Death be Not Proud (6 page)

I frowned, flipping back to my childhood and a lanky, unprepossessing youth in his early twenties. “Yes – sort of; he was your first boyfriend, wasn't he?”

“He was – until I brought him home that Easter.”

I looked blankly at her.

“You haven't a clue, have you?”

I shook my head.

“All he could talk about was you, Em – you and your long, perfect hair. Pre-Raphaelite red, he called it.”

I vaguely recollected he had been an art student who
hadn't stayed around for long, which explained why he hadn't made a lasting impression on me.

“But I was only about… twelve-ish, wasn't I?”

“
Pre
-cisely.”

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again, stumped. Alex rolled into Flora on purpose, making her squeal, before using her legs in their candy-striped tights as a runway for his model aeroplane. It soared over her head and she walloped him with her Barbie, its flimsy skirts flying as they broke into a tussle. I watched them, anxious to be sidetracked, waiting for the simmering tension that had sprung up between us to cool.

“I didn't know, Beth – I'm sorry. But you've forgotten what it was like at school. I had years and
years
of the pointing and the whispering and ‘
ginger
nut' or ‘
ginger
pixie' and ‘
parkin
', and forever trying not to stand out as being different.”

“At least you weren't
inconspicuous
,” she twisted the word. “At least you were noticed. Not packed off to boarding school like me because I wasn't the clever one – the
scholar
.”

Beth's normally gentle expression had been replaced by a mask of sourness in no more than a moment. I stared at her, open-mouthed.

“
What?
”

“Well, you
were
a scholar, weren't you?” she scowled defiantly. Archie grizzled, rubbing his eyes.

“Yes, but so what? You went to boarding school because Dad was always being posted and you had to keep changing schools. They wanted some stability for you.”

“Yes? You think? And how come you got to stay at home with Mum?”

“But… but that was years later, and I never saw Dad because of it. It had nothing to do with being a scholar, or anything.”

“Emma, you were
always
Dad's little star. He didn't bother about what
I
wanted to do. I could've made a living on my back and he wouldn't have cared. But you –
you
had to be the best – nothing was too good for you. He wouldn't have had you working in a shop. And now you've got them running around after you again, just like the old days. All I've heard about for the last month is ‘
Emma this, Emma that
.'”

Her mouth screwed. Stunned by her attack, I went on the offensive, my face flaring in anger and hurt. “That's not true, Beth. You were always closer to him; he understood you, and at least you had a father when you were growing up. I only saw him when he came home on leave, and even then he was always tired and grumpy. All he wanted to know was what my end-of-term reports were like and what my predicted grades were. I don't ever remember him asking if I was
happy.
” I fumed, years of bottled-up resentment spilling from me. “By the time he retired and he came home for good, all I had from him was pressure and flak. Do you have any idea of what it was like at home after you left? I dreaded coming downstairs in the morning because of the questions, the criticism, the constant barrage of… of
rubbish
.”

More hurt lurked behind my words than I would have thought possible, and it ambushed me as it poured out, my voice rising. Archie jumped, startled, and gazed at me, his round head wobbling uncertainly. Beth snatched him from me, and he wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck. She glared at me over his head. The twins stopped fighting and untangled their arms and legs, sitting up and staring open-mouthed at us, Barbie suspended in mid-attack.

“Oh yeah, you poor thing, and look at you
now
,” she spat, sarcastically.

“Mummy…” Alex pulled at her arm anxiously.

“What's that supposed to mean?” I demanded, half off the sofa, nails biting into the palms of my hands. Flora's mouth hung open, her eyes wide.

“Who's a Cambridge professor…?”

“Doctor,” I muttered, seething.

“
Doctor
,” she ground the word with her teeth. “And who has the career; who gets to travel – who lives in
America
, for God's sake?”

“Don't blaspheme,” I snapped automatically.

She ignored me. “And who has a
life
outside all of…
this
…” and she flung her arm out, taking in her entire world with one sweep of her hand.

I looked at the shocked faces of her children, at the plethora of normality in the furnishings, the toys – the wonderful, sublime, utter ordinariness of it all – and I knew what I was missing.

“And who's holding her baby?” I pointed out, my voice suddenly quiet. “And has a husband, and a home and… and
amazing
children? What do I have? What can I honestly say I've given to this world, other than a lot of grief, from what you've said? Where has all this come from, Beth? What happened to you?”

Beth calmed down. “
You
happened. It's not your fault, Em, but I never felt I could compete with you.”

I looked at her swiftly as she echoed my own thoughts.

“So – you're jealous of me because of… what? You want some of this?” I held my damaged arms out to her. “You want to have been stalked and mauled by a psychopath, or pursued by a self-pitying drunk? Or perhaps you'd like to swap places and have a relationship that probably isn't happening and, even if it is,
shouldn't
. I mean, with which one would you like to spice up your life a bit, because I sure as hell would like a
little bit of what
you've
got.”

I shoved a strand of hair out of my eyes, scowling at my big sister, as she returned the look.

“Don't be such a flippin' drama queen, Em.”

I would have retaliated but the door flung open, the handle hitting the wall with a
thud
as Rob came in, his face furious.

“I can hear you in the shop, for pity's sake. What do you think you're doing?” He took in his wife's flushed face and my blazing eyes. “I don't know what your problem is, the pair of you, but
get over it
,” he hissed. “Kids…” He held out a hand to the twins and they went to him without a word. He scooped Archie into his free arm and turned his back on us, following the two older children out of the room.

“Golly,” Beth said.

“
Heck
,” I echoed.

We looked at each other, and I saw for the first time in years the similarities between us, not the differences.

“Do you think he'll forgive me for that?” I ventured.

“I'm the one who has to live with him,” Beth said and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. I burst out laughing, pent-up tension and relief flowing as one unstoppable tide, and she honked back a laugh, another then another rising from her until she too became engulfed, and we fell against each other sobbing intense, wrenching laughter that was an amalgam of joy and grief.

“He has a point, though,” I said, catching my breath.

“He's useful for something, then,” Beth heaved out. “Does that mean we have to have therapy or something?”

“Oh, definitely
something
. I know a simply fantastic doctor.”

The irony of it set me off again. This time Beth didn't join in, but sat back and looked at me with the same curious
expression she had employed earlier. I sobered, swallowing the convulsions until I was in control once more.

“What?”

“Would that be the same doctor Mum mentioned – the one in the States?”

Instantly on my guard, I said, “Might be; depends what she said about him.”

“She said there's something between you – or there was. Did something happen? Did he hurt you? Dad said…”

My short, guttural laugh had her blenching from me. I unfolded myself from the sofa as I stood up. Beth put a hand on my arm, looking up at me.

“Emma, Rob's right, we've got to sort ourselves out. We were good friends once, weren't we – before I left home? If there's something I can do –
anything
– please let me help. If this man did something…”

I put my hand on hers and patted it in just the same way our mother would.

“Thanks, and you're right – Rob's right – we've things to sort out, but
he's
not one of them. He's all mine to deal with.”
One way, or another,
I thought. “We'll get together, won't we, over the next few weeks?” I offered.

She stood up and put her arms right around me, and there was real warmth in her gesture, which I returned with more feeling than I thought possible, given the years of unspoken acrimony between us. It was at this juncture that Rob returned, and he surveyed us with his hands on his hips.

“I didn't know what I would find, but a cessation of hostilities wasn't expected. But it's good; I'm not complaining. Would you now like to reassure your progeny, Beth – and your niece and nephews, Emma – that all is well? All
is
well, I take it?”

“Very well,” we chimed.

He managed a smile. “Emma, stay for lunch, will you? Don't abandon me to suffer Beth's résumé of what just went on between the two of you for the next couple of hours.”

“I would love to, but I have things to do.”

Beth put her arm around my waist. “Won't they wait?”

I shook my head regretfully. “No – not any longer. Let me say goodbye to the children; I don't want them remembering me for the wrong reasons.”

It didn't take long for the twins to lose their caution, and I extricated myself before I was hugged to death. Archie was another matter; he swung his head around and buried it in his father's chest, fingers firmly in his mouth. Rob put a reassuring hand on his back.

“He's tired and he's at that age where all strangers are anathema; don't worry about it, Em.”

I kissed the back of the baby's head through the tousled soft fluff. He had a warm, clean baby smell – utterly enticing, totally memorable – and it stayed with me long after I left the shop and made my way towards the museum and my search for some answers.

The air felt degrees less cold as I walked down Broad Street, a cardboard cup of milky coffee in one hand, an almond croissant in the other. I caught sight of my reflection in the windows of the shops on the sunless side of the street where the shadows made a mirror of the glass. Hollow-cheeked and hollow-eyed, I looked half-alive, except for the dark purpose burning in the black depths of my eyes.

The crowds of early morning shoppers had eased. Now was the best time to search the museum records, before parents and children descended on it with an idle hour to spare before tea, and bath, and bed.

I stuffed the last of the pastry into my mouth, and drained the cup, caffeine tearing through my bloodstream, sending my heart thumping erratically as it tried to keep up with the excessive amounts of unaccustomed stimulant. Within moments, the world became sharper, brighter and, as the door to the museum opened, expelling an occupant, for the briefest second, Staahl's dead, grey eyes looked at me from another man's body. But it wasn't Staahl, it couldn't be, and the man walked by – a stranger passing a stranger in the street – and no more. I blamed my jittery state squarely on the coffee and pushed through the door.

The hushed and darkened galleries of the tiny museum were devoid of life bar a subdued rustle from around the corner. A woman – not much older than I – struggled with a catch on a display case, clenching a sheaf of papers beneath her arm. She yelped as she nicked her finger, the papers slipping haphazardly towards the floor, and I rescued them as they fell. She succeeded in securing the lock on the glass case before turning to retrieve them from me.

“Thanks – I should've put them down first, but you know…”

She shrugged, surveying her finger. She was from somewhere in Wales – perhaps Cardiff – the soft lilt in her voice not yet diluted by the local accent. She exuded colour from the inside out, her rotund body encased in layers of brightly coloured clothes that clung to every curve. She smiled engagingly, deep dimples on her apple-blossom cheeks. I returned her smile and the papers.

“Yup, I know; we've all done it. My pleasure, anyway.”

As I handed them back to her, shuffling them in order, the top page caught my eye: a numbered printout in a mind-boggling small font.

“Is that an archival list?”

The young woman glanced down at the wad of paper. “Uh, yes – are you looking for something?”

It was just a chance. “I'm looking for anything on the Lynes family.”

“Lynes, Lynes.” She juggled with the name for a moment, then shook her head, her shoulder-length hair catching on the collar of purple-sequined embroidery; she pulled it free, the light glinting off the tiny metallic circles. She swam in a sea of colour, and not just her clothes, but her whole personality sparkled with it.

“It's not one I've heard of, love. Have you any more information – a date, first name, location, occupation – something I can cross-reference?”

I felt like an idiot, and I should have known better after all the research I had done.

“Matthew Lynes, possibly around 1900. Location – I'm not too sure, perhaps South Lincolnshire – Cambridge.” I waved my hands vaguely and the curator's eyes followed the path my cast made in the air. I hid it behind my back and she refocused on my face. Instead of looking impatient – which is what I think I would have done – she looked faintly bemused.

“I'll do a search and see what'll come up on that.
Lynes
, mmm…” she mused. “It might take some time; have you got a mo?”

“Ye-es, I have, but I didn't expect you to do this immediately…”

“No problem, love; I'm done here and it's better than filing this lot…” she brandished the papers, wafting warm air towards me, “… or fiddling about with the Neolithic case; those burins and scrapers are so tricky. Follow me, I'll just get a plaster first, if you don't mind.” She cheerily led me past an image of Daniel Lambert looking smugly replete on the wall.

“Researching your family?” she enquired over her shoulder.

“No – this is work,” I said, evasively.

“Historian? Genealogist? We get a lot of those here.”

“Uh huh – historian.”

She led me down the stairs and along a corridor where one of the ceiling lights flickered intermittently like a moth's wings against a bare bulb.

“I wouldn't normally bring the public here – staff only, you see – but since you're professional, I reckon it's OK. Where do you come from?”

She shoved a door with her foot and held it open for me with her elbow.

“I'm from Stamford.”

“Are you? You don't sound it. Here… sit down; if we can't find anything, it's not on the web. We've got complete access to all the records available, you see. You're lucky to find anyone here now. I'm only on loan from Lincoln doing an audit of the collection before it's mothballed. The museum's on the hit-list, see; might get the axe.”

Neither of us commented; we didn't need to, the very thought of closing the museum abhorrent to both of us for different reasons. I remembered coming here with my grandfather countless times. Summer, winter, rain or snow – all those visits were warm in my memory.

She dumped the papers on a desk next to a computer monitor, and pulled the keyboard out from underneath a glossy museum periodical. “
Lynes
, did you say? L-i-n-e-s?”

“L-
y
-n-e-s,” I corrected.

Her fingers sped over the keyboard as I sat down next to her, searching the database. She sucked at her cut finger, regarding the monitor through narrowed eyes.

“Nothing for Stamford for that date. I'll widen the search. Hey, can you do this while I grab that plaster?”

She was out of her chair and across the room, hoicking a green First Aid box out of an overhead cupboard. I dragged the keyboard around in front of me and tapped in the next search parameter.

“No, nothing for South Kesteven either. I'll try Cambridgeshire next.”

It was a long shot and it, too, drew a blank.

“Fancy a tea, love?”

The sound of a plastic kettle being filled from a tap in
a tiny adjacent room the size of a cupboard, crammed the space for an instant, almost too loud in the small area.

“Thanks…” My eyes remained fixed on the screen. The curator gathered a couple of mugs from beside me, the remains of the last drinks clinging languidly to their interiors, the liquid slopping as she picked them up.

“Biscuit?” she asked.

“I have chocolate in my bag,” I offered.

I fished out a couple of Kit Kats without looking, tapping in another set of data with one finger. Water sloshed in the mugs in the sink and a faint scent of washing-up liquid drifted. The young woman returned and leaned over my shoulder while drying a mug.

“Try Northampton – they've just digitized their collection,” she suggested.

The screen hesitated, then coughed up a snazzy home page with interactive links. I scanned through them, opening page after page of irrelevant information.

“Nope, nothing there either. This is going to be a waste of time without any more information to go on.”

I scrabbled my hands through my hair, feeling my plait begin to unfurl, and becoming conscious for the first time of a slight numbness in my fingers. I disregarded it and pouted at the machine. It wouldn't have been so bad if I were working on my own, but I was all too aware of eating into someone else's time.

“Naw, love, there's plenty more where that came from.” She put a mug of steaming tea down next to me. “You're not supposed to drink in here, but we don't take any notice. No original documents to worry about, and if they're closing it down, what does it matter? Do you have an occupation to go on?”

“Thanks for the tea. Doctor – no, surgeon, but I don't know when he qualified – or where, for that matter.”

“Try the National Database for the Royal College of Surgeons – that's the most comprehensive.”

This was straying from my own territory; I wasn't as familiar with the sources for later archive material. She sat on the wheeled office chair, her ample frame spilling comfortably over the edges of the seat, and picked up the remaining Kit Kat, unwrapping it and slicing cleanly through the foil with a fingernail. Mine had already begun to melt in my fingers; I nibbled the chocolate, feeling it dissolve further in the warmth of my mouth.

“Mmm… not a bean,” I mumbled stickily. “Perhaps I should be widening the time frame. I'll try another thirty years.”

“Worth a try.”

The door opened behind us.

“Judy, there's someone at the front desk for you – said you were expecting them?”

“Yes, right love, I'd forgotten. You OK here?” she said to me, already standing. “Be back in two ticks. Biscuits in the tin by the kettle.”

I found no record of Matthew in any of the Surgeons' databases I searched; his name drew a blank wherever I looked. I found “Lynes” all right, some with an “i”, one or two with a “y”, but no one with his first name in Britain, and I began to think my hunch that he originated in England had been wrong all along. Which meant looking through the US databases. I groaned, but before I resigned myself to that inevitable route, I took one last long shot at the English records.

I went back in fifty-year chunks, typing in key words and scouring the records for each period from 1850 backwards for 200 years, covering the region from Cambridge through Rutland to Stamford. Again, nothing.

I pushed away from the desk abruptly, and leaned back in
the chair, rocking on the back legs, my cross between my lips as I wrestled with the problem facing me.

I knew that a Lynes family had lived in the region in the early seventeenth century – that had been confirmed by the reference to the name in the journal, and had jogged my memory when I first met Matthew. I knew that they held land there, and that one of them had been Nathaniel Richardson's master. But as Matthew had pointed out so evasively when I mentioned it to him, Lynes was not such an unusual name, and the chance that it might be the same family was remote beyond the realms of reasonableness. But then, there was nothing reasonable about my suppositions, so why let a little thing such as being reasonable stop me now?

I racked my memory for the name of the parish Richardson had come from. My grandfather had completed a great deal of background research on him, so it would have to be somewhere in the paperwork he left me all those years ago. This was the right time frame and the right region and the possibilities were narrowing all the time, but the parish eluded me. I would have to start from the only other reference point I had and work forwards.

“Blast this,” I muttered crossly, rolling the chair forward onto its front legs so it thumped on the thin commercial carpet, and whacked in: “Parish records, Cambridge, Rutland, Stamford, Lynes, 1550 to 1650.”

And there it was – the first reference to the Lynes lay in a series of names and dates in an obscure county record for Rutland.

“Of course! Twit!” I admonished myself out loud. Rutland was a small county, and the parish of Martinsthorpe had few occupants even then – no wonder it hadn't loomed large in my memory. I read down the list, looking for clues:

The records were incomplete – a footnote stated that information had been purposefully expunged, or damaged through flood or age.

I started with presuming that either Henry or William had been married to Margaret – and that represented a guess at this stage – and that the infant was their child and probably a victim of the very high mortality rates among newborns. Given the contemporaneous date of death, I thought it reasonable to suppose that the mother's death related to birth complications, possibly puerperal fever.

It was a start.

The expunged name posed more of a problem. The interesting question for me as a historian was
why
? The footnotes didn't amplify. If this was also a Lynes child, it might have been the older sibling by two years. Or someone completely unrelated. Whoever had researched the records, obviously believed there to be a relationship by the very proximity of the names they had transcribed. No date of death had been recorded, so presumably this person died in another parish, or was a suicide.

William Lynes died in the 1640s, so that wouldn't be so much of a problem to trace; perhaps William and Henry were related – brothers? Uncle and nephew? Cousins?

I homed in on the scanty parish records for Martinsthorpe, but came up with the same list of names. Margaret seemed to be related to the Fieldings who held a nearby manor at
that time, although her relationship to them wasn't clear; that might be another line to follow, but not now, not yet.

I heard voices in the corridor outside and checked my watch: 4.55 – the museum would be packing up for the night. I clicked on the “Print” button and hoped for the best. From somewhere beneath a mountain of unfiled papers, came the familiar
whirr
of a printer starting up. I zeroed in on the noise, retrieving the single sheet from the machine as Judy entered the room in a multicoloured wave of cloth, beaded tassels at the edge of her skirt jiggling as she swayed through the door.

“Sorry to have been so long. Any luck?”

I folded the page and put it in my bag.

“I have a lead of some sort; I don't know where it's going but it's more than I had when I came here. Thanks so much for your help and for giving me access to the database.” I kissed her on the cheek and she blushed.

“Not at all, love; it's what I'm here for, and glad I could help. I'll see you out and then I'm off to meet my husband; he's a historian as well. Funny lot you all are.” And she laughed happily.