The Lost Soldier (5 page)

She read through the names again and wrote them in her notebook. Now at least, she thought, I know who all the trees are for. The names Davies and Cook caught her eye and she recognised them as the names of some of the village ladies who had made the refreshments for the rector’s welcome party. Were they the same families, or part of extended families? Two of Peter Davies’ great uncles were commemorated there, and even though, of course, Peter could not have known his uncles, as Cecily had known her brother, the direct link was there; an unbroken line of history in the village.

Wondering if there might be any further references to the Ashgrove in the subsequent weeks, Rachel decided to skim through the next few issues before photocopying the tree-planting article. What she found amazed her. In the edition of the
Chronicle
that came out two weeks later, Charlton Ambrose made the front page with the headline

PUBLIC OUTRAGE IN CHARLTON AMBROSE!

Clearly the work of the same reporter as before, Rachel thought with a smile as she began to read.

There was great public outcry in the village of Charlton Ambrose this week when it was noticed that the small plantation of ash trees dedicated to the glorious dead of the village has been desecrated. Someone, since the day of dedication a mere two weeks ago, has planted a ninth tree among the others. Also an ash tree and of similar size to the others, the extra tree went unnoticed at first. It is not known who might dare to perpetrate such an outrage! Sir George Hurst, whose idea the memorial Ashgrove was, and whose generosity made it possible, has no knowledge of whence the tree came. Though this ninth tree has not yet been uprooted, it is, according to many in the village, almost certainly only a matter of time before it is. When interviewed, Sir George said that he would be considering the matter. The rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley, said it was a decision entirely for Sir George, but added he was sure that no hasty decision would be taken in such a serious matter. Our reporter has spoken with all the families of those already commemorated for their sacrifice, and none of them has any idea where the tree came from, and most of them think it should be removed forthwith.

A ninth tree! Rachel stared at the article. Yes, of course, there are nine trees, she thought excitedly, I counted them yesterday.

She checked the names she had just written in her notebook; definitely only eight men commemorated by name. Sir George must have been persuaded to leave the ninth tree with the others, but who had planted it and to whom was it dedicated?

Rachel moved on to the next edition of the paper to see if there was any more about the trees, or mention of who the ninth was for. At first she could find nothing, but then in the paper several weeks on, she found a small paragraph tucked in a corner of an inside page.

THE ASHGROVE, CHARLTON AMBROSE

A small service was held on Charlton Ambrose village green on Wednesday, when the Reverend Henry Smalley dedicated a ninth tree in the Memorial Ashgrove to ‘The Unknown Soldier’. To the surprise of those concerned, Sir George Hurst has forbidden the uprooting of the tree. ‘We do not know who put it there, or for whom, but it is clearly in memory of a fallen soldier,’ he told our reporter. ‘He may be unknown but he gave his life as surely as did the others, and it would be wrong to remove the tree.’

Investigations have failed to uncover who planted the tree and for whom, but its formal dedication has now included it in the village memorial.

So, thought Rachel reading and re-reading the piece, the ninth tree was left and is still there with the others.

Fascinated by the affairs of Charlton Ambrose, Rachel continued to search the back numbers for 1921. She wanted to read more about Sir George Hurst. Cecily said he had died that same year, and Rachel was anxious to see if there was any mention of his death, and if there were, whether there was any more information about his daughter-in-law and her child. She found the squire’s death in the second week of September. There was formal notice of his death and also a short article about his life.

Sir George Hurst Bt died of pneumonia at his home, The Manor, Charlton Ambrose, on Tuesday last; Sir George had been unwell for several weeks. A Justice of the Peace, Sir George sat regularly in Belcaster court until just before his illness. For many years he represented Belcaster in Parliament, only resigning his seat in 1918. With him the family name and title die out as his only son Frederick, a Captain in the 1st Belshire Light Infantry, was killed on the Somme in1916. He is survived by a granddaughter, Adelaide, born posthumously to his son, and living with her mother and stepfather in London. The funeral will be held on Monday next at 2 p.m.

So, thought Rachel excitedly, Freddie did have descendants, or one anyway. Poor Freddie. How sad that he never even saw his daughter.

She turned to the next issue of the paper and found the account of Sir George’s funeral.

The funeral of Sir George Hurst Bt took place at the Church of St Peter, Charlton Ambrose, on Monday at 2 p.m. The service was conducted by the rector, the Reverend Henry Smalley, who paid tribute to Sir George’s life and work as a landowner, Justice of the Peace and sometime Member of Parliament. His loss to the village would be sadly felt, particularly as the Hurst family had been squires at the manor for more than five generations, and now there would be no more. The whole of Charlton Ambrose would mourn his death, the rector said.

The coffin, with a single wreath of white roses, was followed by Sir George’s daughter-in-law, Mrs Richard Anson-Gravetty, accompanied by her husband and daughter, Adelaide. The pallbearers were John Dickson, Francis Peters, Thomas Davies and Gordon Smith. Sir George was buried in the family vault alongside his wife, Charlotte.

After the service, tea was served by the parish in the village hall.

A book of condolence was opened and there were fifty-one signatures recorded in it.

I wonder what happened to that book of condolence, thought Rachel. Taken away by his daughter-in-law I suppose. Mrs Richard Anson-Gravetty. Cecily was right when she thought that Freddie’s widow had remarried.

Rachel photocopied all the articles she had found and added them to the research folder she was compiling for her own article. Each piece of information had made her more and more determined to find out all she could about everyone with any connection with the Charlton Ambrose Ashgrove. The more she discovered, the more she felt involved. She wanted to know about these people who had lived there eighty or more years ago. Cecily was the link. Cecily could surely give her some more information about the village during the Great War and after. Rachel decided to go and pay her another visit as soon as she could and then write her article in defence of the Ashgrove. In the meantime, she had an appointment with Mike Bradley, and she intended to press him on what he intended to do to preserve the trees.

Five o’clock found her at the offices of Brigstock Jones for her appointment. She was asked to wait and sat impatiently on an uncomfortable chair in a small, orange waiting area. After ten minutes she was about to return to the reception desk when a man appeared and greeted her with a smile.

“Miss Elliott? So sorry to have kept you. My name’s Tim Cartwright.” He gripped Rachel in a strong handshake and went on, “Would you like to come through to my office?”

“Thank you,” replied Rachel, “but my appointment was with Mr Bradley. Is he not here?”

Leading her into his office, Tim Cartwright treated her to his widest smile, which she instantly mistrusted, and said, “I am so sorry, I’m afraid he’s unavailable this afternoon. Won’t you sit down? Tea?”

Rachel declined the tea and sat in the indicated chair. Putting her bag at her feet, she drew out her notebook and pen. “He cancelled our appointment yesterday, Mr Cartwright,” she said crisply. “It really is most unfortunate that he’s had to do it again today.”

“I haven’t got time to talk to the woman,” Mike had snapped half an hour earlier. “I told you yesterday. You talk to her, Tim. Impress upon her we’re looking into the problem of the trees. Great sympathy. Propose a new memorial with names, et cetera. Make sure she knows we aren’t riding roughshod over the concerns of the people. We need her to write sympathetically.”

Tim Cartwright was used to doing Mike Bradley’s dirty work for him. He sighed inwardly. “She was at the public meeting, Mike,” he pointed out. “It’s you she wants to talk to.”

“Tell her I’m held up in a meeting. For Christ’s sake, Tim,” Mike glowered at him, “you know what to do. And, by the way have you got hold of the Sharp woman yet?”

Tim nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I’m seeing her this evening.”

“Good. Well, I want to see you first thing on Monday, so we can prepare for my meeting with the planners.”

Tim had spent the previous day looking into the problem of the Charlton Ambrose trees. He already knew there was no tree preservation order on them, but he also knew that to fell them, now they had been acknowledged as a war memorial, would cause outrage in the community. He had been out to look at the site again, to see if there was any possibility of looping the access road round the trees through the adjoining ground which was an extension to the churchyard. That would mean buying the strip from the Church Commissioners, and it was unlikely they would sell, but approaching them would be Mike’s job, thank God. Tim had also been into the church and found the names of all the men on a brass plaque. He was about to begin the process of tracing their descendants. Mike Bradley had some idea of individual compensation for each family… to buy them off.

“They’ve already got a memorial in the church,” Tim pointed out, handing Mike the leaflet on the church’s history he had bought.

“So they have,” Mike had agreed, “but we have to find the best way to resolve this mess. We need this project, Tim. It’s a bloody good deal if we can pull it off. So, sort it… and keep this Chronicle woman on our side and off our backs.”

Now Tim looked across the desk at Rachel. She was a good-looking woman, he had to admit, even if not his usual type. Tim preferred blondes, but she had an interesting face with broad cheeks and a wide mouth. He liked the way her full lips had an almost sculptured edge to them; the glint of anger in her eyes gave them a sparkle which brightened their hazel intensity and a sharp, determined chin warned him that she was no push-over. Tight dark curls, cut short to her head, showed off its neat shape, and from what he could see whilst she was seated, her figure was as attractive as her face. She faced him squarely across his desk and he recognised at once that she was definitely not a lady to be trifled with.

“I know,” Tim said sympathetically. “But something came up and he was called to another meeting this morning and he isn’t back yet. Rather than put you off again, he called and asked me to help you in any way I can.” He grinned ruefully, “So I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

Rachel eyed him, in no way disarmed by this act, and said, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to make do with you, then.”

“Where would you like to start?” asked Tim, meekly.

“Background first. Can you outline exactly what the plans for the Charlton Ambrose development are?”

Tim picked up a glossy brochure from his desk and passed it across to her. Flipping through it she saw that it showed a plan of the site, the floor plans and artist’s impressions of the proposed houses… three different models… and of the new village hall. She opened it at the site plan and turned back to Tim.

“I see that the proposed access is along the edge of the green as far as the churchyard wall and then across the end of the green into the allotment patch.”

“That’s right. The idea was to use as little of the actual green itself as possible. You see there’s a footpath along that side already,” Tim pointed to the site plan, “with a small gate into the allotments. By widening that path slightly, we can bring the access road round to the end of the green and into the site.”

“But the Ashgrove covers the width of the green at that end,” Rachel pointed out. “Some of those trees at least will have to come down.”

“As things are at present they will,” agreed Tim. “The problem is that we had no idea of the significance of those trees. There was no preservation order on them, you know, and as far as we knew there was no reason why at least some of them should not be felled.” He gave her his sincere look and went on, “We never fell mature trees unless we absolutely have to, Miss Elliott. Mature trees
make
a new development. New modern houses, yes, but in a mature, well-grown setting. Gives a feeling of permanence. People don’t feel they’re moving on to a building site.”

“Is there no other way into the allotment patch?” asked Rachel.

Tim shook his head. “Not at the moment. It is bounded on this, western side,” he pointed to the plan, “by Scotts Road which has a row of houses along it, and on this, the east, by the churchyard.” No point, he thought, in mentioning the possible access through that until Mike had approached the Church Commissioners. “Beyond it,” he went on, “the ground drops away steeply down to the stream.” He indicated the blue line on the plan. “Of course we are looking into all the possibilities. We don’t want to cut down those trees if we don’t have to. They are clearly important to people… it’s just that we didn’t know that before.”

“Does the planning permission rest on this?” Rachel asked.

“Mr Bradley is seeing the planners again next week to try and sort something out,” Tim said, “but the whole development may depend on the access. If we can’t get it, we can’t build there, and that’s it.” He shrugged and added, “It would be a pity for the village as a whole, though, because this is a pretty good deal for them. They’ve been trying to raise money for sometime to replace their village hall. This way it’s done for them… and of course gives them some affordable housing right in the middle of the village.”

“Not all starter homes though,” pointed out Rachel.

“No,” agreed Tim, “but we have to have some more expensive housing to make the whole proposition viable from our point of view. Until the question of the trees was raised, all parties concerned were getting what they wanted from the plan.”