Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Your father is far from dead,’ one of them said reproachfully. ‘Do you honestly think we would have left you snoring away in the waiting room if there was anything that warranted disturbing you? You looked like you could do with the rest.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Morton said flatly, not about to be drawn into the finer points of his sleeping habits. He was sure, though, that he didn’t snore. ‘Can I see him?’

  ‘By all means. He’s in Bay C, second bed on the right.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He moved away from the nurses' station and heard mutterings about his rudeness. He had been rude, he knew that and quite frankly he didn’t care. Another instance of mitigating circumstances.

  Morton headed towards Bay C, which sounded like he would find his father in the corner of a warehouse or a busy dockyard. The sunlit room was at full occupation, being filled with a variety of sick and injured men of similar age to his father. His bed was screened off from the rest of the ward by a floral curtain. Typically antisocial, Morton thought. He cautiously pulled back the screen and was momentarily shocked: his father, eyes closed, pitifully thin and frail in a hospital-issue gown, showed no signs of life. Were it not for the host of machines he was wired up to confirming life, Morton would have believed him dead. He edged towards the bed and sat down beside him. A large part of him wanted to squeeze his father’s bony white hand and tell him that he loved him and that everything would be okay, but he just couldn’t. Thirty-nine years without physical contact prevented their hands from uniting. Surely his father had held him as a baby, or picked him up if he fell over as a toddler? Maybe, but there was nothing in Morton’s memory store to substantiate it. Instead, he rested his hand at the edge of the bed and stared at the pathetic sight before him. Moments later, as if sensing Morton’s feelings, his father’s hand twitched, seeming to reach and search for his.

  ‘Jeremy?’ his throaty voice asked, lifting his head dolefully from the pillow, his eyes opening to a narrow squint.

  ‘No, it’s Morton,’ he replied.

  His father issued a sound resembling a sigh and collapsed back into the bed. Fantastic, Morton thought. Even on death’s door his father couldn’t hide his disappointment in him and his preference for The Miracle Child. He realised that he probably should get word to Jeremy about their father. Maybe the Army would give him compassionate leave. He thought that he would wait for some of the test results first – it was still only a suspected heart attack – but it didn’t take Einstein to figure out that a cooked breakfast each day since his wife died, no exercise, plus a copious quantity of whiskey and a cigar each night might eventually lead to a clogging of the arteries. The funeral flowers on Morton’s mother’s grave were still fresh when his father made the announcement that he would be living his life how he wanted to live it and exercise, temperance and healthy eating were not included. To all intents and purposes, he became a reckless teenager. At the time it sounded to Morton like his father was somehow blaming his wife’s death on the fact that she tried to feed them wholesome food and encouraged the odd gentle stroll in the park. Stupid man.

  ‘Are you still there?’ his father asked, almost inaudibly after a few minutes silence.

  ‘Yes, Morton’s here,’ he said, just to clarify that it wasn’t his natural son keeping the bedside vigil. What did that make him? The unnatural son?

  ‘Is Jeremy coming?’ his father rasped.

  ‘Yes,’ Morton said. He reasoned that telling his father that Jeremy was on his way would either be a comfort in his final hours or would be a temporary reassurance. It was a lie which immediately served its purpose: his father visibly relaxed and closed his eyes.

  Morton sat back in his chair and watched his father’s chest rise and fall in short, shallow breaths, allowing the rhythmic sounds emanating from the machines to gently lull him into sleep.

  Sometime later, Morton’s iPhone sounded loudly in his pocket. His father opened his eyes with alarm, huffed when he realised the sources of the noise, and slumped back into the bed. Morton withdrew the phone and flicked the switch to mute. It was the Institute for Heraldic and Genealogical Studies calling. Morton slid the screen to answer the call and quickly stepped out of the ward. It was the receptionist telling him that Dr Garlick wanted to see him. Morton made an appointment for the afternoon, ended the call and returned to his father.

  Three and a half hours later, Morton sauntered along the inside of the Northgate Canterbury city wall, his thoughts harassed by his father’s knife-edge condition. Before Morton had left the Conquest Hospital, the doctors had confirmed that his father had suffered a heart attack and that further tests were needed.

  Morton reached the Institute for Heraldic and Genealogical Studies and entered the cool lobby area where he asked the smiley receptionist for Dr Garlick. She picked up her telephone and summoned Dr Garlick.

  ‘Mr Farrier!’ he greeted moments later, as if they were old friends, extending his hand warmly. ‘Good to see you again.’

  Morton shook the proffered hand and was relieved to see that he was carrying the precious copper box. With all that had occurred recently it wouldn’t have surprised him to find Dr Garlick dead and the box stolen. ‘Can I get you a coffee or tea?’

  ‘A coffee would be great, thanks,’ Morton answered, hoping it would taste better than the awful stuff from the hospital vending machine.

  ‘Julie, a coffee for Mr Farrier and a peppermint tea for me, please,’ he called across to the receptionist, who suddenly lost her smile. ‘Would you like to take a seat over there?’ he said, indicating an area with a coconut plant and four comfy chairs. ‘Very interesting one, this,’ he said, holding up the box. Morton had a moment’s fear that his nightmare might have been déjà vu and he was about to witness Dr Garlick’s sudden mutation into Daniel Dunk.

  ‘So you’ve identified the arms then?’ Morton asked, being slightly perturbed by the fact that Dr Garlick’s stomach was resting on his thighs. It seemed so odd that his thin and pasty father was lying in a hospital bed after a heart attack while a giant bulb of garlic waddled around Canterbury without a care in the world. If Morton had been closer to his father he might have thought it unfair. Instead he just thought it odd.

  ‘Yes,’ Dr Garlick said, but there was a tentative edge to his voice. ‘Though there is some confusion.’ Isn’t there always? It seemed that nothing was straightforward with the Coldrick Case. He struggled to remember what a normal genealogy job was like anymore. Certainly not this one. ‘It belongs to the Windsor-Sackville family,’ Dr Garlick said, pausing for Morton’s reaction.

  ‘Really?’ was all Morton could think to say, as he processed the information. He remembered that the Windsor-Sackvilles were the patrons of St George’s Children’s Home, where James Coldrick had lived as a child. Was James given the copper box? Did he steal it? Did all the children receive one as some kind of leaving gift?

  ‘It was produced circa nineteen forty-five and belongs to the current Sir David James Peregrine Windsor-Sackville,’ he said, before clarifying, ‘the father of our Secretary of Defence.’

  ‘Current? He’s still alive?’

  ‘As far as I know. He must be in his nineties by now, though.’

  ‘Is this something that could’ve been mass-produced?’

  Dr Garlick shook his head vehemently. ‘No. Perhaps two or three were made, but more than likely just this one. Worth a pretty penny, too, I shouldn’t wonder. If you are thinking of selling it, though, don’t just stick it on that eBay place for goodness’ sake.’ Dr Garlick laughed, but at what Morton wasn’t sure.

  The receptionist returned carrying a metal tray with Dr Garlick’s peppermint tea, a black coffee, bowl of mixed sugar lumps and a small pot of milk. She set the tray down wordlessly and flounced back over to her desk.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Dr Garlick said.

  ‘Thanks.’ He stirred in two sugars and some milk and took a sip. Filtered. Much better than the Conquest Hospital. ‘You said there was some confusion?’

/>   ‘Yes. Look,’ Dr Garlick said, moving the box between them. ‘This half of the armorial achievement, with all the expected brisures and what have you, is pure Windsor-Sackville, dating back many generations. We know that it has to belong to Sir David because it bears his mother’s arms within it. What we don’t know, none of us here knows, is who the other half belongs to. Are you up on your Windsor-Sackville history?’

  ‘Er, no, not really.’

  ‘Well, David Windsor-Sackville married Maria Charlotte Spencer, distant relative of Lady Diana Spencer in 1945, yet this isn’t her family arms,’ Dr Garlick said, handing Morton a sheet of paper. ‘That is the coat of arms of David and Maria Windsor-Sackville, registered with the College of Arms soon after their marriage.’ Morton compared the two coats of arms. Only half of each shield matched the other.

  ‘What does it mean?’ Morton asked, repeating a question that had haunted him for the past week. Nothing made sense.

  Dr Garlick shrugged. ‘I’m afraid my colleagues and I are at a loss over it. Taking an educated guess, it’s possible that it was produced for Sir David’s marriage to someone else but who that is, we’ve no idea. He certainly did only marry the once – I’ve double-checked the official records.’

  ‘And did you find anything under the Coldrick name at all?’ Morton asked, hoping that his thirty pounds an hour of research fees had gone on something more than one piece of paper and yet more uncertainty.

  ‘Nothing, I’m afraid. The name isn’t registered at all. Ever.’

  Morton needed his best friend and saviour, Google, and he needed it now. He downed the hot coffee, thanked Dr Garlick for his time and handed over a cheque for a hundred and eighty pounds - surely a world record for a photocopy of the Windsor-Sackville coat of arms.

  Outside, all signs of the last two days’ inclement weather had completely passed. Morton took off his jacket and buried the copper box inside it and made a beeline for his car.

  When he reached the Mini he called the Conquest Hospital for an update on his father and a nurse on the assessment ward told him that there had been no change in his condition. Some mercy, he supposed.

  Morton parked on the drive behind Juliette’s car. He looked at his watch curiously. She wasn’t due to finish work for another hour. Hurrying up the stairs into the lounge, he found her in uniform, frowning, contemplative and staring at the lounge floor. Something had happened. It had to be his father. The hospital must have called whilst he was driving home. Part of him didn’t want to ask. But he had to know. ‘What is it?’ She met his gaze and he saw that she had been crying.

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s my father, isn’t it?’

  ‘What? No, I don’t know anything about your dad. I was hoping you were going to tell me.’

  ‘He’s stable at the moment. They’re running every test known to man and he’s rigged up to drips, heart monitors and God knows what. I’m going back up later tonight with some bits from his house.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Fine. What’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve been suspended.’

  ‘What? What for?’

  ‘Accessing prohibited information,’ she said, her voice on the cusp of an angry outburst. Morton knew he needed to tread very carefully.

  ‘The number plate?’

  She nodded, then prolonged his agony by saying nothing more except, ‘I have to go back in for an interview at some point.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The BMW’s registered to Olivia Walker,’ she said.

  ‘Olivia Walker?’ Morton repeated. He knew the name, but couldn’t place it. He’d heard it in the last few days – some connection to this case.

  ‘Kent’s Chief Constable,’ she added, as if she could tell what he was thinking.

  It took a moment for Morton to digest the news. Daniel Dunk’s BMW was registered to the highest ranking police officer in Kent. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

  ‘Me neither. All I know is that it's not a personal car; it's one of more than half a dozen used for the security of key members of the government, like the Prime Minister, Home Secretary, Northern Ireland Secretary, et cetera.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  Juliette’s body sagged. ‘I was suspended. How much surer do I need to be?’

  ‘So Daniel Dunk’s working for the Chief Constable of Kent?’ Morton said, as much to himself as to Juliette. Although this latest development had made the picture even more abstract, he still thought with great excitement about all the new pieces of string and coloured drawing pins he needed to add to his Coldrick Case Incident Wall.

  ‘Christ knows, but something dodgy is going on. Not even five minutes after I’d run the number plate search I was hauled into the inspector’s office and told to explain myself. I said I saw the owner of the vehicle acting suspiciously but he wasn’t having any of it, suspended me there and then. I’m starting to think fifty grand is nowhere near enough money for this job of yours.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Morton agreed, attempting to mentally place the new acquisitions to the Coldrick Case jigsaw. ‘You said Olivia Walker is in charge of the security of key government ministers – would this happen to include the Secretary of Defence?’

  ‘Philip Windsor-Sackville, yeah, I believe so. Why?’

  ‘I’ll make a cup of tea and bring you up to speed.’

  Morton strolled into the kitchen, unable to shake the name Olivia Walker. He knew her name from somewhere else. But where was it? He boiled the kettle, searching his mind for a match.

  Then it struck him.

  She was the officer in charge of the investigation into Mary Coldrick’s death.

  What a coincidence!

  ‘There’s something else about your Chief Constable,’ Morton said, handing Juliette a mug of tea.

  Morton told Juliette everything about the Coldrick Case, even the finer details that he had previously skipped over. Juliette clasped the mug of tea like a frozen vagrant and listened intently to him, only interrupting to clarify when something had taken place. ‘But this was last week,’ she had said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He’d told her it was because he hadn’t wanted to bore her.

  Morton carried the copper box and the photocopy of the Windsor-Sackville arms to his study. He carefully placed the photos of James Coldrick and his mother, along with her letter inside the box and tucked it away under his desk. Opening up Juliette’s laptop, he punched ‘Windsor-Sackville’ into Google. Only seven million two hundred and fifty thousand websites to trawl through. The top results concerned Frederick James Windsor-Sackville.

  BBC – History – Windsor-Sackville (1880-1965)

  Frederick James Windsor-Sackville was a Conservative politician and prominent member of government. His much lauded welfare reforms…

  www.bbc.co.uk/history_figures/windsor_sackville.shtml - 25k

  Time 100: Frederick James Windsor-Sackville

  The illustrious statesman who served his country in WW1 before becoming Chancellor of the Exchequer.

  www.time.com/time/time100/leaders/profile/windsor-sackville.html - 33k

  Windsor-Sackville – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

  Political family headed up by Frederick James Windsor-Sackville. He was born 18 May 1880…

  En.wikipedia.org/wiki/Windsor-Sackville – 359k

  Morton scrolled down past generic biographies of Frederick James Windsor-Sackville, wanting to find out information about his son, Sir David and his grandson, the current Secretary of Defence. Most of the websites that he clicked on seemed to agree that David James Peregrine Windsor-Sackville was a rising star in the Conservative party prior to World War Two. Then, having gained a place in Churchill’s Coalition Government, he secured the family’s fortunes at a time when other gentry were losing theirs, by landing large reconstruction contracts for his fledgling company, WS Construction. Having helped populate half of post-war Britain with cheap prefabs, David became a key member of the governmen
t’s rebuilding programme; many of Britain’s most unsightly 1950s concrete monstrosities owed their creation to WS Construction and David James Peregrine Windsor-Sackville. A knighthood followed in 1964. Maintaining his place close to the centre of the British political system, it was inevitable that his son, Philip would follow in his footsteps, ascending to the role of Secretary of Defence in the current Coalition Government. As stated by Dr Garlick, David married Maria Spencer in 1945, their first child, Philip, arriving the following year in December 1946. Morton took a page of notes before clicking on the family’s own website.

  The Windsor-Sackville Family

  Information, quotes, speeches and biographies on this distinguished British family.

  www.windsor-sackville.org.uk/ - 28k

  He looked around the website ‘of this most eminent of English families’ designed with elegant colour-schemes and an old English style font. Clicking on the Family Tree tab, he followed the ancestral line of the Windsor-Sackvilles. He studied the screen for some time then stared at the Coldrick Case Incident Wall. The only logical explanation that he could come up with was that James Coldrick could have been the son of Sir David James Peregrine and Lady Maria Charlotte Windsor-Sackville. It certainly made sense on some kind of level. Had they placed the illegitimate James - born a year before their marriage - just metres away at St George’s Children’s Home and then bought his silence when he grew up with several hundred thousand pounds? Had they killed Mary Coldrick when she began to pry into her husband’s past? Had they killed Peter Coldrick when he too grew curious and began to ask the wrong questions? Did the ‘M’ at the end of the wartime letter written to James Coldrick stand for Maria? Could it really be as simple as that? Morton doubted it. It all felt a bit too crowbarred into place, the kind of surmises dreamed up by amateur genealogists determined to find that elusive link to royalty. He’d lost count now of the number of clients who claimed to be descendants of a mistress of Henry VIII, as if that even meant anything. Congratulations, your twenty times great grandfather was an adulterous rogue and your twenty times great grandmother was a harlot. You must feel so honoured to have such blue blood running through your veins.