Chapter 6: A Cludgie man’s Daughter

“It is an honour to shake the hand of an escort to the Wooden Hand Bearer,” Commandant (Major) Charles Boyer said. “It was even more of an honour to have had a drink, several drinks in fact, with the Bearer of the Wooden Hand himself, Chevalier Maurice Champignon, known to all his friends, of which I am privileged to be one, as Red Maurice.”

Three days had passed since my flight to Zurich, my subsequent drive to Vaduz to collect the ruby necklace and earrings from my safe deposit box, and then return to Zurich airport to fly to London Heathrow.

I shifted in the leather armchair facing Commandant Boyer across the table of his office in the Embassy of the Republic of France, I was wearing a body belt, not the most comfortable of undergarments to wear when stuffed with jewellery rather than with banknotes.

I had presented myself at the reception desk of the embassy first thing on the morning after my arrival in London. Fortunately I had taken the trouble of locating the embassy on a street map before choosing a hotel and had booked a room at the Ambassador Hotel situated in Queens Gate Gardens, a mere five minute walk to the French Embassy in Cromwell Road. My request for a meeting with the deputy military attaché was granted only after I produced the open sesame of Chevalier Maurice Champignon’s name when asked the reason for my request.

“Hold all my calls, and then ring the Portuguese Embassy to delay my meeting with their military attaché, please Camille,” said the Commandant to his attractive, flame haired secretary.

“You have a meeting with the chargé d’affaires at eleven, Commandant. I won’t be able to delay or cancel that appointment.”

Boyer frowned. “Well, he kept me waiting for over twenty minutes the last time we met. We will see if he likes sitting twiddling his thumbs doing nothing.”

As she left the room I heard Camille say, sotto voce, ‘That’s all the lazy sod ever does!’

Boyer and I watched Camille hip swaying departure with smiles of appreciation on our faces. Charles Boyer was first to break the companionable silence.

“So where is Maurice, and how is he? He should have got over his hangover by now but I wouldn’t have wanted his head the morning after Camerone Day. He always did have a weakness for, and then an adverse reaction to, Absinthe.”

“He’s in Agadir.”

“Trouble with the hotel?” Boyer asked.

“How do you know about the hotel?” I was astounded. I had only just learned of the place although I had known Maurice for over twenty years and yet this man, who had not seen Maurice for many years until the day of the Camerone Day parade, knew of it.

“I’ve spent many a night at Mon Repos, and before you ask, I didn’t have intimate room service, but I did have Leilah warming my bed, and the cockles of my heart, most of those nights.” He saw the look of distaste on my face. “And before you jump to any conclusions she was way past her teenage years, as was Dihya the nights Leilah was unavailable. And It was the girls who instigated proceedings and did so because I was a friend of ‘M’sieu Maurice’ as they call Red. They adore him and do everything in their power to please him; sleeping with his friends is just one of the ways of showing their gratitude for him saving their lives.”

“But the rescue was a team effort and you were also part of the team that saved their lives.”

Charles Boyer shook his head. “Their rescue was not a team effort. Maurice was the only one who dared crawl through the debris, moving masonry out of the way, to bring out the girls. First Dihya, and then he went back for Leilah. He wouldn’t be stopped, and no one wanted to go with him as we thought it suicidal. Maurice was determined to save their lives or die in the attempt. The Moroccan Government rewarded his bravery, or foolhardiness as most of us saw it, by making him a citizen of the Kingdom. That is how he owns property in Agadir as only Moroccans can own land in the kingdom. And that’s another thing. One of the royal princes, I forget which one but it wasn’t the Crown Prince, was so impressed by Maurice’s feat he came to Agadir, attached himself to Maurice’s team and took an active part in rescue operations. Not just being photographed wearing a hard hat and wielding a shovel but really getting stuck into the job. He and Maurice became greet friends and the prince is now someone of importance in the Moroccan Defence Department.”

“Then it’s just as well Maurice has friends in high places,” I said. “He is in legal and religious trouble and there is a meddlesome priest, or rather a meddlesome mullah, out to close down the hotel.”

“I’m sure Maurice will have the problem solved quickly.” Charles Boyer obviously had a great deal of trust in Maurice’s ability to get out of tight spots given his exploits during the Agadir Earthquake Rescue Operation but this tight spot was probably more dangerous than a ton of unstable masonry. Charles continued talking while my mind had wandered. “You must know Maurice pretty well for him to choose you as one of his escorts at the Camerone Day parade?”

His question brought me back from wherever my mind had wandered... “I first met Maurice in Corsica during my basic training. I was then with him in BEPI for several years, then a couple of years in DILE and finally we both served for over four years with 3 REI in French Guiana.”

“Four years! That’s longer than Alfred Dreyfus spent there. You must have upset some one important?”

“So it would seem.” My slightly acerbic response was the signal for the reason for my visit to be discussed.

“So what can I do for you?” Charles Boyer asked.

“I had a friend in the legion, Alfie Hinds, he was killed in...”

“Alfie Hinds the Cockney? He was damn good soldier. I was with BEPI for a while and remember him well. I know he was killed in a cockup in Africa caused by that useless pile of merde Gaston Sancerre de Valois.”

“You know Sancerre de Valois?”

“Not when in the legion, thank God. The bastard is now some functionary in the EU Commission, a purely political appointment as he doesn’t know merde from clay. He is often here in London hobnobbing with the not so great and the not so good. He’s a slimy, two faced, arrogant shitehawk who is always trying to get between Camille legs when he visits that other useless sod, our charge d’affairs Bernard Beaumaris, a man who thinks his title is a job description.”

Boyer ended his tirade and I continued with the story of how Alfie was court martialled for striking an officer, the husband of his lover Heather, who divorced her husband after he resigned from the army rather than face being cashiered. How, when clearing Alfie’s personal possessions, I discovered some jewellery and knowing of his love for Heather decided to give her the gems. But first I had to find her.

I finished speaking and Charles rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “That’s some story. I can ask my contacts in MoD, that’s the Ministry of Defence, for Alfie’s British Army service record but I doubt there would be any information on divorced wives of resigned officers. However, there’s another line of enquiry that might be helpful.” He pressed the intercom button on his telephone “Camille, will you dig out the address of those genealogists we sometime use.”

“On it now, Charles,” was her reply, and a few moments later she entered the office with a sheet of paper that she placed on the desk in front of Charles. “Yes, this is the firm; Mortimer and Wheeler, Investigative Genealogists. Their offices are in Newton Street, Holborn.” He said. “They do excellent work and have traced many family connections for us. Mister Mortimer is ex-Coldstream Guards and has a lot of contacts in MoD. Madam Wheeler was a Detective Inspector in the Metropolitan Police and has many contacts with police forces throughout the UK. Camille will make an appointment for you and you can have them chase down Alfie Hind’s lost lover.”

“Give me the number of the hotel where you are staying, M’sieu Soissons, and I will leave a message when I’ve arranged a meeting,” Camille said.

I thanked her and she swayed away back to her desk in the outer office.

“Where are you staying?” Charles asked, and when I replied ‘The Ambassador in Queens Gate Gardens’ he smiled broadly. “Excellent. It’s just up the road from the Exhibition Club in Princes Gate. Meet me and Camille there tonight at nine. Camille will bring along her flat mate Renata. You’ll love her; she’s a Creole from Guadeloupe and if I wasn’t head over heels in love with Camille Renata would be my choice of bed mate.”

“You and Camille are an item?”

“Very much so, although it is frowned on to have a relationship with a colleague. That doesn’t stop Beaumaris trying to have his evil way with all the females who work here, including Camille and Renata. He lures unsuspecting females into the supplies cupboard and molests them. If it wasn’t for his family’s political connections the useless bugger would be packed off to our consulate in Timbuktu as assistant Fourth Secretary!

When I met Camille and Charles, along with an astoundingly beautiful Renata, at the Exhibition Club Camille informed me I had an appointment with Mortimer and Wheeler at 11am the following morning.

Renata was gorgeous, and as I am particularly fond of and have a history with Creole girls from Guadeloupe I really enjoyed my evening of wide ranging conversations, slow and close up dancing, drinking wine and listening to some live modern jazz, all of which are my thing. I spent the night, and a few early hours of the following morning, enmeshed in a passionate love tangle with Renata, another one of my favourite things. No doubt Camille and Charles were in a similar pleasurable position in Charles’ flat in Old Brompton Road, South Kensington. Camille and Renata’s flat was in Ladbroke Grove, North Kensington; as different from South Kensington as North Korea is to South Korea – the border between the two parts of the same London Borough being Notting Hill Gate.

I reluctantly peeled myself from Renasta’s sweet smelling even when sweat slicked body at 5 am and found my way to Ladbroke Grove underground station where I boarded a Circle line ‘tube’, as Londoners refer to their metro, to Gloucester Road station and then walked to my hotel. The bleary eyed night receptionist gave me a knowing look as I came through the door. “Been out for some early morning exercise, sir?” he asked.

I nodded wearily and asked him what time was breakfast.

“Breakfast is served from seven to nine thirty, Sir. Bon appetit!”

A hot shower and a full English breakfast set me up for the day and I inquired at reception how I would get to Newton Street, Holborn.

“Take the east bound Piccadilly Line from Gloucester Road tube station. Holborn is about eight stops down the line. If you travel between eight and ten expect to be up close and very personal most of the way, all of the way in fact because Holborn is in the centre of the City of London and the world and his wife, and hordes of their snotty nosed kids, are visiting or working in the Square Mile.” It was a different receptionist from early morning but with the same accent and nonchalant attitude.

I managed not to rub shoulders too closely with my fellow passengers, who appeared to be mostly tourists from their garb and their garble. I arrived at the offices of Mortimer and Wheeler on time, i.e., five minutes before my appointment, but was immediately ushered into an office by the young bespectacled female at reception.

A male and a female sitting behind a mahogany desk large enough to seek entry to the EU stood up from their chairs. The man, looking to be in his mid-fifties was not many centimetres under two metres tall and stood erect as a telephone pole, with the clipped moustache and speech of the British Military. “Gregory Mortimer – I’m very pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand and shook mine but without trying to exert any force or strength which was just as well as he was not only my size but also of a similar build.

The female was blonde haired, which might have been her original colour, had twinkling bright blue eyes framed by heavily mascaraed lashes, and was pleasantly plump, voluptuous, or fat depending on your views on females not built like anorexic teenagers. I would place her in the middle category of those figure types. She had a lived in but still attractive face that told you she had been around the block many times and had enjoyed the circuits and that anyone accompanying her would have enjoyed the trip as well. Had I not known she had been in the police I would have taken her for a mature working girl – a tart with a heart – her smile genuine her eyelashes false. In her twenties and thirties she would have been a knockout and even now, pushing fifty, she was well worth a second look. If she had been a mature female I was booked to entertain I would have been well pleased. I knew Madame Wheeler had been a detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police and assumed she had worked in Vice, possibly undercover, and had perhaps retained the persona of her alter ego when she retired. Her handshake was as firm as the man’s. “Audrey Wheeler. Pleezed to meetchew.” Her accent was reminiscent of Alfie Hinds’ East London/Cockney and I wondered at the obvious disparity in the language and class of these two business partners.

We all sat down and Madam Wheeler began the conversation. “Major Boyer from your embassy sez you are searching for a woman named ‘Eather ooz married name you knew but she since ‘as divorced the ‘usband and might ‘ave remarried or reverted to ‘er maiden name?”

For a moment I was carried back to when I first met Alfie Hinds and was introduced to the glottal stops and dropped aspirants of Cockney flavoured English. Madam Wheeler spoke in much the same way.

I nodded in response to her question and Gregory Mortimer took up the conversation. “Charles also mentioned that a legionnaire friend of yours, Alfie Hinds,” he exchanged glances with Madame Wheeler when he mentioned Alfie’s name, “was court martialled for striking an officer in his regiment, this Heather woman’s husband?”

“Fanshawe wasn’t in the Paras. Alfie referred to him as a jumped up store man.”

Mortimer chuckled. “Yes a Para has little or no respect for store-bashers, in fact they have not much more respect for any regiment, hence the long list of Court Martials where the Parachute Regiment is concerned. Idle hands do the Devil’s work and unless a Para is occupied fighting, drinking, or fornicating they can cause quite a bit of trouble. Do you know if this Fanshawe chap appeared at the court martial as a witness?”

“Fanshawe had a broken jaw and was in hospital during the court martial having it reset. It was when Fanshawe was absent from his office that his deputy discovered the fraud and theft that resulted in Fanshawe resigning his commission.”

Mortimer nodded. “I see. The thing is, Mister Soissons...”

“Please call me Philippe,” I interrupted him.

“Certainly, if you will call me Greg.”

“And me Audrey,” Madame Wheeler interjected.

We all smiled and nodded.

“As I was saying, Philippe, the names of the defendant and witnesses are used to search the Index to Court Martials...”

“And the date,” Audrey added.

“Yes of course, and the date,” agreed Greg. “However, Audrey and I think Alfie Hinds is not the ‘real name of your friend.”

“Why on earth not? Alfie had served his time in a military prison and wasn’t running from the law. There was no reason for him to change his name.”

“Alfie ‘inds is the name of a well-known British criminal who escaped from several ‘igh security prisons besides from the Old Bailey in London,” Audrey said. “‘E is a folk ‘ero, who successfully prosecuted a former Scotland Yard Detective Chief Inspector for libel and also gained a pardon for wrongful arrest. ‘E was a regular on chat shows with ‘is in depth knowledge of the British judicial system and its many failings. So it is doubtful that your Alfie ‘inds was really named Alfie ‘inds and he certainly wasn’t the ‘real ‘ Alfie ‘inds!”

“So I can’t access the Court Martial Index using the name ‘Alfie Hinds’.” Greg explained. “Of course I can trawl through the number of Court Martials held at Sennelager, if that is where the court sat. I will also need to check other British Army bases in West Germany in case the court was held away from ‘Alfie’s’ home base. The other means of accessing the Court Martials Index is using the names of witnesses but if Fanshawe wasn’t a witness that is a problem.”

I was a bit bewildered and interrupted him. “Why do you need to access the Court Martial Index? You know Heather’s married name at the time of the Court Martial...”

“‘Fanshawe’ is one of the English surnames that are spelled differently than they are pronounced and/or pronounced differently than they are spelled!” He saw my complete bemusement and smiled. “It is not exclusively an English thing; the Scots also have the problem. I take it the French do not?”

I shrugged. “I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why have different pronunciations for the same spelling or differed spellings for the same pronunciation?”

Greg laughed. “Why indeed, but we are stuck with it and there the problem. We need to know if Heather was married to a Fanshawe, spelled as it sounds, or a,” he spelt out each letter in turn, “F e a t h e r s t o n e h a u g h!”

“And that is pronounced the same as Fanshawe?” I asked completely flabbergasted by the idiosyncrasies of English surnames.

“Actually if the ‘a’ is missing from the name the owners of that particular surname pronounces it as ‘Fetherstonehaugh’.”

“So you see, Phil,” Audrey said, truncating my name as had Alfie Hinds. “Greg needs to unearth the Court Martial record as it will ‘ave the name of the officer struck by ‘Alfie ‘inds’ even if the officer wasn’t called as a witness.”

“You say Alfie was jailed for two years for his assault?” Greg asked and I nodded. “That is quite a lenient sentence given that Alfie committed Grievous Bodily Harm with Intent. A civilian court would give ten years for that, and I would have thought the army would have given Alfie at least five years.”

“I think Fanshawe, or whatever his name, was known as a bully and wife abuser, and then of course his thieving came to light during the court martial He should have been in a cell in the Glasshouse alongside Alfie but I doubt officers are ever imprisoned?”

Greg sighed. “There has always been one law for them and another for us. Officers have been cashiered but never incarcerated. But back to finding Alfie’s true name. Do you know how long or when Alfie was in Two Para?”

“I think he was year or so at Sennelager with the Paras, and before then he had spent a year at Paderborn with The Rifle Brigade...”

“That’s useful! The Rifle Brigade was amalgamated with two other regiments in nineteen sixty to form...”

“Yes, I remember Alfie saying that was why he joined the Paras.”

“Of course, the amalgamation was known about long before it happened and many soldiers transferred into different units before the amalgamation took place. I can find out when the Rifle Brigade was in Paderborn then work out when Alfie joined the Paras and put that with the time Two Para were in Sennelager to get a time frame for his Court Martial. I should have an answer for you in a day or two. I know my way around regimental records and they are kept at Kew, which is only a few miles upriver.”

I left the office feeling rather overwhelmed with the intricacies of the case. Heather’s married name would have been the first place to start the search for her whereabouts but due to the inexplicable way some English surnames are pronounced/ spelled it was turning into a mystery tour. However I was sure Mortimer and Wheeler were up to the task and would eventually unearth Heather’s whereabouts.

For the next three days I became a typical tourist and visited the many museums in the South Kensington area as well as visiting The Tower of London and a taking a River Thames trip up-river to Hampton Court. It was during the afternoon of the third day a message was left at the reception desk of my hotel for me to contact Mortimer and Wheeler.

“Good news Phil,” Audrey said when I rang their office. “Greg ‘as found the documents of the relevant Court Martial and your friend’s real name was Joseph Mundy.” She spelled the surname so I knew it was not a day of the week. ‘Eather’s married name, Fanshawe, was spelled in that peculiar version. I have discovered much of ‘eather’s ‘istory and if you call in today we will give you all we ‘ave learned to date. Unfortunately, I ‘aven’t found an address for ‘eather as yet, but I’m checking some sources that I ‘ope will give me the information. We will explain more when we see you.”

I made my way from the hotel to Holborn during rush hour. Although most of the traffic was flowing away from the Square Mile I did get up close and personnel with a lot of Londoners but fortunately not as close as I had been the night before with Renata who had become my bed partner during the time I was in London. Evenings and nights were spent with Renata; first at a club or theatre or cinema and then back to her place in Ladbroke Grove. I assumed Camille was spending the nights at Charles’s pad in Old Brompton Road. Renata and Camille were both polyglots, multi-linguists – as you would expect as they worked in the French Embassy – and Renata certainly had an educated tongue. She worked in the Cipher Room at the French Embassy decoding and encoding messages. Naturally, her lips were sealed as to what she actually did but fortunately her nether lips were not and I was granted full, frequent, and unrestricted access, of which I took full advantage.

Audrey and Greg were all smiles as they reported their success so far.

“Joseph Mundy?” I said looking at Alfie/Joe’s army records. “I can’t get my head around that.”

“Well, if it makes you feel better we will continue to refer to him as Alfie,” said Greg.

“I expect the name Joseph Mundy was given ‘im at the orphanage,” Audrey said. “You said ‘e ran away from an orphanage when aged fourteen.”

She pushed a certificate across the desk. “‘Ere’s a copy of Joseph Mundy’s birth certificate. You will see ‘is birthplace is given as Barnardo ‘Ouse, Ilford, which was the largest of the Barnardo ‘omes in the London area.” She saw I didn’t understand and explained. “Doctor Barnardo was a man who dedicated ‘is life to ‘elping poor and needy children, orphans mostly. ‘E opened refuges for destitute and abandoned children that grew into an organisation of orphanages. One of the largest was at Ilford on the eastern fringe of London It’s likely that Alfie was abandoned at St Josephs’ Church in Upminster and then taken to the orphanage in Ilford, probably on a Monday. It is usual for orphans to be given names of the months and/or days they was taken into care.”

Greg took up the briefing.” I have solved one mystery and discovered the real name, if we can call it that, of the person you knew as Alfie Hinds, Philippe, but Audrey has done even better than me and has mined a heap of information relating to Heather.” he said, giving his partner a beaming smile. “Show Philippe the results of your hard work, Audrey.”

“It weren’t that ‘ard once I got ‘er proper moniker,” Audrey actually blushed from Greg’s praise. “I discovered ‘eather was granted a decree absolute, a divorce, two years after the court martial and she immediately reverted to ‘er birth name of Lomax.” Audrey pushed another certificate across the desk towards me. “This is a copy of ‘eather’s birth certificate.”

I saw that Heather Clarissa Lomax had been born in Galashiels, wherever that is. Her father was James Lomax, age 35, born in Glasgow, and his occupation given as ‘Sanitation Engineer’. Her mother was Annabelle Clarissa, nee Carlton- Calvert, age 18, born in Chichester, and her occupation given as ‘Scholar’. “That is quite a difference in the ages of her parents.” I noted.

“And in social status,” added Audrey. “You know that there are Seven Seas of the world well there are Seven C’s of the English gentry; Calvert, Carlton, Colville, Courtney, Culpepper, Cunningham, and Curzon. Heather’s mother was related to two of them Gentry families. The web of genealogical roots that link those seven families is a nightmare to unravel. These families, none of them any higher up the nobility totem pole than that of baron, baronetcy or knight, were once the backbone of English society. They weren’t like the dissolute aristocracy who owned most of the land and spent their inheritance in drinking, gambling, and fornication. These were the ‘Gentry’ in the eras of Austen and Trollope. God fearing, industrious, and respectable. Their sons went to Charterhouse and Winchester rather than to Eton and Harrow, and to St Andrew’s and Durham rather than Oxford or Cambridge. In the army they served in their County regiment rather than in the Guards.” She aimed a winsome smile at Greg. “Of course some of the best of them served in the Lilywhites, Nulli Secundus. I believe you are related to the Cunninghams, Greg?”

“On my mother’s side.”

They exchanged warm glances and I realised that these two were much more than business partners. The straight-backed, straight bat, typical upper class Englishman and the working class Cockney tart with a heart – quite a combination.

“Getting back to ‘eather.” Audrey voice roused me from my thoughts. “‘Er mother’s elopement with a former Scots Guard was a nine day wonder as far as the press was concerned. The couple run off to Gretna Green and got married over the anvil and four months later Annabelle gave birth to ‘eather. Annabelle was immediately disowned by ‘er family the Carlton-Calverts. I spent an interesting time in the newspaper archives looking at the press accounts of the event. The elopement and subsequent birth of a daughter was a cause celebre and questions were asked in the ‘ouse as to ‘ow a deb...”

“That is the House of Commons, Philippe.” Greg interjected. “Sorry to interrupt you Audrey but sometimes our terminology can baffle even an English speaker of Philippe’s high standard.”

“Yeah, sorry Phil. At times I forget you’re a foreigner coz you speak such good English.” Better than you, you cheeky mare!’ I thought but then realised she wasn’t being chauvinistic but truthful.

“Any way, as I was saying questions were asked in Parliament ‘ow it was that a debutante met ‘er working class seducer, as Lomax was dubbed by the press, at Queen Charlotte’s Ball, the most prestigious event of The Season.”

“The Season is when young, marriageable age girls from the upper class and aristocracy were ‘introduced’ to London Society via Balls, banquets, etc.” Greg explained. “The girls were known as debutantes and the object of the exercise was for young, and not so young, men of similar social status to pick out a suitable filly to marry. The Meat Market was another name for it.”

“And how was it that an upper class debutante was seduced by a working class Scotsman at the Ball?” I asked.

“The papers weren’t sure and ‘ad some very way out theories including ‘ypnotism and being given a South American drug that saps self-will,” Audrey said. “Lomax was there as one of the many waiters at the do. ‘E ‘ad left the army a year before and was employed at Windsor Castle as a footman. ‘E was probably moonlighting coz the pay in Royal service is bladders.”

“In this context ‘bladders’ means ‘not much’ or ‘very little’, Philippe.” Greg explained. I already knew that as Alfie/Joe used the term frequently. But I just smiled and said nothing.

Audrey flashed him a grin and continued. “I doubt Lomax would ‘ave got into Annabelle’s knickers at the Ball, the girls were well chaperoned. They might ‘ave exchanged notes and met later. Annabelle was no fool; she kept the whole affair ‘idden from her family, friends, and chaperones. I suppose it was only when the pair realised she was up the duff...” I anticipated Greg’s interruption.

“I know what ‘up the duff’ means, Greg. In fact I’m well up to speed with Audrey’s jargon as it is similar to Alfie’s speech and I was with him for several years.”

“There you go, Greg. A Frenchman what speaks Cockney. That ‘as to be a first.” Audrey said, and poked her tongue out at Greg.

I could see Greg was embarrassed, not at having a tongue poked at him but that he had made Audrey look foolish and me look much the same.

“I do apologise, Philippe, and to you too, Audrey. I know I’m thought to a be a bit of a know-it-all who thinks no one is as well educated as me so please forgive me.”

“If I hadn’t had the privilege of knowing Alfie Hinds I certainly would be in need of your explanations, Greg, so you don’t need to apologise to me,” I said, pouring oil on troubled waters.

“Nor to me neither, but if it would make you feel better you can make it up to me later ... tonight.” Audrey’s pause before her final word had Greg’s face flaming beet red, not in embarrassment but I think in anticipation. These two certainly had more than just a business relationship.

After delivering her subliminal sexual invitation Audrey continued with the history of Heather Lomax.” ‘Eather’s Dad died when she was twelve years old, or rather ‘e was killed in a traffic accident. James Lomax and another County Council worker were clearing the drains on a main road. They ‘ad warning signs and bollards around the work area but a drunk driver crashed through the guards and killed James Lomax and ‘is work mate William Kelly. A month later Annabelle was reinstated in ‘er family and she and ‘eather returned to the family ‘ome in Chichester where ‘eather gets changed from a wild Scottish thistle to a cultivated perfect English rose and was now known as Heather Carlton-Calvert. I can’t imagine what traumas the poor girl went through. But she came through the ordeal and eventually married Captain Percival St John Featherstonehaugh of the Royal Corp of Transport. After her divorce she reverted to her birth family name, Lomax.”