The Chains of Diamonds

By MJ Tyler

When her husband's Great Aunt Beth dies, Ellie is shocked to have been bequeathed a significant amount of valuable jewellery.

But before she can receive it, she must solve the challenge set by the old lady: to find out what scandal was in her husband’s family in Victorian times.

Ellie is not the only one who is on a genealogy trail: at the funeral, she and husband Ivan meet Canadian Jack Berenson, an unlikely and unknown friend of Beth's.

Jack charms Ellie, sharing his own family history research and connections.

But Ellie and Ivan's marriage is already showing cracks, and Jack quickly steps in to the gap...

What is the connection with a wealthy woman brought low in 1844? Why did Beth set this challenge for Ellie?

The two women’s lives are tangled together, in this family-history thriller.

• Language: English
• Publisher: MJ Tyler
• Release date: Jun 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476472041

MJ Tyler

From the time I had daughters of my own, I wanted to find out more about my natural mother, but back then it was tortuous and difficult process. In 2000, I’d got together some basic research, and left a message on a ‘surname forum’ to see if anyone had more information. Eight years later, and when the big websites had made research so much easier, I could trace my family back to the early 1100s: they’d been crooks, pirates, married for money many times, fought bravely in the Civil War, received honours and rewards, and maintained a grand family ‘seat’. The basic story of Marianne Fraser and the ‘crim.con.’ trial is a true one: Marianne was my five-times great aunt, and I discovered her story while searching the net in the early hours of the morning. The scandalous trial featured as a front-page story of The Times for all four days of the case – when I read it, I knew I’d found a story I wanted to develop. Going through a 'crim.con' was the only way to get a divorce until the second half of the 19th century, and it was only the husband who could allege 'trespass' on his property, i.e. his wife's body! Many scandals were heard by the Court of Common Pleas. There was the famous case of Mrs Caroline Norton, for example, who was cited by her husband for an alleged affair with Lord Melbourne, the Prime Minister. When she turned to writing as a way to earn a living, her husband successfully claimed possession of her earnings. Of course, this is a work of fiction that simply draws on reality. The Victorian characters are based on how I imagine the real players in this drama might have behaved; there is no connection that I know of to a Canadian hotelier, and Ivan, Ellie and Great Aunt Beth are entirely fictional. But Marianne and her sisters were left a great deal of money by their father, and wonderful jewellery by their mother... And my present-day family? I discovered with delight that I have two half-sisters, who found me through complete serendipity and that surname forum. But that’s another story...

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CHAINS OF DIAMONDS

by

M.J.Tyler

Published by The Hackington Press

Copyright

© M J Tyler,

December 2011

All rights reserved.

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Part one

Chapter 1

Relief washed through me as I put the phone down. Ivan was alright. That was all I could think of - the bad news was not about him. It was Beth, his great aunt, that’s why the solicitor called.

As I put the phone down I could see my vague reflection in the old hall mirror. It was how I felt – shadowy, somehow less than the person I’d been ten minutes ago. Wispy.

The first time I met Beth was when Ivan and I were invited to tea. The silver birch trees in her garden were blowing gently in a soft, late-September wind, and the leaves already falling, as she welcomed us. She poured champagne, and we sat in the garden sipping it – to celebrate meeting me, she said. Three weeks later, Ivan and I were engaged.

I got into the habit of talking to her. A regular phone call, a chat about my work, or what she’d been reading. She was always interested, and interesting. Or a visit, and she’d have a story about the latest goings-on at the choir, or the politics in the charity shop where she did a couple of days every week. The manager wanted to jazz things up, and Beth was all for a more stylish approach. She spent a lot of time in Paris when she was younger, and managed to be chic every day – a style I envied.

The solicitor’s call had unnerved me, and what he said was confusing. ‘I imagine Mr Jones will want to see to his aunt’s affairs, some of which - well, they are a little odd.’ What did he mean – how was it odd? Was he hinting at a legacy? Was it always like that when someone died? I should have asked more about what had happened.

Ivan and I met at university. I loved it there, away from home. My friends all said what a good catch he was: handsome, charming, a touch of Welsh lyricism about him – but not too much. He was a research student when we met, already on salary sponsorship and with a good job waiting for him. I loved his energy, his spontaneity.

I knew he’d need details, and I didn’t want to increase the tension between us. He’d be upset, of course. Part of me, a part I didn’t like very much, wondered if this would bring us closer. Our lives are so distant. Days, nights, weeks. Working, waiting. I left a message on his voicemail, and then sent him an email too. It wouldn’t be a good way to receive bad news – but then what would? Then I started to think about flights; it didn’t take long to find out some times so I sent him another email with the details.

The day went by remarkably quickly; it was easier to focus on work and push the news to the back of my mind, to create a semblance of normality. People still needed houses to be built; I still had drawings to complete. Actually, concentrating on details really helped.

I could imagine Ivan’s reaction when he got my messages. First he’d be irritated with the interruption, I never call during the day. Then he’d be worried, wondering why I called. Then he’d be upset. Beth was his only family. Apart from me.

I worked a bit late, trying to catch up. There was a big contract we were working on, a showcase development for the practice, and too many people had an interest. So I’d just got in the bath after supper when Ivan’s call came through. I really needed to speak to him, but the hot bubbles were somehow more appealing, and I stayed put to listen to his message.

‘I’m heading home tomorrow, Ellie. I hope you’re OK? I know you were fond of Beth too.’

I heard him clear his throat, and wondered what was coming next.

‘A lot of our communication seems to be by message lately,’ he said. ‘I’ve managed to get some extra time off, so perhaps we can have some time to... well, strange time to plan, but Beth always brought out the best in us.’

He went quiet again, and then his voice was low.

‘Love you. See you soon.’

I suddenly felt the shock of hearing the news, the sadness in his voice made it real. It was Beth he turned to, and so did I, when things were tough. I lay back in the deep bath, cutting out reality, washing away my tears in the comfort of the hot water.

***

When I came in the door the next evening, I was feeling grumpy. I’d had a good meeting with a new client, I remember. She was a clear sighted woman who knew exactly what she wanted from her new home, and was already very well organised. Money didn’t seem to be an issue, although with most clients who started off like that it wasn’t long before they started to watch every penny. Anyway, my senior partner was happy, and liked my design – he even thought I could put it in for an architectural prize. That was a reason to be pleased, and it gave me a boost that lasted all afternoon – until I set out for home. Getting back to the station from West London was a hassle, and then the train home was full of bodies pressed tight against one another. The journey just dragged on.

So when I saw Ivan’s backpack dumped in the hall, quite honestly I had mixed reactions. No time now to have some quiet time, alone with my music, before he arrived. No chance to unwind, get organised, and welcome him as I’d like to, as I’d planned. Though of course, I was pleased he was back.

I called him as I hung up my smart work coat, and headed for the kitchen, my stomach tight with excitement. Ivan wasn’t there, just his presence – dirty coffee cups jostled with saucepans on the drainer. Already. Something that smelled very good was in the oven.

Running upstairs to the bedroom, I found Ivan fast asleep. He was still fully dressed, and he had earphones on, obviously recovering from his flight. When I sat beside him and gently removed the earphones, he didn’t stir. So I snuggled into the crook of his arm, loving the warmth and the closeness. It was three weeks since we’d seen each other. He began to wake, and a smile slowly spread across his face as he realised I was there beside him. I love that smile.

An hour or so later, when we went downstairs in a loving haze, the spicy casserole was cooked to perfection, and my grumpiness had receded.

‘This news about Beth – it feels so unreal’, I said. I poured a second glass of wine. ‘She was perfectly fine a couple of weeks ago. I can’t believe she’s gone so quickly.’

‘Me too, he said. ‘I haven’t seen her as much as I should over the last few years, but I know you did.’

‘But I don’t understand what all the mystery is from the solicitor, do you? What’s all the oddness about? I should have asked more, I suppose.’

I took a large sip of wine as the casserole flavours hit me.

‘Do you know what he’s on about?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Now I think back, Ivan seemed to be careful in his reply.

‘There was something she said about some scandal, but she never really explained. Last time I saw her I thought she was getting a bit frail, bothered about something. She’d started to talk about her family, her history, but I wasn’t all that interested.’

I shook my head in disbelief – how could he be so dismissive?

‘To be honest Ellie, I wondered if she was losing her way a bit, talking about a scandal a hundred years earlier. Who’s interested in that?’

He shrugged his shoulders and I felt my irritation growing.

‘Well, no change there then’, I said. ‘If it’s not about oil rigs or your blessed motorbike…’

I didn’t mean to snap at him, but that’s how it came out. Maybe I was more tired than I thought. He picked up on it, of course.

‘Oh for god’s sake, Ellie, don’t start with all that stuff.’ He stood up and went to the window, hands in his pockets, his back to me.

‘How am I starting? I just want you to be interested in other things, including me!’

Where did that come from? Did I really think he wasn’t interested any more? No, but – I wanted him to show he cared more.

Ivan sighed.

‘It’s just – we seem to be on different wavelengths. I like our life together. When we can have fun and enjoy each other. But you seem so – resentful – of my time.’

I looked at him in shock, really stung – I’ve never thought of myself as a jealous person. But then I remembered what it felt like when we were on holiday last year, and got together with a group of people – Ivan was the life and soul, got on well with everyone. He organised the tennis tournament and the crazy golf competition, marshalling the group and making sure everyone was happy. I thought I put on a good show of hiding my mood, but truth was I really didn’t want to be with everyone else, I just wanted him to myself.

‘You’re never here!’ I snapped. ‘Even Beth couldn’t understand why we haven’t got any children yet, but it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it!’

‘Ellie –‘

‘No, it’s time you listened to me’, I said, putting my glass down on the table.

Ivan sighed theatrically; he knew that would simply wind me up. I looked away from him, determined not to lose my temper this time. How could I explain to him? My life was full of other people, but he wasn’t there, we weren’t properly together. His life was mostly away, with the other riggers – it’s like we’re completely separate and then when he comes home we have to start all over again. But each time there’s a little bit less, as if our marriage is being chipped away.

‘I know you love your job, and you’re so successful there, but it’s something that really takes you away from me’, I said. ‘It’s not just a job, is it? ‘

‘Ellie, come on, we’ve always known that life would be demanding all the time I’m on the rigs. We didn’t go into this without talking about it, did we?’

He was right, we’d spent hours talking about how we could make the best of being separated for a few years, especially with him bringing in a high salary.

‘But don’t you see, I don’t want my life to be defined by the contracts I’ve won or the concerts I’ve been to, especially without anyone to share them. We might as well be flatmates, not husband and wife.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought what we did upstairs just now was flatmate behaviour,’ he smirked, and this time I did lose my temper.

‘That’s just typical!’ I shouted. ‘You think that’s all it’s about – do what you want to do, stay away for weeks playing with your bloody meccano on the rigs, and then come back for sex! I want a life together –‘

‘We won’t have a family without sex’, Ivan said pedantically. He always got pedantic when he was losing an argument. He turned, reaching for me, but I just glared at him, and then stormed out, banging the kitchen door behind me. When I went up later, Ivan was already in bed, and asleep, and I picked up my book with a grimace.

‘He might be back,’ I thought, ‘but we’re still not in the same place.’

***

In the morning, we were coolly polite to each other as we got ready to go to the solicitor’s office. It was all ‘pass the milk?’ and ‘would you like more toast?’ over breakfast, as we avoided eye contact; when Ivan helped me into my coat and our fingers brushed together we each drew back. Ivan drove in silence, apart from cursing at a bus that held us up for several miles, and I just stared out the window, unseeing.

By ten thirty, we were seated around Mr Strachan’s meeting table, as he went through the preliminary information.

‘Your Great Aunt, Miss Beth Jones, was a very organised lady in the matter of her will and arrangements’, he began. ‘Her papers are completely in order, and there should be no difficulties with probate.’

Ivan nodded, and I reached for his hand. This was no time to carry our anger forward; I saw his shoulders relax as he gripped my hand tightly. When I’m not angry, I know how much we love each other. We just need to find a way to talk, to understand what we both want.

Mr Strachan was speaking, and I turned to him again.

‘As her only next-of-kin, Mr Jones, you have a significant bequest. The bulk of Mrs Jones’s estate comes to you and, as she had created a beneficiary trust, you won’t have any inheritance tax to pay.’

Ivan shook his head slightly – he was obviously surprised.

‘I didn’t know she’d decided to leave things to me,’ he said, ‘and I hadn’t really thought about whether she was wealthy.’

‘Actually she was very wealthy. Her money came through inheritances, and her family was well-breeched and very well connected, it seems.’

We looked at each other, eyes wide. I remembered when Beth helped us with getting the deposit together for the house. It was a Sunday teatime, and once she’d cut us both a slice of Ivan’s favourite chocolate cake, she handed him an envelope containing a large cheque. We both argued with her, saying we couldn’t take the money, but she was a stubborn old lady sometimes, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So of course we accepted it, and were thrilled at the same time as feeling guilty. On the way home that day we worked out how we could pay her back as quickly as possible, worried because we thought her gift to us had pretty much exhausted her savings. And then when we’d got the money together, she wouldn’t take it.

‘We would normally expect to read her will after the funeral, but as she left very specific instructions about funeral arrangements, I am tasked not only to give you those, but also to outline the terms of her will today. We will further discuss details as we go into the probate process,’ Mr Strachan continued.

‘Miss Jones also left some interesting bequests for you, Eleanor.’

I swallowed; Beth and I had become close, she was someone I could talk to easily. I was really taken aback by the thought of profiting from her death. My mum used to talk about ‘death money’ with scorn, critical of cousins who made sure they were mentioned my grandfather’s will, and coveting anything of value in his house. I guess I’ve taken on her opinions without realising.

‘Really? How sweet of her. There was a lovely necklace I admired, maybe that’s…’

‘Yes, there is quite a lot of jewellery’, said the solicitor,’ and it all comes to you, her much-loved great-niece in-law as she describes you.’

I could feel my throat getting scratchy as I tried to hold tears back.

‘There is a particular set that she describes in some detail, and that appears to have come down through her family. That alone appears to be worth £30-50,000. And there are several other items.’

I simply stared at him, mouth open.

‘However, there are some curious conditions associated with the inheritance.’ Mr Strachan cleared his throat – he appeared to be embarrassed. ‘It appears that there was something of a scandal in the family in the nineteenth century. Miss Jones has written you a letter – it is here, still sealed as she requested – which explains more. But taking possession of your inheritance has a condition attached: you are to make a study of the scandal, or at least find out something about it. She clearly wanted you to unravel some of the mystery surrounding whatever happened.’

Ivan and I looked at each other in bewilderment. ‘I don’t understand’, I said. ‘Why would she want me to do that? I’m not at all sure …’

Ivan agreed. ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ he said. ‘Neither of us expected to benefit from Beth’s death’ – his voice quavered a little, and he swallowed hard – ‘she was lovely, so kind to me, and to you, too, Ellie.’ I scrabbled to find a tissue in my bag, sniffing. No inheritance could replace Beth.

Mr Strachan smiled. ‘Miss Jones had a wonderful style with everyone. Her neighbours have spoken of her with love, and clearly appreciated her kindness. And a number of children’s charities are to receive donations from her will, some quite sizeable.’

I shook my head, still not believing that Ivan and I knew so little about Beth’s interests or circumstances.

‘Well, here is her letter to you, Mrs Jones. As you can see, it is quite bulky. So I imagine there are a number of family papers inside. And I shall be interested to hear about what you discover. You are tasked with reporting back to me within six months of today, in order to receive her bequests. Until then, everything will of course be kept safe.

‘Mr Jones, I shall be in touch in the next couple of weeks regarding probate processes. And we will see each other at your aunt’s funeral. As I said, her wishes are very clearly set out in this document.’

I took the envelope from him and put it in my bag. I knew it was really important – and I wanted to wait until we were home together before opening it.

Chapter 2

As we arrived at the chapel, I gripped Ivan’s hand tightly; his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Following the hearse had been so hard, remembering how Beth welcomed me into the family.

‘I can’t believe that we’ll never see her again,’ I said. I touched my brooch, one that she’d given me a few months ago.

Ivan turned to me. ‘Ellie, you’re so pale today – are you OK?’ I nodded, and he squeezed my hand as we stepped from the car together and made our way to the church to follow the coffin.

There were more people in the church than we expected. We both thought Beth lived a fairly solitary life, but there were nearly eighty people. All but the front row of chairs, reserved for us of course, were full. We knew only a few neighbours, and I could see them close to the front. As we started to process behind the coffin, I noticed a family on the left – parents in black, and two teenage boys with smoothed-down hair and black ties, in what looked like school uniform. On the right was a group of older ladies, in proper hats – I guessed they were from the charity shop.

We sat and the service began. Beth had specified the music in a letter with her will, and the first hymn was Amazing Grace. With so many people there, the sound was wonderful, and I wasn’t the only person to sing through tears. Then Ivan got up to read her favourite poem, by Dylan Thomas:

‘Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rage at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the night.’

With his deep voice and light Welsh accent, Ivan read it beautifully. Three people got up to say something about Beth: Cathy Peacock was the first, a smart woman in her early fifties, a close neighbour. She talked about Beth’s support for charity, especially the one where Cathy was a Director. Ivan and I listened intently, trying to get our heads around this new aspect of Beth’s life.

The manager of the charity shop spoke next, and made us laugh with a story of Beth’s skills as a saleswoman.

And then came the most surprising speaker: a ballroom dancer who had been teaching Beth, and three of the other elderly ladies, Latin American dance. ‘Well, why not?’ I thought, with a wide smile – apparently she was a good mover, excelling in the tango. Ivan looked scandalised, but then he started to grin, and we linked arms, loving the idea of Beth having so much fun.

We walked out to the graveside behind the coffin, holding hands, and stood to the left as the vicar read from the prayer book. Despite all the lovely words and stories, the whole ceremony felt unreal, distant. How could Beth be gone?

The coffin was lowered into the grave and I felt Ivan stiffen; it wasn’t so long ago that his parents were killed in the car crash, and I knew he was remembering that awful time. Something happens to people when they lose a parent or very close relative. They become suddenly aware of mortality, and the need to make every day count. At least, that’s how it was for me when Mum died. As the vicar began whose awful words, ‘dust to dust, ashes to ashes,’ Ivan stepped forward slightly and dropped six red roses on the coffin. Then it was over, and people drifted away; Ivan turned and hugged me, and I leant my head against his chest.

As we walked back towards the car, we were joined by a stranger. In his early fifties, with bright blue eyes, he looked every inch a successful man, and at first we thought he had joined us by mistake. Lost in our own memories, we had no desire to be sociable, and I was already wondering how we would get through the next few hours at the pub in which the remembrance drinks and funeral tea had been arranged.

‘Mr and Mrs Jones, I’m Jack Berenson’, he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, and for mine. Beth was a wonderful woman.’

Ivan nodded. ‘Thank you’, he said. ‘Are you joining us at the White Hart?’

‘I am indeed’, said Berenson. ‘Beth deserves a great send-off. I want to be there for that.’ And he dropped back a little, allowing us to go ahead.

‘Do you know him?’ I asked.

Ivan shook his head. ‘Don’t think I know anyone here except the grocer and the doctor. I had no idea Beth had so many friends.’

‘Me neither. He seems a bit different, though, doesn’t he. Got a slight accent, American or something?’

‘No, Canadian, I’d say. That softness. I hear it a lot on the rigs. I suppose we’ll get to know why he’s here.’

At the funeral reception, we were overwhelmed by the love and respect there clearly was for Beth. Directors from three of her charitable societies were there, and it turned out that the teenage boys were foster children whose circumstances been dreadful.

‘I needed someone to talk to when my mum and dad died,’ Ivan told the boys.

‘I was at university, it was just before I met Ellie, my wife.’ He reached for my hand, and d drew me into the conversation with a smile. ‘I used to go and see Beth whenever I could, and she always had a chocolate cake in the freezer, ready – and then I wanted to get a motorbike, and she did the whole parents thing – are you sure, won’t it be dangerous, don’t get one that goes too fast, all that stuff.’ The teenagers were grinning now, and Ivan built his story.

‘Anyway, then I got my first bike, a Honda. I got all the gear – leather trousers with the padding, looks very sexy I’m told,’ and he grinned at me. A couple of helmets, of course. I turned up at her house on the bike, quite a long ride from Swansea to Blackheath. She went bananas! She thought I was some kind of courier at first, until I took my helmet off.

‘She made me come in and have tea and cake, as usual, and then she got a copy of the Highway Code out, and made me go through it with her, line by bloomin’ line. And then, when we’d finished all that, she went and got into a