The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton looked up from his notepad, curious by Ray’s turn of phrase. ‘Were those her exact words?’

  ‘Well, along those lines. Obviously I don’t remember precisely.’

  Morton nodded. ‘What about Mary’s belongings? Do you know what happened to them after she disappeared?’

  Ray shook his head sadly. ‘Sorry, I’m really not much help, am I? By the time I came along in 1935 she’d been gone for twenty-four years. Her parents were dead, so I assume everything was disposed of. I didn’t find anything of Mary’s other than a few books among Granny’s effects after she died. Sorry.’

  ‘It’s fine. Could I see the books, please?’ Morton asked.

  ‘They’re all together here—there’s only four of them,’ Ray said, reaching for a small stack of books in a nearby shelf. He handed them to Morton. ‘You can borrow them if you like. I’ve read them all cover-to-cover, just in case there was any kind of a secret message or hidden note. Alas not.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Morton replied, taking a quick look at the cover of the top book, entitled Four Sisters. ‘What about other family members? Did Mary and Edith have any other siblings?’

  ‘There was an older sister, Caroline. She married a soldier, called William Ransom; they lived in Bristol and had one child, a daughter called Rebecca.’ Ray walked sombrely back over to the window, something Morton could see he did with regularity. ‘Their side of the family have never been any help, though. Granny didn’t really keep in touch with them—I get the feeling there was a falling out or something a long way back. Not much hope of finding what happened to her, is there?’ he muttered.

  ‘Well, I’m willing to take the case on and give it a go,’ Morton said.

  Ray turned, standing in a puddle of white sunlight. He smiled. ‘Don’t take too long about it. Not to put too fine a point on it but I’ve got stage four cancer of the pancreas.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Morton said, realising just how much finding his lost aunt meant to Ray and how little time he had in which to find her: ‘I’ll do what I can for you.’

  ‘Thank you. Is there anything else you need from me?’

  ‘This is all a good start,’ Morton said, holding up the stack of papers. ‘I’ll get back to you if I need anything else.’ Morton reinserted the paperwork back into the manila folder, then packed away his briefcase. He stood, ventured towards the window and shook Ray’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, Morton,’ Ray said quietly. ‘I finally feel there’s a glimmer of hope at finding her.’ He briefly turned to the photograph of Mary and Edith. A snapshot of history when their family was intact.

  Morton said goodbye and left the house. As he walked down the driveway towards his Mini, he began to lay the pieces of the puzzle out in his mind. Unlike the bog-standard genealogical cases that he used to undertake, whereby he would research the ancestral lines of a particular surname, this type of case intrigued and excited him. The fragmented Mercer Case jigsaw in his mind needed to be reassembled. Quickly. He didn’t know much about pancreatic cancer but he did know that stage four meant that Ray probably didn’t have long to live.

  As Morton drove the forty-three miles back home, he began to consider his first steps in the case. The bottom line for him was that someone, somewhere had once known what had happened to Mary Mercer. His job was to find that person.

  Chapter Two

  Monday 2nd January 1911

  Edith Mercer stared into the tiny hallway mirror, her self-directed anger increasing in earnest as she tugged her hairbrush through her thick dark hair. ‘For God’s sake!’ she muttered, regretting cursing the moment the words had passed her lips.

  ‘Edie!’ a hollow voice berated from the living room.

  Edith exhaled sharply. ‘Sorry, Father. It’s my hair, it’s awful. And my face. They’re not going to want to give me any job at Blackfriars House, never mind a job as third housemaid.’ Edith lifted the unwieldy hair and let it fall untidily around her ears. At seventeen years of age, Edith hated her appearance; she always had. She had hoped that when the change into womanhood had arrived, just like her older sister, Caroline, had once intimated, she would somehow be transformed from the plain-looking girl she saw before her into someone much more beautiful. In fact, the change had only left her with greasy, blotchy skin and equally oily unmanageable hair. Her childish naïvety had led to dreams of metamorphosing into Ellaline Terriss, a stage star with whom Edith had become enchanted after seeing her performing in the musical comedy The Beauty of Bath at the Aldwych Theatre. It was Ellaline’s centre-parted hair which fell into neat ringlets that Edith was attempting to replicate. She rubbed her face with a Papier Poudre wipe, trying to render her skin the desirable, pallid complexion of Edwardian ladies rather than the hideous dark complexion that she and her sisters had inherited from their father.

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with your appearance, Edie,’ her twin sister, Mary said, emerging from their shared bedroom. ‘You’re fine-looking.’ Mary looked over her sister’s shoulder, smiling and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  Edith shrugged her sister’s hand off. ‘Fine-looking. Who wants to be fine-looking?’ The twins were polar opposites in looks. Mary was a natural beauty with fiery red hair, stunning hazel eyes and a dark complexion; she never saw the need to constantly titivate and fiddle with her hair or try to look like the plethora of glamorous women who adorned the postcards stuck to the walls by Edith’s bed.

  ‘Are you nearly ready? It’s almost nine-thirty,’ Mary asked softly.

  Edith sighed. ‘I’ll have to be. It won’t do to be fine-looking and late for the interview: I’ll never get the job.’

  Mary ran her fingers through Edith’s hair, gently teasing apart the lank strands. She leant in and pecked her sister on the cheek. ‘Let’s go.’

  Edith poked her head around the living-room door. Their father, in his tatty labourer’s clothes, was sitting beside the simmering open-fire, smoking a pipe and attempting to repair one of his boots. ‘See you later,’ Edith said.

  Her father nodded without looking up and said nothing until Edith reached the front door. ‘Mary, you want to try learning from your sister. About time you paid your way, you two.’

  A knowing, conversant glance passed between the sisters as Edith took a deep breath and opened the door. A surge of freezing, winter air rushed at Edith’s face. She pulled her coat tight and stepped onto a fresh flight of snow with Mary close by in her shadow. The tiny town was even more still and calm than usual. The swathes of white snow, which had steadily fallen for the past three days, seemed to mute every flicker of life.

  The Mercers lived in a small stone cottage in Winchelsea, a town whose former glory days as the premier Cinque Port, taking pride of place on the Sussex coast, were long since over. For hundreds of years the townsfolk had quietly watched the coast recede from view, taking with it the reliance upon the sea. Gone were the mariners, seamen, rope-makers, shipbuilders, tradesmen, sailors and coastguards, replaced with labourers, farmers and domestic servants.

  Mary pulled her coat tight. ‘Bloody hell, that’s cold,’ she whispered with a giggle.

  ‘Shh, or you’ll get us both shot,’ Edith said with a glance over her shoulder.

  Mary pushed herself into her sister’s side, as icy winds scooped great squalls of fresh snow up from the low-lying fields to the exposed streets. ‘He can’t hear us. What’s he in such a foul mood for anyway?’ Mary asked.

  ‘The usual—this weather means no work on the farm, which means we’re relying on the pittance Mum earns doing the laundry for Mrs Booth.’

  The girls slowly made their way past the white weather-boarded cottages of Friar’s Road, their shoes crunching the unblemished snow. The only signs of Winchelsea’s having a heartbeat emanated from the wispy bands of smoke rising and dancing from the chimneys of each house that they passed, lacing the air with the scent of charred wood.

  ‘Curse this wretched wind,’ Edith snapped, nudging her sister awa
y and grasping her hair at the sides. ‘I’ll look like such a state when I get there.’

  ‘Why do you care so much about your appearance? They’re employing you as a housemaid, not a music hall star.’

  Edith’s cheeks tinged with an almost-imperceptible crimson but it was enough for her twin to identify as a flush of embarrassment. ‘I just want to look my best, that’s all.’

  Mary stopped, mouth agape in mock astonishment. ‘Edith Jane Mercer! You’ve got a fancy man working at Blackfriars! Is that why you want to work all the hours God sends as a housemaid?’

  Edith ignored her sister and continued walking, her head turned indignantly to one side. ‘I’ve got no such thing,’ she muttered.

  Mary skipped along the frozen ground until she was a step ahead of her twin. ‘What’s his name, then? Not Charles? You don’t want to be a gardener’s wife do you? Or is it Jack Maslow? He is very handsome,’ Mary giggled.

  ‘There’s nobody,’ Edith replied indignantly, pretending to be absorbed by the bare wintry branches of passing trees.

  Mary grasped Edith’s arm. ‘Tell me, Edie,’ she said, a subtle seriousness to her tone.

  Edith stopped and stared at her sister. A pregnant pause passed. ‘I think Edward has his eye on me, that’s all. Nothing more. No salacious gossip. No courtship. No fancy man.’

  Mary frowned. ‘Cousin Edward?’

  ‘What other Edwards do you know?’

  ‘But…’ Mary began.

  ‘But what? What will the family say? I don’t care what anyone says or thinks. You’re allowed to marry your cousin. They need to stop being so Victorian,’ Edith said heatedly.

  Mary mumbled something under her breath, as she was so accustomed to doing when her sister annoyed her. In past quarrels, Edith would usually have taken the bait and asked her sister to repeat what she had said. On this occasion she held her tongue.

  The girls continued walking in silence, the only sound being the sporadic surge of snowy wind coursing through the trees.

  ‘Does he feel the same?’ Mary enquired softly, watching as her shoes pressed perfectly into the fresh powder.

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Just leave it, will you, Mary?’ Edith retorted.

  The twins wordlessly trudged towards the dark entrance gates of Blackfriars, an icy wind carrying with it a fresh flurry of snow, only adding to the chill steadily permeating the sisters’ clothing.

  Edith stopped at the open gates, took a deep, chilly breath and began to walk towards the mansion with Mary a short distance behind her.

  ‘Do you remember when we were little girls, sitting in our bedroom pretending we were Lord and Lady Rothborne?’ Mary asked with a smile, hoping to thaw the atmosphere between them.

  ‘We were young and silly,’ Edith retorted, turning her attention to the large friary, which had at last come into view. The girls had been to the property on numerous prior occasions when locals were invited by the benevolent hosts to tea dances, fêtes and charity functions in the vast acres of Blackfriars. Despite their familiarity, whenever they saw the creamy-yellow Caen-stone building they were left in awe and wonderment at what went on inside such a grand place. Their cousin, Edward, had worked at the property as a footman for a number of years and had spoken of Blackfriars as if it were some exotic creature. He had often told them of the great extravagancies which took place there. He had described the sumptuous balls and elaborate birthday parties with such detail as to fill the sisters with a deep envy.

  The girls neared the grand entrance where fresh snow had begun to settle on the swept stone steps. Remembering what she had been told, Edith veered away from the front door.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful just to waltz in through the front door?’ Mary said.

  Edith didn’t answer, making her way over to the side entrance to a plain wooden door. With a short, cursory glance at Mary, she knocked on the wrought-iron ring and waited.

  A great puff of warm air, laced with a morning’s baking, wafted past Edith’s face as the door was pulled open. Standing in full smart uniform was Mrs Cuff, the housekeeper, with whom the twins were acquainted from the village. She was a tall lady with a friendly, hospitable face. Her dark hair was pulled neatly into a bun at the back of her head. ‘Come in, girls,’ she said, standing aside to allow them in.

  Edith and Mary stepped into the welcome embrace of the large kitchen, bustling with domestic servants busily performing their duties. The chef, a rotund man with a strong French accent and little knowledge of the English language, was barking orders at three kitchen maids who scuttled around the room like terrified mice.

  An impromptu smile crept up on Edith, as for the first time in her life, she felt that she belonged: destiny wanted her to become a part—a small part, she knew—in the carefully orchestrated running of Blackfriars House. She had plans, definite, firm plans which would see her rise through the ranks of the household staff. If she worked diligently, which she was certainly not afraid of doing, she would be promoted to second, then first housemaid, then lady’s maid and would eventually become a close confidante of Lady Rothborne. In years to come, she could be the housekeeper—the highest ranking female member of staff—and she would be the one to welcome new applicants to the post of third housemaid. She knew the job would be arduous with long hours and few breaks but she would be paid the handsome sum of twenty pounds per year—far and above anything she had ever earned before. Finally, she would have the independence that she craved.

  ‘I’ll take your coats, girls,’ Mrs Cuff said, extending her arm expectantly. ‘I’ll take you to Her Ladyship momentarily.’

  Handing over their cold, damp coats, the girls stood awkwardly and watched the comings and goings of the staff, who seemed entirely oblivious to the new arrivals’ presence, each engrossed in executing their own duties.

  Mrs Cuff disappeared with the coats, returning moments later. ‘Ready, Miss Mercer?’

  Edith inhaled slowly, delighting in her new title. Miss Mercer. All the years of slaving for her mother and quietly absorbing the mechanisms of running a household had led to this moment. Miss Mercer, third housemaid at Blackfriars of Winchelsea, Sussex. With a slight nod of the head, Edith moved across the kitchen. ‘I’ve never been more ready, Mrs Cuff.’

  Mary, standing unobtrusively at the edge of the room, went to wish her sister luck, but before she knew it, Edith had been enveloped into the depths of the house without so much as a glance back at her twin. A few years ago Mary might have been irritated at her sister’s indifference but, for some time since, Mary was growing used to her sister’s increasing aloofness and detachment. She supposed that was just what happened to twins as they grew up and wanted to assert and be known for their own personalities.

  Mary looked blithely around the kitchen, wondering at the uses of the implements, pots and pans hanging from giant hooks around the room. To her, many of them looked like instruments of torture. A myriad iron pipes of varying sizes led from a giant black range, leading to goodness only knew where. A huge copper pot, larger than anything that she had ever seen before, caught her attention. She went over to it, almost mesmerised by its splendour. It was so perfectly shiny and smooth that she could see her own curious face staring back at her. As she stared at the distorted bronzed-hued reflection, Mary suddenly became aware of the stillness of the kitchen. The orders had stopped and the maids had all vanished.

  A stark shadow passed behind her and she felt hot putrid breath on her neck. She turned quickly to see the chef’s quizzical face glaring at her.

  ‘Prends ça à la bibliotèque, maintenant!’ he barked.

  Mary froze, staring at his harsh features, only understanding fragments of his order. The chef thrust a steaming silver coffee pot towards her.

  ‘Prends!’ he repeated, his cold eyes swelling intensely. ‘Tiens!’

  Did bibliotèque mean library? Mary wondered, struggling to recall her French lessons from school. The idea of even catching a glimpse of the wonderful, celebrate
d Blackfriars’ library filled her with a joy that far outweighed the potential stupidity of her decision to reach across and tentatively take the silver coffee pot. ‘Biblotèque?’ she said softly.

  Angry yellow teeth appeared between the chef’s cracked lips. ‘Oui, la bibliotèque,’ he said, slowly repeating each word. Spit flew from his mouth on the final word.

  Mary gave a submissive nod of her head and walked purposefully from the kitchen with the coffee pot. ‘What a disgusting creature!’ she mumbled to herself, entirely unsure of where she was headed exactly. Ahead of her a long, narrow corridor with plain, whitewashed walls fed several closed doors. She knew that she needed to find a staircase which led to the east wing, having once caught sight of the grand library during a summer fete. As she reached the end of the corridor, Mary shuddered from the cold, having left the reaches of the hot kitchen ranges. She found herself at a corridor which ran perpendicular to the last. Standing still, Mary closed her eyes and tried to imagine a birds’ eye view of Blackfriars. If she was not mistaken, then she needed to take a left turn into the bowels of the east wing, then search for a staircase to the next floor. The library should then be somewhere close by.

  As Mary began to walk along the flag-stone floor, she quickly spotted a staircase and smiled. She climbed the steps and, at the top, she pushed open a heavy-set wooden door, appearing in a grand, decadent hallway which stole her breath away. Mary’s eyes flitted and danced across the huge family portraits that hung on beautifully elaborate ruby and gold wallpaper, across pieces of ornate furniture, enormous porcelain and pottery pieces, which would take up most of her tiny bedroom, and a gigantic cascading chandelier. Whilst her twin sister dreamed of working her life in a grand place such as this, Mary dreamed of living her life in it, becoming Lady Mary Rothborne and owning all of these precious things. She knew that it was an impossible fatuous dream, but it was one that had failed to release its childhood grip on her ever since she had first met Cecil Mansfield, heir to the Blackfriars estate, at a summer fête in 1902 to celebrate King Edward’s coronation. Although she was just nine years old at the time, and he was thirteen years her senior, that moment cemented Mary’s infatuation with him and his family. The childish games that Edie had just mocked her for, the annual family attendance at the Blackfriars fêtes, were always at Mary’s initiation and insistence. Her infatuation was knocked but not diminished when Cecil became married to Philadelphia Carnarvon.