soft Scots accent making the most of ‘McFry’. Harry was circumspect.
“Danny and I are private investigators, Mr McAllistair. How about yourself?” If Colin McAllistair couldn’t remember meeting him, Harry didn’t see any sense in disabusing him.
“Oh, I’m a jobbing historian. Inter-war European stuff, but a particular interest in the Spanish Civil War.” Harry congratulated himself on his memory: ‘All cylinders firing well, Harry’, he told himself. “And where do you ply your trade, Mr McAllistair?” Harry posed the question in a friendly way, unbuttoning his overcoat and laying his hat on the floor beside his chair.
“I was at
There was a short silence until Colin realized Harry wasn’t going to be offering any congratulations on his achievements.
“Well now, Mr McFry. I believe you want to know a little more about your medals?” McAllistair turned to pick up the velvet pad with the medals on, and laid them on his lap. “Tell me, how did you come about them?”
“They were my uncle’s. We found them when we were clearing his house after he died,” Harry said. Stan, sitting watching the discussion, still didn’t believe Harry’s story about the dead uncle – perhaps he’d known Harry too long, could read him better – but he noticed that McAllistair was ready to accept it.
“So often the case, I’m afraid,” McAllistair said, nevertheless wondering who Harry’s uncle might be, and why he would have Lillian Blyth’s medals. “And what do you know about them?”
“Only what Stan told me. Quite rare. Issued during the Spanish Civil War to someone who did something very meritorious. Nothing else I’m afraid.” As he said this, he realized McAllistair may actually know who the medals were issued to, if they were as rare as Stan had said. He’d better cover himself some more. “I don’t know that my uncle fought in
McAllistair seemed to be considering what Harry had just said. Danny, meanwhile, wondered if Harry was protesting too much.
“When did your uncle die, Mr McFry?” Colin asked, looking Harry full square as he did so.
Quickly, Harry was thinking how best to respond. “Just a couple of weeks ago.” Too late, Harry was realizing McAllistair was luring him somewhere he didn’t want to go.
“And how old was he?” The softness of the Scots brogue masked what might have been a stiletto knife of a question. Harry did a quick mental calculation. To have fought in
“Very sad, very sad. I wonder, Mr McFry, whether your uncle ever mentioned a Lillian Blyth?” The question hung on the air, Danny anxious, all of sudden, that Harry might be out of his depth.
“I’m afraid not, Mr McAllistair. I don’t know the name. Should I?”
Only Stan seemed not quite up to speed with the discussion, like a novice poker player pitched into a high stakes game.
“What I can tell you is that each of these medals was issued to Lillian Blyth. I never had the pleasure of meeting Mrs Blyth, but I did meet her lover.” McAllistair paused. “His name was Jonathan Harcourt.” At least Harry could play the truth card now: “I’m sorry to say I don’t know that name, either. I’m at a loss to know how my uncle came by these medals, unless he bought them somewhere.”
“Jonathan Harcourt was a left-wing journalist before the war. He was sent to cover the Spanish elections that took place just before the civil war started,” McAllistair said (wondering, even as he said it, whether Harry already knew this). “He died sometime after 1975, which was when I interviewed him as part of my research for my thesis on the war. He had an identical set of medals to these, issued by the Republican Government in Exile sometime shortly after the end of the Second World War. Mr Harcourt sold his medals for what was a considerable sum in those days, Mr McFry, and I have no doubt that this set you have here is no less valuable. In fact, probably more. I’m afraid I know next to nothing about Lillian Blyth, except what Jonathan Harcourt told me”. McAllistair picked up the largest of the medals and flipped it over. “There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that these are her medals. How your uncle came by them is another story, and probably not important.”
Harry considered the information McAllistair had just shared with them. “So they’re worth … ?” he said, letting the question hang.
“I cannot be certain, exactly, but I could arrange to have them valued for you. Probably in excess of £30,000. You see, they’re of international importance. The Spanish Government would love to have these in one of it’s collections, I am sure.” McAllistair seemed to be wanting to ask something else of Harry. “I wonder, Mr McFry, whether there was anything else with the medals?” His approach seemed tentative, Harry noticed, as if he knew something he didn’t want to give away.
“What do you mean?” Harry said, genuinely puzzled at McAllistair’s question.
“Well, we might expect a certificate of some kind, awarded at the same time as the medals. Perhaps it was in the box?”
Harry knew, then, that his instinctive mistrust of McAllistair had been right.
Harry returned from the ‘bank’ in a good mood. He found Danny, still hard at work, jotting down references for the certificates they needed.
“Anyone call?” he asked, not bothering to take his hat and coat off as he sat on the chair opposite Danny, who was in front of the old IBM. Harry thought he looked at home there.
“Yeah – a ‘Julian’ called. Said he’d found the record you looking were for. Said there was no need to ring him back, unless you need to.”
It looked as if young Danny Longhurst had been right, then. ‘Only’ the census data held by the major genealogical research companies, plus a limited number of microfiche copies, had been altered.
“How’s it going, kid?” Danny shot a glance at Harry that said ‘Careful!’, but he’d already decided he’d have to accept it if Harry occasionally lapsed into familiarity. It seemed to be just how Harry worked.
“Last one,” he said, looking back at the PC screen and scratching another reference on his notepad.
“I still don’t see how we’re going to get these certificates in less than a week – unless you’re planning to camp out down at the Family Records Centre in
“I’ve got my sources, Danny. Someday I’ll let you know all about them. But now isn’t the right time. Just give me the list.”
Danny handed him the sheet of references, as Harry picked up the phone. He watched as Harry punched the numbers in, but all he caught were the first five digits: ‘01704’ – enough to know he was dialing Southport, and enough for him to work out that Harry had a fast-track to ordering certificates.
“It’s George,” Harry said – obviously a code, Danny realized, as Harry proceeded to reel off the reference numbers. You had to admire the guy! However he’d done it, Harry had got an insider at the GRO. How much was that worth, he wondered?
As soon as he’d read out the references, Harry hung up. No small-talk, Danny noticed – just a plain, business arrangement.
Harry stood up. “Time we went to see Stan, Danny. Get your coat,” he said, as he made towards the door. “We’ll take the back way out,” he said, “it’s quicker.”
*
Let me take you to
Philippe Bergerac is an old man. Fifteen years younger than Lillian, but 87 is still quite an age, by anyone’s standard. I’d be happy to reach it. Maybe you already have, in which case you will know it can bring its fair share of problems. He doesn’t remember things like he used to – it’s a problem that comes to us all. But you might remember that Lillian had a letter from him.
He doesn’t work anymore (and we shouldn’t be surprised at that), but when he did he was a fisherman, a survivor of the wild waters of the
It was a rare day when he didn’t think about the beautiful Englishwoman, and her baby, and the dark, storm-tossed seas on which their boat was cast. He had been trawling that night, his knuckles frozen against the heavy north winds that had whipped the bay into a frenzy of waves and spume. If it seemed a lifetime ago, he knew it was. At first, he hadn’t seen the tiny boat, thrown against the horizon, but then – amazingly – he’d caught sight of it and turned to his brother who was at the wheel of their boat, pointing his frozen finger at the top of a huge wave that seemed about to envelope the tiny boat he could see. The Basques are renowned for their seamanship, or the story you are reading may well have taken a different course. Only five minutes passed, (even if, to Lillian - who saw the lights of the fishing boat as it turned toward her - it seemed like hours) before they were beside her, reaching across to grab the infant she held out to them. To Philippe, unmarried, childless fisherman that he was, it seemed a miracle to be holding this tiny thing in his arms, and then to be passing it to another crew member, before grasping Lillian’s hand, and pulling her aboard their boat. And then there was the man, who had to be hauled aboard, too, his grip forceful but, somehow, grateful at the same time.
Safe within the bowels of the fishing boat, surrounded by crates of the hake they’d caught that night, Philippe learned their story.
As Cyril Galloway made his way through the
Their relationship went back a long way. It was disheartening to think
He put the idea to Cyril Galloway, and it was soon agreed that the two would split the difference between the ‘real’ value of the item and the (much lower) estimate that
Over time, their ‘business’ increased, so that Galloway and Lawrence were, between them, netting a fair deal of money each year from their arrangement.
It had been a pity,
And when, out of the blue, he had received an invitation to view a set of medals from a little old lady in the town, even though it had been many years since he had dealt with Dacre Lawrence, it had seemed, somehow, ‘natural’ to think of a reversal of roles. This time, it would be Dr Lawrence who could step in with a better offer.
There was no doubt whatsoever that the medals were valuable. Fate had worked in fickle ways many times in Cyril Galloway’s life, but never quite so felicitously as to ensure that he would be the only auctioneer to see two sets of identical medals, even though they were a quarter of a century and 175 miles apart. But this time, there was more at stake than the medals, and it irked him that Dacre Lawrence might think he had been double-crossed. They needed each other for an operation like this. It was hardly his fault if Lillian McFry had already disposed of the medals. And shouldn’t
As he passed through one village, then another, the sky was darkening, until spits of rain started to fall. He could see the dark clouds over the Wirral peninsula as he switched his windscreen wipers to flick across. He could hardly believe his luck, of course. Much, much more than the value of the medals might be at stake. And fortunately, he had Mr Colin McAllistair ’working’ for him, now. Perhaps he would put a call in to Dacre once he’d met up with McAllistair? It might cheer the good doctor up, at least. He was starting to feel just a little peckish. Not long till lunch, now.
“So when did Thomas McFry die, Danny?” Harry asked, looking him square in the face. Danny shuffled through his notes. “Err… 1970 – no… that is 1964… I mean, we don’t really know. We’ll have to check it.”
Harry was pleased Danny had at least spotted the discrepancy in the years
“OK – here’s the plan. We’ve got about twenty minutes before we’re due across at Stan’s shop. We’re going to draft up a list of all the certificates we need. With a bit of luck we’ll have all the information want by the end of the day.”
Danny looked incredulous. “It’s taking at least a week to get certificates through just now, Harry. You must know that.” Ordering certificates from the General Records Office at
But Danny didn’t know Harry. The pressure all these new enquiries had put on the GRO had led them to draft in extra staff to cope with the demand, Harry knew. A problem to one person was someone else’s opportunity and this, for Harry, had been an opportunity he didn’t want to miss. He’d hung around the staff exit at the
And so it was that Harry came to have his own mole in the GRO – his own ‘Deep Throat’. Now, whenever he needed a certificate he’d simply ring through to Linda and whatever he wanted would be on his fax in a couple of hours. At £20 a certificate, it was useful, extra money for Linda, paid direct by Harry into her bank account. And for Harry, it was time saved, and time was money in the world of genealogical investigation.
He wasn’t about to reveal all this to Danny, of course. It would be a while before he could trust him with a source like that. “Don’t worry about the how, Danny. Let’s just get started on the list of what we need.”
He pushed the mouse next to the computer on his desk, and the screensaver vanished. In seconds, he was opening up the Births, Marriages and Death indexes on Ancestry. “Now – where should we start?” he said.
*
Laurel McFry left Meldew Buildings and walked for a while through the drizzling rain, until she found a seat in the corner of
It seemed an odd thing to have to do, disrespectful even, to sever her ties with the family firm. Her five per cent holding didn’t give her any real influence over the company, she knew, but those shares were a tangible link to her past. To her father, and to all the McFry’s who had built the company up. But Mr Attwood had made the situation clear. Despite the drizzle, she pulled out a sheet of paper he’d given her before she left their meeting yesterday. The figures on it told a sorry story, no matter how many times she looked at them. If she sold the shares today, the cash generated would be just a third of what would have been realized if she’d done the same this time last year. Laurel McFry wasn’t a gambler, but she did wonder about the consequences of holding onto the shares. They might slide still further, which would be calamitous. Or then again, they could just as easily reverse direction. If Harry was right, and there was a connection between the shares and her missing family, then the sooner he solved the mystery, the sooner the value might start to climb. Suddenly, she saw that Harry’s fees might have proven to be the best investment she had ever made. Provided, of course, he was as good as everyone said he was.
*
Harry deputed Danny to continue the task of noting down the reference numbers they would need to ‘order’ the certificates, saying he would be going out for a few minutes as he needed to get Laurel’s cheque into the bank. Harry dragged on his coat and pulled on his hat, stopping at the office door only to say: “If there are any calls, just take a message. And if anyone asks for
“Don’t worry, Danny, I’ll tell you all about
Taking the fire escape route out of Meldew Buildings, Harry emerged at the side of the building, checking that there was no-one he knew. As he emerged onto
Harry McFry’s natural suspicion was usually masked pretty well behind an affable demeanour. If he didn’t always take people as he found them, it was because he knew, well enough, how easy it was to hide his own essential character traits from others. But it made him, on the whole, a good judge of people. Listening, now, to
With Danny out of the room, Harry fixed a stare at
“OK, Laurel. I think we’ve got the picture. And I’m starting to think this whole ‘missing family’ business is more serious for you than you might imagine.” He waited for her reaction.
“I know it must be serious, Harry. That’s why I called you in.”
“Then it’s time we discussed my terms. As I said, I want to work with Danny on this one. He’s a good kid. Smart. He knows things about computers you and I wouldn’t even guess. That OK with you?”
Harry outlined his daily rate for Danny and himself, capped in the first instance at two weeks, to be renegotiated at that point. Reasonable travel and accommodation costs for the two of them. An interim report at the end of week one. And a pool of cash for buying certificates at a rate of £30 each.
Harry studied her. She was clearly careful with her money. “It may seem high to you, Laurel, but I’ve got connections. I get the certificates I want, and I get them fast. It doesn’t pay to hang around in a case like this.”
Harry noticed the outline of Danny Longhurst through the frosted glass of his door. He lowered his voice a little.
“Oh, and
That was an easy pledge to make, for Harry – there was nothing on his books that couldn’t wait an extra couple of weeks. “Sure. I wouldn’t think of anything else,” he said.
“So, we’ll be in touch in a week,
Danny filled the coffee machine, wondering what arrangements Harry had negotiated with
“Of course,”
“Oh, and
*
Not three hundred yards from Harry’s office, Colin McAllistair and Stan were still studying the medals.
“How much do you know about the Spanish Civil War, Stan?” Colin asked in his soft Scots burr.
“I’ve just been re-reading ‘Homage to
Colin smiled. Complicated wasn’t the half of it. He’d once given a lecture on the role of the Basque nationalists in the civil war. Logically, they were supporters of the church, and rabidly anti-communist. Yet they found themselves in league with socialist and communist members of the Popular Front, fighting against the rebel nationalist forces. “Complicated isn’t the word, Stan,” he replied. “The whole affair made for some strange bedfellows. It might surprise you to know that these medals weren’t actually issued during the war itself. The date on the back refers to a battle that took place on the outskirts of
Stan looked confused. “Nothing unusual with that, is there?”
“Sorry, Stan. I should have been clearer. I meant the Second World War.”
Stan considered this a little. “So who actually issued them?”
“Thereby hangs a tale, Stan, thereby hangs a tale. But I can tell you that your initial assessment of them being of some value was not, in fact, correct. They have considerable value.”
Colin thought he caught Stan actually salivating. “Now, I need to know how you came by the medals.”
Stan considered for a moment. “They actually belong to an old friend of mine, Harry McFry. He’s going to be dropping by in a few minutes, so you can meet him. I know he’ll be happy that they’re worth something, anyway.”
Colin thought for a second. “Then it may well be best to leave the subject of their precise value until then. Perhaps, Stan,” he said, glancing again at the mugs in the corner, but hiding his distaste behind politeness, “I will have a cup of tea, after all.”
*
Danny noticed how much emptier the room seemed after Laurel McFry had left. He lifted the papers on his seat, and took his position over the desk from Harry.
“Do you mind me asking – what was that all about?” he said, an undertone of anger in his voice. They both knew what he’d meant.
“Danny, that was all about business. I’ve just negotiated our fees with
“It kinda depends on what it’s 50% of, Harry!” Danny was smiling, now, but when Harry outlined the amount, and said it was guaranteed for two weeks, his smile moved to a grin: “That’s good work, Harry! I never thought it would be so much.”
“Never undersell yourself, Danny. That’s…”
And here, Danny interjected: “Don’t tell me, don’t tell me. That’s the third rule of being a genealogical private eye.”
Harry looked at him. “That’s the fourth rule, Danny. I’ll tell you about number three some other time.”
If you’ve never been an in-patient in a hospital, you might not know precisely how it feels to wake up in a strange bed, in a strange room, surrounded by strange people and strange equipment. For an author, struggling to find the words to describe the sensation, it’s quite a blessing that few of his readers will have experienced it.
Small compensation that would be to Dr Dacre Lawrence who, for most of his forty years working as a general practitioner, had been blessed with reasonable health. Nevertheless good living, and fine wines, will take their toll (even if Harry McFry, with his thirty cigarettes and a bottle of bourbon a day, might protest otherwise). Add to that potent mixture a shock, and you might easily imagine you have the perfect recipe for a stroke.
Dacre Lawrence, so often a visitor of his patients in this same hospital, now found himself waking in one of its wards. His eye caught sight of a trolley beside his bed, and a nurse, rushing by. His mouth was dry – felt dusty, somehow. He tried to move from lying on his side, pushed vainly against the bed, but found he couldn’t move. Was he strapped in, he wondered? He tried to call out to the nurse, but was faintly surprised to find that he could make no sense of what he said. Did he just say ‘North!’? The young girl turned and came back to his bedside. “Try to rest some more, Mr Lawrence,” she said, slowly. He struggled against the sheets that seemed to pin him to the bed. “North!” he exclaimed again – but it didn’t make sense to him: his brain said ‘Nurse!” but his mouth couldn’t say it. Ye gods, but he was trapped in this bed. His mind was a funicular railway, heading towards words he could no longer pronounce. ‘You must know what I mean!’ he said. But all his cracked voice could say was “….no…mean!” The nurse was smiling at him. “You need to rest. Can you rest a while?” she said.
“Someone’s coming to visit you later. Try to rest just now.” It was as if he was watching a movie, sat at the back of the cinema; an onlooker, at a distance, unable to influence in any way the events around him. So this was what it felt like to have a stroke, he thought. He wondered what Herculean efforts would be needed for him to regain his speech, and movement … if he were ever to regain them at all.
*
Stan Redfearn was tidying his counter when he heard the bell above his shop doorway ring, and looked up to see a smartly dressed stranger. The Town Hall clock had just struck 10.30am, so Stan knew pretty much that he was looking at Colin McAllistair. He saw a dapper man, mid-to-late forties perhaps, with chiseled features and a fine head of brown hair. Stan greeted him: “Mr McAllistair, I presume?” Colin smiled, and held out his hand, which Stan shook, firmly.
“Excuse me just a second,” Stan said, as he walked across to the shop door and flipped the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, clicking the snub of the lock as he did so. Turning back to his visitor, he said: “I don’t think we want to be disturbed here, do we?” and smiled.
Colin had been looking around the shop, at the motley array of artifacts and war memorabilia. The shop dummies, in particular, seemed to command his attention. “Have you ever been to
“Please – call me Stan. Everyone else does. Yes! I was there about ten years ago, in fact. The museum is stunning.”
McAllistair looked at him: “And I’m Colin. I thought you must have been, when I saw your mannequins.” The alcazar was the castle in
“Can I offer you a tea or a coffee, Colin?” Stan said, easily. “No, thank you. I had a coffee over in
“You must have set off rather early this morning. Did you have a good trip?” Stan asked. Colin wondered how long this small-talk would go on. “Yes, perfectly good, thank you,” he said. “Now … I wonder if you might show me the medals?”
“Of course,” Stan replied, and disappeared into his room out back. Colin heard the deep clang of a safe door shutting, then Stan re-appeared, the medals laid out on a small, velvet cushion which he placed on the counter in front of them.
McAllistair looked closely at the three, shiny medals, a smile starting on his lips. He made to reach for one of them, saying: “You don’t mind…?”
“Be my guest – that’s why you’re here, after all,” Stan replied.
McAllistair then realized he hadn’t even taken off his raincoat, such had been his haste. He unbuttoned it and tossed it onto a chair, but placed a zipped, A4 case he was carrying on the counter, beside the medals. He picked up the largest medal and examined it closely: there could be no doubt about it, this set was identical to the one he had sold to
*
Back over at Harry’s office, the interrogation of Laurel McFry was continuing. Harry still felt there was something
“Do you mind me asking,
As he looked at the smartly-dressed woman in front of him, the phrase sounded out of context; but it might be an important piece of the jigsaw.
Harry looked at her afresh. “I suppose we’d have to put you down in the census as ‘Independent Means’ then?” He smiled, just a little, as he said it. Whenever he read those words, his mind conjured up images of dowager ladies living in large houses in the smarter parts of
“Do you know if anyone could threaten that money?” he asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean. The only ‘threat’ is when the stocks and shares don’t perform. And, if you must know, they aren’t doing especially well at the moment. I’ve been told to sell my shares in McFry & Sons.”
Harry looked surprised. He didn’t follow the stock market, but he knew enough about his company namesake to know they had always been a solid enough investment. “Who advised you to sell?” he asked.
“My bank manager. The bank looks after all my investments, you see. I saw him yesterday, and he told me I’d have to get my money out of the firm.”
Harry was wondering how significant this was. He was trained to be suspicious of co-incidences, though. Find a family in the census – any family – and if you saw another with the same name somewhere else in the pages around, it wasn’t usually a co-incidence. There was a high probability they would be related. His mind was whirring through the possibilities. What would cause the price of shares to plummet? Poor company performance: it was possible that McFry & Sons had misjudged the market for their fashion items this year. He wondered, idly, whether Laurel McFry dressed herself in McFry clothes. If she did, it looked to him like they should be doing well enough. Or maybe there’d been a lot of shares put on the market at once, causing a drop in the price. He didn’t know who the principal shareholders were, but he scrawled another mental post-it note to remind himself to find out.
Danny watched as Harry continued the 'discussion' with Laurel. He was doodling, idly, on his notepad, his mind sometimes drifting to the latest book he was researching. Harry seemed to be doing well enough in getting
Harry was still wondering about
“The shares in the company,” he said, “when did you inherit them?”
“Why, when my father died, of course,”
“Do you mind me asking how many shares you received?”
“No. I don’t know exactly, but I think it was something like 5% of the company,”
Harry mightn’t have liked co-incidences, but even as he was discussing the matter of
If Laurel McFry was a few minutes late for her meeting with Harry and Danny, she was able to use the time-honoured excuse of ‘finding a parking space’. There weren’t a whole lot of parking spaces close to Harry’s office, so to find one at all was a minor victory. As she walked into Harry’s office, she unbuttoned her overcoat, revealing an immaculate, black dress that was every inch as smart as the blue one she’d been wearing when she met Harry just a couple of days earlier. She hung her coat on a peg next to Harry’s, and took a seat next to Danny, nodding an acknowledgement to him. Harry noticed she had a black, A4 file on her lap as she curled into the seat.
“Well, then, Miss McFry,” Harry said, once she was seated, “seems like you’ve landed us with a puzzle alright.” He offered her a coffee, which she took, without milk. “Danny and I have spent quite a time wrestling with this one, I can tell you.” She noticed the implication, that the two of them were working together, but she was composed enough to reply “And what have you found?”
“Not a whole lot. But on the face of it, it does seem your McFry’s aren’t there.”
Harry was watching
“But you accept they should be?” she asked.
“There’s a suggestion – and that’s all it can be at this stage – that the original census images have been doctored. And we’ve got Danny here to thank for working that one out.”
Danny smiled. It was good to see Harry acknowledging his theory.
“It’s a relief, of some sorts, to know that I wasn’t going mad,”
“No one’s suggesting anyone’s mad,
Harry looked at Danny, who caught the cue. “Basically,
Harry chipped in: “And it’s not something someone would do on a whim. If we’re going to find out why, we’re going to need a lot more information from you – a whole lot more.”
Harry seemed to be consulting a mental checklist. “Motive. Our guess is there’s money behind all of this. Think. Who do you know who might want to go to such lengths, and why?”
“I really couldn’t say, Harry. Why would anyone do this?”
Harry was already getting a little impatient with his ‘cousin’. “You need to be just a little more frank with us, Laurel. We know next to nothing about Laurel McFry. But somebody else does.”
“That’s as maybe. But we still don’t know the ‘real’ Laurel McFry,” Harry said, taking a drink from his mug of coffee as he did so. “If you don’t mind, let’s start all over with your family tree.”
As he said this, Harry reached behind him for a sheet of A3 paper, and laid it on his desk.
‘Brilliant!’ thought Danny. Who would know that Harry was about to repeat an exercise he’d completed only a matter of ten minutes earlier?
“Father,” Harry said.
“Philip McFry. Born 1924. Died 2002.”
“And your mother?” Harry asked.
“Colleen Blyth. Born – I think – in 1938. All I know is she died aged 44, in 1982. I was seven.” Harry realized he had underestimated
Harry added Colleen to the new tree he was drawing. “It seems then, that your father must have been quite a bit older than your mother. How did they meet?”
“I really don’t know. They didn’t marry until 1970. I’m an only child,”
“Dad never really talked much about mum. I think he loved her very much, and it was just … too painful for him. I never felt … comfortable … asking him.”
“I realize none of this is easy,
Harry saw her eyes – bluer and deeper than he’d seen when he first met her - refocus on him.
“You see, Harry, I’ve never found a birth certificate for my mother. Here’s the marriage certificate.” She opened up the black, leather file she had on her lap, and drew out the copy of her mother and father’s marriage record, handing it to Harry.
Just as Danny had said, it gave Philip McFry’s father as James McFry, deceased clothing manufacturer, and Colleen Blyth’s father as ‘unknown’. Harry pretended this was new information (Danny noticed, and thought, not for the first time, that Harry should have been an actor), and made a note of it on his sheet.
“I know you were young at the time,
“We try not to make assumptions where family history is concerned,
“Yes. We have to start with what we know,” Danny said. Harry was pleased that Danny was on the same page.
“What about aunts and uncles, Laurel?” Harry asked. “Do you know whether your mother had any siblings?”
“If she did, she never spoke about them. I did have a look for other Blyths born around the same time as her. But I didn’t find any. In fact, I don’t think I have any aunts or uncles still alive, on either side of the family.”
“What about you father’s two brothers?” Harry asked.
It was the first time that
“Both dead before I was born. Stuart died in the war. Thomas, I found out from the death register, died in 1964.”
Harry added the information to the rudimentary tree he had been sketching out. A thought occurred to him. “Did you get the certificate, by any chance?”
“No,” Laurel said – realizing as she did so that she might just have made a fundamental error in not sending off for Thomas McFry’s death certificate. “McFry isn’t exactly a common name, Harry – I don’t have to tell you that, I am sure. When I found a death registered for a Thomas McFry, of the right age, I knew it must be him,” she said.
“Let’s not worry about that now. We can organize that pretty quickly,” Harry said, seeking to reassure her. No sense in making her feel more stupid than she already felt, he thought.
“OK. Let’s see where we are up to,” he said, checking his sketch. “Did you find any marriages for Stuart or Thomas?”
“I think Stuart married in 1938. I found probable marriage of a Stuart McFry to a Lorraine Beecham in that year. But he died in the war, and they had no children.
Harry considered this for a second or two. “And you’ve got the marriage certificate for Stuart and
“No.” To Harry, her answer seemed hesitant, reluctant even. “But I did find a Commonwealth War Graves Commission record which listed his wife as
