The Lost Ancestor

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  The sound of laughter jolted Mary from her musings. She cursed herself for her silly daydreams and fantasies—they were always getting her into trouble. She tucked herself against a large stone pillar and peered to the side. Two gentlemen whom she did not recognise headed across the hallway, chatting animatedly as they went. They disappeared from sight and Mary quickly moved into the east wing of the house. Once there, the library was impossible to miss and, as she reached the open doorway, she had to remind herself to move inside the room where she would be out of sight, rather than stand dumbstruck at the sheer marvel of the room.

  Mary set the coffee pot down and took in the splendour of the library. An eerie grey light caused by the falling snow fell through the tall, latticed windows. Her eyes danced excitedly around the room, unable to focus on any one aspect. Thousands upon thousands of books lined floor-to-ceiling shelving, set within intricately carved walnut panels. An open fire stacked with seasoned oak pumped life and heat into the room; Mary knew that if she had been the lady of the house, this would have been the place that she would spend her days. Mary, unlike her twin, had an insatiable appetite for books of all kinds: she read about kings and queens, nature, history, science, foreign countries and, on her father’s instruction, she read the Bible. Under Mary’s bed was a veritable treasure trove of fiction books—stories which she read over and over, living her life vicariously through the protagonists’ exciting lives. However dreary and unpalatable her life really was, Mary always knew she had a whole different, more exciting and exotic world waiting under her bed. Standing here, in the Blackfriars grand library was better than anything that she could have produced from her imagination.

  Having taken in the scale and wonder of the room, Mary moved to the nearest shelf and pored over the tomes before her. Her forefinger moved carefully over the coarse spines, tracing the gold and black lettering, absorbing unfamiliar authors and titles. To her delight, Mary’s fingertip came to rest on Four Sisters, the most recent novel by her favourite author, Alice Ashdown. She delicately pulled the book from the shelf then turned it over in her hands.

  ‘What are you doing?’ a voice whispered at the open doorway, making Mary drop the book in fright.

  ‘Edward! Don’t creep up on me like that!’ Mary said.

  Edward pushed the door closed. ‘Mary, I’m serious. What are you doing in here?’

  ‘Bringing up a coffee pot. I couldn’t find one of the dreadful servants, so I did it myself,’ she said playfully. ‘I shall be having coffee, luncheon, afternoon tea, dinner and supper in here.’ Mary stooped down in an exaggerated fashion to pick up the fallen book. ‘See to it that I’m not disturbed, Mister Mercer.’

  Edward shook his head. ‘Mary, you’ll get us both in big trouble if you’re found in here.’

  ‘Please address me as Lady Mercer,’ Mary said with her head held high, staring down her nose at her cousin, the handsome Blackfriars footman. She and Edward had both inherited their grandfather’s fiery red hair, a simple familial resemblance, but which others imbued with implications about shared personality traits. It was true that, as children, Edward was one of the few people who had really understood her mischievous sense of adventure. After Edie, Edward had always been her favourite relative.

  A small smile appeared on Edward’s face. ‘Mary, put that book back. This coffee is for Lady Rothborne, she’ll be in here at any moment.’

  Mary flung her red hair to one side and marched in an exaggeratedly indignant fashion to the tall windows. ‘In view of the impetuous snow we’re having of late, I shall enjoy my coffee on this delightful window seat. Fetch it over please, Mercer.’ Mary sat bolt upright in the window chaise longue, the book placed in her lap, with all the posture of an eminent lady.

  Edward drew closer and stood in front of her. ‘Lady Mercer,’ he said exaggeratedly. ‘Will you please get out of here!’ Edward gently placed his hand on her elbow and ran his fingers up her arm and into her tousled hair.

  His touch sent a wave of delight through her, a feeling that shocked and surprised her. She remembered what Edie had just told her and whipped her head to one side so that his hand fell from her. She looked at the window and watched fat chunks of snow silently colliding with the window, slowly transforming into droplets of water.

  A moment’s silence was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind them, quickly followed by a mild gasp. Edward immediately side-stepped and stood up straight, knowing that he had been caught.

  ‘What in God’s name is happening here?’ a grave, female voice bellowed across the library.

  Mary looked over at the doorway and there, in an elegant coal-black dress which stretched to the floor, stood the formidable Lady Rothborne, Dowager Countess of Blackfriars. She allowed her words to linger and echo among the book-laden walls like a reverberating spell. Despite her old age, she stood with perfect posture, staring at the pair of them.

  Edward stepped forward with a deferential nod of his head. ‘Your Ladyship, I was just showing Miss Mercer the way out. She got lost bringing your coffee up. She was doing the chef a favour.’

  Lady Rothborne strode into the room and stopped before Edward. ‘Miss Mercer?’

  ‘Yes, Your Ladyship—she is my cousin.’

  ‘I can see the resemblance,’ Lady Rothborne said, without so much as a glance towards Mary. ‘What is your cousin doing assisting Monsieur Bastion? I was not aware of any new scullery maids at Blackfriars. Where is her uniform?’

  Edward’s eyes sank to the floor. ‘She was just waiting here while her sister has an interview with Lady Rothborne, Your Ladyship. She has come for the job of third housemaid.’

  Lady Rothborne raised an eyebrow, her harsh features softening momentarily. ‘Has she now?’ She glanced across to Mary but addressed Edward. ‘That will be all, Mercer.’

  Edward looked uncertainly at Mary.

  ‘That will be all, Mercer,’ Lady Rothborne reiterated in a louder, more severe tone.

  ‘Yes, my lady,’ Edward said. With a slight nod of the head, he hurried from the room, closing the door behind him.

  Mary stared at Lady Rothborne, anxiously waiting for her to speak; even to look at her directly. Edie would be mortified to know that she had been caught by Lady Rothborne holding a book from the Blackfriars library. Mary lowered the copy of Four Sisters and slowly began to push it behind her back.

  Without a flinch, Lady Rothborne turned and snapped, ‘And what are you planning on doing with that?’

  ‘Well, I would love to borrow it,’ Mary said.

  Lady Rothborne could not hide a look of puzzlement. ‘You want to borrow a book from the Blackfriars library, Miss Mercer?’

  ‘Only if you don’t mind.’

  Lady Rothborne raised her eyebrows. ‘I’m afraid there is no precedence for handing books out willy-nilly to the public.’ She paused and smiled. ‘For employees, on the hand, we might make an exception. May I ask, why you did not apply for the role of third housemaid?’

  Mary shrugged. ‘I don’t have the experience. My sister, Edie has done it for years.’

  Lady Rothborne smiled. ‘Nonsense. I’m sure you would pick it up in a flash. Would you like a job here?’

  Mary’s eyes suddenly came alive, as her imagination was reignited. Books, cousin Edward, Lord Rothborne: little consideration was required. It wasn’t exactly what she had dreamed of but it was a start. A way in. ‘Yes, I would like that very much.’

  Chapter Three

  Morton was sitting in his study, sipping a large cup of coffee and steadily sifting through the wodge of paperwork provided by his new client, Ray Mercer. Having initially buzzed through the pile of papers in order to ascertain the contents, he was now working through them systematically, creating a basic genealogical chart for the Mercer family as he went. So far, so ordinary. Nothing which would give rise to the disappearance of a seventeen year-old girl. He had so far been most intrigued by the note left on Edith’s grave in 1962. I hope you are at peace. Morton
had carefully studied the script—the writer had beautiful flowing handwriting, like nothing he had ever seen before. Using skills learnt in his degree, Morton analysed the pressure, stroke and letter size on the note then compared it to the photocopy from the book, where Mary had inscribed her name and address in the inside cover. Without doubt, they belonged to the same person. Only once he was certain of this did Morton read the graphologist’s report, which drew identical conclusions. He was still perturbed by the wording of the note. I hope you are at peace was a mile away from rest in peace. Morton stared up at the wall of his study that he used when working on a case. At the very centre of the wall was the photo of Mary and Edith, with various certificates, notes and census reports Blu-Tacked around it. He stuck the two samples of handwriting onto the wall then turned back to the stack of papers given to him by Ray Mercer. At the top of the pile was a photocopy of the newspaper article featured in The Sussex Express, dated Saturday 22nd April 1911.

  Missing Local Girl

  Readers are being asked to keep a look-out for a Winchelsea girl, following her mysterious disappearance. Miss Mary Mercer, in the employ of the Mansfield family of Blackfriars, had left her duties as usual for her half day’s leave on Wednesday 12th April, but failed to reach her home of 3 Friar’s Cottages. Readers will be saddened to learn that, despite a thorough searching of the locality on Saturday last, Miss Mercer’s whereabouts still remain unknown. Family and friends joined a fruitless search, looking far and wide for the seventeen-year-old girl. Sergeant Boxall of the Sussex County Police is leading an investigation into Miss Mercer’s disappearance.

  Morton looked at the dates mentioned in the article and noted down the date of Mary’s disappearance. The 1911 census, taken on the 2nd April 1911, would provide Morton with a tentative snapshot of those present in Mary’s life, days prior to her disappearance. Returning to the principle that somebody at the time must have known what had happened to her, he had drawn up three lists of people close to Mary in April 1911: friends, family and work. Morton first turned his attention to the work list. The copy taken from the 1911 census showed Mary Mercer working as a live-in housemaid at Blackfriars House in Winchelsea. Above her name were written the names of three other domestic servants, which Morton scribbled down. The rest of the household had not been given to him, being on a previous page. Morton fired up his laptop, logged onto the internet and accessed the 1911 census on the Ancestry website. Moments after typing in Mary’s full name and year of birth, a scanned copy of the original census report appeared onscreen, identical to that in his hands. Morton clicked onto the page before to see the full list of occupants of Blackfriars House. Mary had been in the employ of the Mansfield family. Heading the family was Cecil Mansfield, the Earl of Rothborne and his wife, Philadelphia, to whom he had been married for six years. The couple had no children. His mother, Lady Rothborne, a widow, was listed next, followed by Frederick Mansfield, cousin to the head of the house, and a plethora of domestic staff. As Morton carefully noted down each person, his eyes landed on a familiar surname: Edward James Mercer, unmarried, twenty-one years old, footman, born in Icklesham, Sussex. What were the chances of there being an unrelated Mercer working in the same house as Mary? Morton wondered. Not very high, he reasoned, adding this name to the list of Mary’s family members; he would need further research. Morton printed the page then saved the file. A quick correlation of census reports and birth records on the Ancestry website confirmed that Edward Mercer was Mary’s first cousin. Edward now featured on both the family and work lists.

  Morton sat back, took a mouthful of the warm coffee and stared at the list of names before him. His eyes rested on the family list. Mary’s mum, dad and sister lived at number three, Friar’s Cottages, the same place in which they had resided ten years previously. The eldest Mercer girl, Caroline, was absent from the family home in 1911. Morton typed ‘Caroline Ransom’ into the search box and found her, just as Ray Mercer had said, living in Bristol. She was recorded as a widow having been married for two years with no children. Having printed the page out, Morton ran a yellow highlighter over Caroline’s name. If Mary was going to run away from home, then an elder sister in Bristol seemed a good potential place to which to flee.

  Morton stood up and wandered over to the tiny window which gave onto the old, cobbled streets of Mermaid Street, Rye in East Sussex. He and Juliette, his long-term girlfriend, had lived here for a few months now, his previous house having been destroyed in the pursuit of a genealogical case. It was a sixteenth century house, filled with all the quirks and eccentricities of an ancient property, the first being the house name: The House with Two Doors. That alone had almost been enough to stop Juliette from even setting foot in the place. ‘Can’t we just live somewhere normal, Morton?’ she had pleaded. ‘Why do you feel the need to live somewhere strange? We don’t have to live in a windmill, or a Martello tower, or a prison, or a converted Methodist chapel, we could just opt for a modern house with modern things like central heating, double-glazing and vertical walls and horizontal floors. Is that really too much to ask?’

  ‘Let’s just take a look,’ Morton had replied, as they had approached the property.

  ‘I don’t even know which bloody door to knock on,’ Juliette had mumbled.

  It was a fair point, Morton had had to concede. Both looked like front doors. Both had gold knockers and handles. The right one had the extra feature of a letterbox, so he had opted for that one.

  It had taken Morton his first step inside to fall in love with it; it had taken Juliette two full viewings of the house and a detailed list of the pros and cons of living there before an offer was finally made and accepted. Now, eight months later, she loved it just as much as he did.

  Morton spotted a tourist pointing at his front doors. It was a daily occurrence, particularly at the height of summer, when flocks of visitors would descend on Rye to spot Mermaid Street’s quirky house names. He pushed open the latticed window and breathed in air laden with the outpourings of various nearby tearooms, and re-focussed his mind back on the Mercer Case. If Mary had indeed run away to her sister’s house in Bristol, there would be few records to corroborate this; the 1911 census was the most recent to be made publicly available and electoral registers did not extend to include women until 1918, and even then only if they were aged over thirty and owned property. Mary would be much more likely to appear among unofficial sources, family folklore and faded photo albums than in official records: Morton needed to find out if Caroline and William had any living descendants through their daughter, Rebecca.

  Returning to his laptop, he opened up a search page on Ancestry for the birth of Rebecca Ransom with the mother’s maiden name, Mercer. One result.

  ‘December quarter of 1911. Rebecca Victoria Ransom, mother’s maiden name, Mercer. District of Bristol. Volume 6a. Page 103.’

  Morton smiled. His next step was to ensure that Rebecca actually made it into adulthood, although from what Ray Mercer had said about this side of the family’s not being very helpful, he guessed that she had lived a full life. On previous cases, Morton’s exhilaration at this same point had been dashed when he had discovered that the child had died soon after birth. He typed Rebecca’s name into the 1916-2007 marriage index and found that she had married a Victor Reginald Catt in 1935. Putting her name into the death search index 1916 to 2007 gave one result.

  Name: Rebecca Victoria Catt

  Birth date: 1st November 1911

  Date of Registration: June 1993

  Age at death: 81

  Registration District: Bristol

  Inferred County: Gloucestershire

  Register Number: 13c

  District and Subdistrict: 3011I

  Entry number: 124

  Morton was pleased to see that Rebecca had married and lived a full life. Now he needed Rebecca to have left the standard paper trail of children and grandchildren. Switching back to the birth index, Morton found that Victor and Rebecca had produced three children toget
her: two boys and a girl, all born in the Bristol area. To save time, Morton prioritised his searches with the two boys, Reginald and Douglas.

  In the time that it took for Morton to finish the final splashes of his coffee, he had undertaken searches into the genealogical backgrounds of Reginald and Douglas Catt. He had confirmed that both men were still alive, both had their own wives and children and, using an electoral roll website, he had an address and phone number for each man. He considered cold-calling them but only liked to do this in the most urgent circumstances. Before typing out a letter to each man, he carried out a quick Google search of their names.

  ‘Bingo,’ Morton said, as he clicked his cursor onto the website of ‘V. R. Catt and Sons, Ironmongers.’ According to their website, Victor Reginald Catt had set up an ironmonger’s store in Bristol in 1948, his two sons gradually taking over the business in the 1980s. Morton saved a black and white photograph of Victor outside his shop in 1950 and a colour image of him and his sons outside the shop celebrating their fortieth anniversary in 1988.

  Navigating back to their home page, Morton clicked on the ‘Contact us’ tab and then set about typing a message into the contact form. ‘Dear Douglas and Reginald, I hope you don’t mind my emailing you out of the blue like this; I am a forensic genealogist who is researching the Mercer family tree, to which I believe you belong. In particular, I am concentrating on trying to discover what became of Mary Mercer, the sister of your grandmother, Caroline Ransom (née Mercer), who disappeared without trace in 1911. At this very early stage in my investigations, I am considering that one avenue of possibility is that Mary may have visited her sister Caroline at some point in or after 1911 and would really welcome your thoughts on this. I look forward to hearing from you. Kind regards, Morton Farrier.’