In a time before cell phones, websites, and dating services, young men and women often married people they'd grown up with, people their families knew from the same community, like Arras, made up of farmers, shopkeepers, and tradesmen where their children all attended the local Catholic school together. It was possible that Angeline Robillard had known Albert Marchand all of her life. It was also possible it was just another rabbit hole.
Apparently Marchand was a common name. There were records for three with that name, but only one for M. Marchand, b. 2Apr 1991. Too young to be the Albert Marchand who had married Angeline Robillard. A relative?
“What about local census records?” she asked the clerk.
“Only for taxes and the military.”
James entered the name in the file record for those who had served in the military.
“Nothing.”
“What about local property owners?”
They were told that information could be found at the Land Registry.
It was late afternoon when they found the office.
“Our records only go back to just after World War II,” the woman at the counter informed them.
“Everything before that was destroyed. The only records we have from that time period are those that were kept by the property owners themselves, or in the case of property transfers such as death.”
“Or marriage?” Kris asked.
“Possibly,” the clerk replied.
“This would be from 1954,” she told the clerk. “Under either the name Robillard or Marchand.”
“What are you thinking?” James asked.
“The Tavern,” Kris replied. “When Cate wanted to buy it and restore it there were no records of ownership. The only thing anyone knew about it was that a man by the name of Brian was the last person who lived there.” She tried to remember the name Cate had mentioned.
“Brian McCallan.” James knew the story; he'd grown up on it with road trips out to the tavern with his mates and a case of ale.
“The only problem was,” Kris continued with what Cate had told her at the time, “there was no record he ever legally owned the Tavern. Apparently he just moved in. But there was a record of ownership by a woman who inherited the property after her husband died a century earlier. All anyone knew was that Brian McCallan moved in somewhere around 1920.” She remembered several conversations while Cate was trying to buy the Tavern.
“Everything was tied up for almost a year while Cate's solicitors worked through all the legal obstacles. A description of the property was found in the woman's records under her family name, but there were no surviving heirs, so it was declared an abandoned property, and Cate purchased it at auction. Her bill from the solicitors was more than what she paid for the property.”
The clerk had returned and provided copies of what she had found.
“We have a record from June 1954, in the name Marchand, a property registration with a copy of a marriage certificate.” The clerk handed her a printout of the record, including the certificate.
It was in French, but she immediately recognized the names at the bottom of the marriage certificate.
Albert Marchand and Angeline Robillard.
They'd just found that needle in the haystack, including an address where the original property transfer had been sent after it was recorded—Rue Chauvel, Montigny, France.
“North of the city,” the clerk told them.
Kris gathered the copies the clerk had made for them and put them in her shoulder bag. She hesitated as she turned to leave.
On a sudden thought, she asked, “Where is the hospital located?”
“Hospital?” the woman replied with a frown. “There is no hospital here. The nearest hospital is the university hospital at Amiens.”
No hospital. What then had Micheleine meant by that message hidden decades earlier?
It was early afternoon when they left the library, lights gleaming beneath a leaden sky along the colonnaded buildings as they returned to the rental car. She slid into the passenger seat. James slipped behind the wheel.
