The Lost Soldier by Costeloe Diney

“I wondered about looking in the parish records. A lady in the church said you had them.”
    “You can, of course,” Adam agreed, “but they’re not here in the parish any more, at least not the old ones, before 1945. They are in the record office in Belcaster. You’d have to go there to see those. I’m comparatively new to the parish, so I’m afraid I don’t know the history of many of the families in the village.”
    “How do you feel about the proposed development?” Rachel asked.
    “Probably as most people do, if they’re honest. They don’t like it, but recognise that without it the village will continue to dwindle away.”
    “And the Ashgrove?”
    “If there is some way it can be preserved, then it should be. It was designed as a living memorial to those men, but it hasn’t been maintained as such. The families concerned haven’t made sure it is recognised as a memorial, and many people in the village had no idea of the significance of those trees. I wouldn’t have known myself if it hadn’t been for the history of the parish written by one of my predecessors.”
    “Is that the booklet in the church?” Rachel thinking that the Ashgrove had had only a passing reference in that.
    “No, another little history which was left here in the vicarage. Written by a man called Smalley soon after the first war.”
    Rachel felt a surge of excitement. Henry Smalley was the rector who had dedicated the trees. “I suppose I couldn’t see it, could I?” she asked casually. “It sounds most interesting.”
    The rector reached on to a shelf behind him and took down a slim volume bound in linen covers. “Here it is,” he said, and passed it across to her. Rachel took it and opened it at the first page. On the flyleaf, written in faded brown ink, was a name she didn’t recognise. Underneath was the title A History of the Parish of Charlton Ambrose by Henry Smalley. Flicking through it quickly Rachel could see that for anyone interested in the parish it would make fascinating reading.
    “I suppose I couldn’t borrow this, could I?” she asked.
    Adam Skinner looked a little doubtful and said, “I’ve only this copy. I’ve never seen another and I wouldn’t want to lose it.” Then he smiled at her, shaking his head at his own reluctance. “Of course you can borrow it. I know you’ll take care of it, and it isn’t as if I don’t know where it is.”
    “Don’t worry,” Rachel beamed at him, “I quite understand. Are you really sure? I promise I’ll look after it and return it to you in the next few days.”
    “Yes, that’s fine,” Adam Skinner agreed.
    “Thank you,” she said softly, stowing the little book in her bag. “I’m sure it will be most helpful.”
    The rector got to his feet to show her out. “Do come back and tell me how you are getting on,” he said. “If there is some way we can preserve the memorial without losing the houses, that would be perfect.”
    The December evening had closed in and it was almost dark as Rachel made her way back to her car. She tossed her bag on to the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel. Suddenly she’d had enough for one day and she longed to be back at home and soaking in a hot bath, after which she planned to spend the evening curled up in her big armchair reading The History of Charlton Ambrose , by Henry Smalley.
    Later, as she did just that, she found herself immersed in the history of the little village. She read the whole book. It wasn’t very long, but the part that fascinated her most were the years immediately after the first war when Henry lived and worked in the village himself. He told of the struggle to readjust after the war, of the flu epidemic, of how much the men who had not returned were really missed, of the planting and dedication of the eight trees, and then mentioned the unexpected arrival of the ninth.
    “There was great uproar in the village when the extra tree was noticed. Many people wanted the tree