Hiding the Past (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 1)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Sorry,’ Morton said, ‘you made me jump. I’m still half asleep.’

  ‘What you up to?’ he said, leaning in and looking at the laptop screen. ‘Ah, Lady Maria. You interested in her?’

  ‘Kind of,’ Morton answered dismissively, unsure of how much Jeremy had revealed in pillow talk. Hopefully nothing.

  ‘She’s a real feisty bird but she’s got a soft spot for me so I tend to get the better jobs around the house. Not that I can complain, decent wages, free apartment in Charingsby; it’s alright really,’ he said.

  Morton wondered if it was potentially a stroke of luck having an employee of the Windsor-Sackvilles standing half-naked in his kitchen. Someone to question about the inner workings of the estate. But what if he’s on their side? he thought. Morton decided it was a risk worth taking. After all, he was there when Jeremy and Guy met. That would have been impossible for the Windsor-Sackvilles to orchestrate in advance. ‘I expect they have a lot of security and police protection, what with their son being Defence Secretary and all,’ Morton finally said, dropping a giant unsubtle fishing hook into their conversation.

  ‘I guess so,’ Guy answered cryptically. ‘All sorts of people come and go; it’s hard to keep track of who’s who really. I’ve only been over here for a year so I’m not really familiar with all your politicians.’

  ‘Is there a man called Daniel Dunk that works for them?’ Morton asked, sounding as casual as he could.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a kind of security bloke, handyman. Bit shady if you ask me, but they rate him. His wife used to work at Charingsby before I started there and I think his dad might have even worked for them way back in the past. I guess his family are part of the furniture. Why’s that, you know him?’

  ‘Know of him,’ Morton said, touching the memento Dunk had left on the side of his head.

  ‘Well, I’m going back to bed. Night.’

  ‘Night,’ Morton replied, wondering if his life could get any stranger. He returned his attention to the laptop and clicked on the ‘opening hours’ tab for Mote Ridge. Their doors would open in four hours' time and Morton would be there.

  A while later, Morton headed into the bedroom and began to dress by the muted light straining through the curtains.

  ‘Just say it, Morton,’ Juliette suddenly snapped from the bed, still with her eyes shut, curled into the foetal position.

  ‘Say what?’ Morton said innocently, as he pulled on a clean shirt and pair of jeans.

  ‘You’re banging and clattering around the room, which usually means you want me to wake up. Just say it. What’s happened now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Morton said indignantly, hating the way Juliette could see through him as though he were a sheet of glass. He hadn’t consciously been trying to wake her up. Well, maybe he had. ‘I just brought you up a cup of tea. But since you’re awake, you’ll never guess who just strode into the kitchen half naked at four this morning?’

  ‘Guy,’ she said. Not so much a guess as a statement. She still hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I let him in last night.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Because.’

  ‘We’re not sniggering fifteen-year-old girls, Morton. Jeremy’s an adult and this is his house, he doesn’t need our permission to have people to stay over. Now let me get some sleep.’

  ‘I didn’t say he needed our permission, but his usual place of residence is Charingsby after all. Talk about Trojan Horse.’

  Juliette made a grunting sound that spelled the end of the conversation.

  When Morton arrived at Mote Ridge it seemed to be under siege from every W.I. platoon in the country. At least, that was Morton’s impression as he queued behind a neat single-file line of pensioners that snaked towards the ticket office, a plain wooden box manned by two overworked staff. Typical, Morton thought. Of all the days he could choose, he picked today. But then again, he wasn’t here for a day out, he was here for research, to find out once and for all if ‘M’, the woman who gave birth to James Coldrick, was Lady Maria Charlotte.

  The trail of old ladies collected their tickets then beelined for the tearoom and Morton finally made it to the small window in the side of the ticket office.

  In exchange for the ten pounds entrance fee, Morton received a brief guide to Mote Ridge, a map of the extensive grounds and a long hard stare at his ping-pong ball lump from the beleaguered young girl behind the window.

  Morton pocketed the map and crossed a dry moat into the heart of a large, rectangular courtyard with high, flint walls that made the place feel more like a fortress than a home. It had most probably been both at some time in its chequered history. He couldn’t imagine growing up somewhere so detached and formal. He wondered at the implications of having more servants living with you than family. What was it that Guy had called Lady Maria? A feisty old bird. Translation into English: surly old dragon. Was it really any wonder, though, looking at this place? What kind of an upbringing did she have?

  The house itself was an eclectic mixture of architectural styles. The main part comprised of a large stone tower with small lead-framed windows, which reminded Morton of a classic fourteenth-century church. Fused to the tower was a stunning example of a typical medieval hall house – iconic black beams and white wattle and daub plaster with tall mullioned windows. Rising up from the rear were four ornate herringbone brickwork chimneys. Morton stared at the building with a feeling akin to admiration. Such a fine house would usually take him a whole day to explore but today he was here for work.

  A sign with ‘Entrance’ and a large red arrow directed visitors through the one-way labyrinth of the Mote Ridge mansion. Morton sped through manicured guest bedrooms, servants’ quarters, kitchens, sculleries and formal dining areas, all replete with original furniture and belongings from the house’s heyday, searching for something which would confirm or disprove the idea that Lady Maria was James Coldrick’s mother.

  Overtaking hordes of ambling visitors, Morton finally reached Lady Maria Charlotte’s childhood bedroom. The word that sprang into his mind when he took in the room, was clinical. He realised that, of course, it might not have been that way when she was growing up here, that this mocked-up version of her bedroom might be nothing more than a National Trust volunteer second-guessing history. All of the furniture, the walnut wardrobe, bedstead, chest of drawers and writing bureau were kept several feet away from the public by a thick sausage of red rope and a multi-lingual sign stating ‘Do Not Cross’.

  Morton took another cursory glance around the room and, for the first time, noticed a large sepia photograph hanging beside the door. A label below the photograph read ‘Maria Charlotte Spencer, 1921’. He studied the photo carefully and put his training from Dr Baumgartner to work. She was diminutive, shyly looking out at the hundreds of visitors who trooped through her bedroom every week. Her dress was a high-quality pristine white, pearl-lined yoke with a matching ribbon tied neatly atop her dark wavy hair. Behind her was the painted backdrop of a grand staircase, which told Morton that it was a studio portrait. His assessment of the photograph type and clothing agreed with the stated date of the early 1920s. Morton pulled out his iPhone, selected the close-up photo of James Coldrick’s mother and held it beside the photograph of Lady Maria; he was certain that they were not the same person. James Coldrick’s mother had much softer, rounder features with a natural beauty that came without the aid of the careful make-up and lighting used in the photograph of Lady Maria. Their eye shapes were, almost imperceptibly, different; Lady Maria’s were more pinched and severe than the almond, smiling eyes of James’s mother. Although their hair colour and thickness were initially similar, when Morton studied their hairlines, he noticed they were entirely different.

  A National Trust volunteer entered the room and he quickly lowered his iPhone. Not quite quickly enough. ‘What’s that you’ve got there then?’ the volunteer asked curi
ously. She was a fragile-looking woman in her mid to late eighties. Her name badge identified her as Jean.

  ‘Just a picture,’ Morton said vaguely. He had hoped to slip quickly and quietly in and out of Mote Ridge but reasoned that it wouldn’t do any harm to speak to a volunteer. From past experience, Morton found that these people were usually pretty clued up on property in which they volunteered. They were often privy to snippets and anecdotes which were absent from the laminated information sheets or guide books. ‘Do you think that the woman in this photo could be Lady Maria?’ Morton asked, raising the phone level with the portrait photograph.

  Jean raised her glasses from the string around her neck but quickly shook her head emphatically. ‘No, I wouldn't say so. Do you know when it was taken?’

  Morton considered giving the very precise answer of the seventh of May 1944, but settled for, ‘1944.’

  ‘Definitely not, then. She was in America at that point. If you go over to the Old Stables at the far side of the courtyard, we have a photo exhibition and among them are pictures of her during the war.’

  ‘America? What was she doing there?’

  ‘Her father sent her out there for safety as soon as the Germans started bombing, sometime early in 1940,’ Jean said.

  ‘When did she come back to Britain?’

  ‘1945, only a few months prior to her marriage to Sir David.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Morton said. It was looking highly unlikely that she was James Coldrick’s mother. There was only one further possibility, and that was that she gave birth in America, which would explain why there was no birth entry in the English registers. Morton posed the question of a possible child to Jean, who burst into laughter.

  She seemed almost offended at the very idea. ‘Heavens above! What on earth made you ask me that? Goodness me, no, absolutely not. No,’ she said. ‘Her first child was Philip, whom she gave birth to in 1946. Heavens!’

  Morton shrugged. ‘Just an idea.’ He left Jean in a fit of giggles and made his way back towards the courtyard. He wouldn’t be fulfilling the forensic part of his job title if he didn’t take a look at the photo exhibition. On his way across the courtyard Morton spotted the gift shop. He ducked inside and picked up a brand new pair of binoculars to replace his father’s pair that had inadvertently become another casualty of the Coldrick Case.

  He pulled out the map of Mote Ridge and made his way to the Old Stables, a converted stable block containing a potted history of the Spencer family and their ties with Mote Ridge. Morton moved among a gaggle of pensioners, closely reading the frankly over-the-top quantity of material relating to Princess Diana, despite her only connection to Mote Ridge being that her great great great grandfather had been born there. It was hardly her ancestral seat, but the pensioners seemed to be lapping up the displays, cooing over pictures of the infant princes. Photographs of the infant Prince George seemed to be particularly popular with the visitors.

  Morton passed by the information pertaining to centuries-old members of the Spencer family until he came to Lady Maria. Just as Jean had said, there were four photographs of her in America during the war. The sceptic in him said that the photos had nothing in them identifiably American, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that the woman in photos was the same as the girl in the portrait he had just seen, the same as the old, doddery lady at the Sedlescombe Fete on Saturday; not James Coldrick’s mother. There was no doubt now in Morton’s mind: M did not stand for Maria Charlotte Windsor-Sackville née Spencer.

  Feeling dejectedly back at square one with the question of James Coldrick’s parentage, Morton left Mote Ridge.

  Morton was relieved to find that it wasn’t a case of déjà vu he’d experienced the previous night. He arrived at the Conquest Hospital and nothing he had dreamt about actually occurred. He parked a long way from the main entrance, paid the parking fee and made his way to the Atkinson Ward. What he hadn’t expected, however, was to find a tattooed skinhead (‘Matt Hargreaves,’ the dry-wipe board above his head announced) in place of his father. Morton stared at him and received a snarl that, if Matt Hargreaves hadn’t been wired up to so many machines, including an oxygen mask, would have undoubtedly turned into a ‘What are you staring at?’

  It was like he’d stumbled onto the wrong ward. Maybe he had, they were all replicas of each other, after all. But no, it was the correct ward. The men in the neighbouring beds were the same men as before, watching their televisions, oblivious to Morton’s growing panic. Was that it? Had his father died and nobody had contacted him? Maybe his phone had run out of battery. He checked it and it still had three bars of power and a full signal. No missed calls. No text messages. Surely Jeremy would have called? Maybe he’d phoned Juliette first? He stared at his father’s replacement.

  ‘What?’ Matt Hargreaves managed to rasp angrily.

  ‘Where’s my father gone? He was here.’

  Matt Hargreaves growled something and turned his head toward the window, as if he couldn’t quite cope with life if he were unable to shout or head-butt anyone who irritated him.

  Morton was rooted to the spot, staring disbelievingly at him.

  ‘Hello? You look for Mr Farrier?’ a deep, heavy Eastern-European accent said to him. He turned to see a tall shaven-haired nurse with a kindly smile on her face. He nodded and waited for the worst. ‘He go down for heart operation.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all Morton could manage to say. He left the ward and dialled Jeremy, who was three floors above eating a cold Cornish pasty and drinking a hot cup of tea.

  ‘They had a cancellation, so they brought Dad’s op forward,’ Jeremy said, thrusting the last of the ketchup-drenched pasty into his mouth. Morton wondered if cancellation was a euphemism for death.

  ‘How long’s he been down?’ Morton asked, sitting opposite Jeremy in the deserted cafeteria.

  ‘About two hours now,’ he answered with his mouth full. ‘It’ll probably take another hour.’

  ‘How was he before he went down?’ Morton asked, suddenly feeling nauseous.

  ‘Terrified, but then so would I be if I had to have my ribcage cranked open and my heart stopped.’ Morton imagined his father right now on the operating table, neither dead nor alive, occupying some half-way space in the universe while fate or God or whatever, decided which way he was going to go. ‘He was actually more gutted that he hadn’t had a chance to speak to you yet,’ Jeremy added.

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’ Morton asked.

  ‘No, no idea. I wouldn’t worry about it, though.’

  ‘No,’ Morton answered. But he was worried. He needed to hear whatever his father had had to say to him.

  ‘Do you want a drink?’ Jeremy asked, standing and downing the last of his tea. ‘I think we could be here a while.’

  ‘Coffee please. Strong.’

  As Jeremy stood at the counter and filled two polystyrene cups, Morton’s mobile rang. It was Dr Baumgartner. He told Morton that the results of the DNA test would be back by the morning and he wanted to arrange a meeting to talk about the contents of the copper box before his return to Birmingham on Wednesday. They agreed to meet tomorrow afternoon, back in the Sherlock Holmes, which seemed as good a place as any to learn the truth about whether or not Sir David Windsor-Sackville was James Coldrick’s father. With Morton’s certainty over Lady Maria not being James Coldrick’s mother, he still could not rule out Sir David being his father. Something tied the Coldricks to the Windsor-Sackvilles, why else would they have spent the best part of seventy years hiding the past?

  Morton ended the call wondering at the subtle undercurrent of intrigue he’d detected in Dr Baumgartner’s voice. But Morton knew better than to push for a premature assessment. ‘Never, ever, ever, ever, ever, hurry your work,’ Dr Baumgartner would say on a regular basis to slapdash students presenting half-baked case files to him.

  Jeremy returned with the two drinks. ‘Everything okay? You look like you’re not really with it.’

  Morton snapped bac
k from his daydream. ‘Yeah, just thinking about Father.’

  Jeremy offered a comforting smile. ‘He does love you, you know, Morton.’

  ‘I know.’

  And so they waited.

  They had finished their drinks and moved down to the ICU waiting room, which was the mirror image of every other waiting room in the hospital. Their conversation had naturally run dry and the two men sat in comfortable silence, each engrossed in their own thoughts. Morton wondered what was going through his adoptive brother’s head. His own mind leapt like a manic frog between disparate problems. He wondered how Juliette had got on with her first day back at work. He imagined that the senior officers in the station would be keeping a close watch, monitoring her every move. He would ring her once he’d heard news of his father but who knew when that would be? Nobody was in any hurry to talk to them, it seemed. He felt like going over to the nurses’ station and asking how soon his father would be able to talk; but that seemed a rather crass and frivolous question to be asking of a man with a ten-inch hole in his chest and no heartbeat.

  Morton wondered if he’d dozed off and was in a bizarre dream when he heard the faint opening bars of Dancing Queen, steadily increasing in volume. He glanced around the room and realised that he was fully awake and that there could be no doubt over his brother’s sexuality when Jeremy fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his mobile. He answered the phone and Abba stopped singing. It only took a few sentences of half conversation for Morton to realise that he was talking to Guy. Jeremy was evidently rebutting a suggestion of going out tonight.