The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton clicked the ‘Submit’ button and the message vanished. He now just needed to wait patiently and hope that they would respond. Morton returned to the three lists of people close to Mary in 1911. By far, the longest list was the staff of Blackfriars. Did the household and staff accounts books still survive? Morton wondered. A brief Google search told him that the property was in the hands of the Mansfield family, the same family as in 1911 when Mary had disappeared. He had driven past the imposing property countless times, Winchelsea being on the unavoidable route between his house in Rye and his father’s in Hastings, yet, despite it having been open to the public since 1960, he had never actually set foot in it. It was high time for a visit.

  Morton had trained to be a forensic genealogist in the time before family history had exploded onto the internet. He loved the immediacy and speed of such a huge plethora of records being online, but for him, the biggest enjoyment came from an immersion in history: holding ancient documents between his fingers, analysing faded photographs and uncovering lichen-covered tombstones in the search of an elusive ancestor. He needed little convincing to step out of his study for some hands-on research.

  He had decided to park on Friar’s Road in the summer shadows of the town church. Grabbing his bag, he stepped out into the early-afternoon sun, taking in the stillness of the small town. Winchelsea, being just three miles from his home, had always fascinated him. The casual visitor or holidaymaker often came here to see a quaint, well-preserved English village; those unguided tourists left without the knowledge that it was in fact a town, once envisaged by its founder, Edward I, as one of the leading seaports in England. Further confusion often came by the unique design of the town using a grid pattern, something which often confused visitors used to associating it with modern American cities.

  Morton began to assimilate his surroundings, picturing himself here more than one hundred years ago, consciously removing all traces of modern life.

  It was very easy to imagine Friar’s Road in 1911; but for the addition of a scattering of cars and a couple of television aerials and satellite dishes, the village was delightfully devoid of the usual modern street furniture; it even lacked street lighting. He turned his attention to the run of attractive stone and brick cottages. Number three Friar’s Cottage was the penultimate house in a run of charming rose-covered properties. Having only one small window downstairs and one upstairs, it was among the smallest houses on the street, which Morton knew meant that the girls would very likely have shared a room prior to Mary’s departure for service at Blackfriars. It was little wonder then that Edith was devastated at her sister’s disappearance.

  Morton removed his Nikon camera from his bag and took several shots of the house, all the while hoping that the owner wouldn’t spot him and burst out to ask him what he was doing. It had not yet happened in his career, but he never really had a clear answer ready as to what he would say. He always thought the truth sounded too convoluted or complicated. He tucked his camera back into his bag and strolled down the quiet road. Traffic visitors to Blackfriars were directed along the main A259 road to the front entrance, but Morton knew that just past the village primary school was an unpublicised footpath into the estate. He was sure that this was the way which Mary Mercer would have walked to and from work on her days off. It had struck Morton as curious when he had first noticed on the census that she was living at the property, despite only living metres away. It was only after he had reflected on the nature of her job as a housemaid that he understood that her duties would have required her to spend almost every waking hour in service with only half a day’s leave per week.

  He reached a pair of stone pillars just wide enough to accommodate a standard horse and carriage, then crossed into Blackfriars. He walked slowly down the concrete path which bisected a perfectly manicured lawn. As the path drew closer to the house, a teasing glimpse of a purple wisteria-engulfed wing appeared. He continued as the house appeared inch by inch in front of him. When the full magnificence of Blackfriars came into view, Morton stopped and stared in awe. Despite the few members of the public milling about near to the building, he was able to see the estate through the Edwardian eyes of Mary Mercer. She too must have been locked in sheer admiration the first time that she walked this path. As he neared the building, he turned back on himself and stared at the winding path that he had just taken. Somewhere on that route back to Friar’s Cottage on Wednesday 12th April 1911, Mary Mercer had vanished for more than fifty years. Where did you go? Morton wondered, as he photographed the pathway. And why?

  Morton slung his camera around his neck and became absorbed in a growing crowd, steadily moving towards the makeshift ticket office outside the Blackfriars front door.

  Every snippet of conversation emanating from the queue to enter Blackfriars centred on the television show, The Friary, a popular Sunday night drama about the ‘upstairs downstairs’ lives of an Edwardian aristocratic family. Blackfriars was used for the external shots and some of the ‘upstairs’ filming. Juliette loved the programme but Morton took great offence at the historical liberties taken in the name of entertainment; it was exactly the same for Juliette and police dramas. Except now that she was training to be a fully-paid up member of the police, rather than a PCSO, she was even more sceptical and deriding.

  The gap shrank between Morton and the lone ticket-seller sitting behind a wooden trestle table with an open cash-box. Not the most sophisticated ticket office in the world, Morton thought, but he knew that a modern day ticket office would look slightly anachronistic in an Edwardian television drama.

  Finally, he reached the front of the queue and was greeted with a sharp frown from a plump lady with a ruddy complexion and white curly hair. Her name badge announced her as ‘Mrs Greenwood’.

  ‘Welcome to the Blackfriars estate,’ she said in a voice which told Morton that she had said it a million times before.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Have you been here before?’ she asked monotonously.

  ‘No, first time,’ Morton said.

  ‘I expect you’re a fan of the show.’

  ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Morton said vaguely, wondering why, yet again, lying was much simpler than telling the truth.

  The dreary lady informed him that his sixteen pounds entrance fee bought him a ticket which was valid for a year, and a map of the estate. He additionally purchased a five pounds guide book, which, from having a quick flick through whilst he handed over his money, appeared to blend trivia from the show with factual historical information. Morton spotted an extract which seemed to be an Edwardian estate accounts list. Underneath it was a modern photo of a smartly dressed, spectacled man in his fifties. The caption to the photo labelled him as the Blackfriars archivist, Sidney Mersham.

  ‘Do you happen to know if Sidney Mersham is in at all today?’ Morton asked, snatching the opportunity.

  The lady frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, without giving the question a moment’s consideration, before adding, ‘I come in, hang my coat up downstairs, then I’m stuck here for the rest of the day.’

  Morton smiled, hoping that it might enliven the jaded cashier. ‘I’m a forensic genealogist and I’m trying to find out if any staff records exist for the Edwardian period here. Do you think there’s anyone I could speak to today?’

  The lady sighed. ‘They’re not keen on opening up their records to the public,’ she warned, handing him his change.

  ‘Any chance you could ask for me?’ Morton pleaded.

  She rolled back her sleeve and looked at her watch. ‘I’m off on my break shortly. I’ll see who’s around to ask.’

  ‘That would be great, thank you. I’ll be in the main house.’ Morton flashed his best smile and made his way into the grand entrance hall, joining the tail-end of a snaking queue, penned in by narrow maroon ropes, which separated the public from the ornate furnishings. Strategically placed around the room were enlarged stills taken from The Friary, showing the approximate location t
he actors had stood in a particular episode of the programme. Morton would have liked to get some photographs of the house to help him build an impression of what life was like here for Mary in 1911, but numerous large signs explicitly banned it in every language possible.

  The line of babbling, excited visitors wound their way past an officious custodian, who directed them into the grand saloon. The two women directly in front of Morton stopped dead.

  ‘Oh my golly!’ one them said in a thick southern American accent. ‘Did you ever seen such a thing?’

  ‘It’s like I’m in The Friary!’ her friend replied. ‘Good afternoon, Your Ladyship,’ she added in her best attempt at an aristocratic British accent.

  The first woman turned to Morton. ‘Would you look at that? Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?’

  He had, but he didn’t like to put a dampener on their visit. ‘No, it’s amazing,’ Morton said, trying to sound more excited than he felt. He had to agree, though, that the saloon was fairly impressive. The room was long and rectangular with a high, vaulted ceiling. Stone gothic arches gave Morton a glimpse of the stream of visitors being herded through the first floor.

  The line continued to move through the wooden-panelled room with its enormous stone fireplace, where the coats of arms of five generations of Mansfields were intricately carved.

  The saloon opened out onto a large hallway dominated by a sparkling chandelier and several imposing oil paintings of long-deceased members of the Mansfield family. Morton took out his guide book and took a cursory glance at the information given about some of the paintings. The vast majority had been hanging since pre-Edwardian times.

  Morton continued through the hallway, past several out-of-bounds doors until he reached the extensive library. When he entered the vast room, he understood why it was described in the guide book as ‘the jewel in the Blackfriars crown’. It was one of the largest private collections of books that Morton had ever seen. Visitors were funnelled through the library in a one-way system, giving little time to stop and take in the splendour of the room. He looked longingly at the dusty books, tantalisingly close, yet imprisoned by lines of wire, never to be touched or read again. It seemed a tragic waste to Morton that such an impressive collection of tomes should have been reduced to a mere back-drop for a Sunday night television drama.

  From his peripheral vision, Morton was aware that he was being pointed at. He turned to see the lady from the visitors’ desk smiling and directing a well-groomed man and lady towards him.

  ‘Morning, I’m Milton Mansfield; this is my wife, Daphne,’ the man said, in a perfect Etonian voice, as he shook Morton’s hand. He looked to be in his late sixties, wearing an expensive-looking suit and a red bow-tie.

  ‘Morton Farrier, pleased to meet you,’ he said, a little dumbfounded that his request to speak to someone about the family archives had reached the upper echelons of the house.

  Daphne Mansfield stepped forward and offered her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said with a smile. She was a good twenty years Milton’s junior with perfect make-up and a short blonde bob. ‘You look familiar. Mr Farrier, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m a forensic genealogist…’ Morton was interrupted by a raucous laugh coming from the other side of the library. He turned to see one of the Americans taking photos of the other draped over a life-size cut-out of The Friary’s leading man.

  ‘Excuse me a moment,’ Daphne said, about to intercept a pink-lipstick kiss being planted on the cut-out.

  ‘They love the show over there,’ Milton said. ‘So, how can we help you, Mr Farrier?’

  ‘Well, I’m really after looking at any staff or household accounts and records which you might have here pertaining to the period around 1911. I’m assuming they’re here as there is very little for Blackfriars at East Sussex Archives,’ Morton said. To his right, he noticed that Daphne, mid-way through a polite chastising, was looking at him. She cast a doubtful smile in his direction then returned her attention to the Americans.

  Milton nodded enthusiastically. ‘Yes, all of our records are still kept in-house. A small fire in 1939 did some damage, but pretty well we’ve got a good collection down there. We’ve got an archivist, Sidney Mersham, who oversees it all. I don’t know off-hand exactly what we’ve got for the period you’re interested in. I’m afraid Sidney is rather busy today, the poor chap’s being hounded by the writers of The Friary. I’m sure he wouldn’t object to a quick discussion at another time.’

  ‘That would be great,’ Morton replied. He fished in his jacket pocket and handed over a business card. ‘Perhaps Sidney could give me a call?’

  ‘I’ll pass it on to him right away.’

  Daphne, having subdued the Americans, returned to her husband’s side. ‘I’ve realised from where I recognise you. You’re the one who brought down the Windsor-Sackville family, aren’t you.’ Her smile had faded, leaving her disapproval etched on her face.

  ‘That old bunch of crooks!’ Milton said with an exaggerated guffaw. ‘That needed doing centuries ago!’

  Morton noticed Daphne firmly squeeze her husband’s arm. ‘May I ask what it is you’re looking for at Blackfriars, Mr Farrier?’ she asked.

  ‘Not what I’m looking for—whom,’ Morton said, before briefly explaining about the outline of the Mercer Case.

  ‘I see,’ Daphne said. ‘And what is it that you hope to find among our records?’

  ‘Anything which might give a clue to her daily routine here, particularly people she worked with. I’m working on the premise that somebody at the time knew what happened to her.’

  ‘Well, we’ve nothing to hide, unlike the Windsor-Sackville rogues,’ Milton laughed. ‘Have a good rummage, you’ve got your work cut out trying to conduct a missing person’s enquiry more than a century later.’

  Morton smiled. ‘I’ll find her,’ he said confidently. ‘I look forward to hearing from Sidney in due course.’

  ‘Yes, we’ll let you get back to your tour. Enjoy,’ Milton said.

  Daphne nodded with a cautious smile and then threaded her arm through Milton’s and led him from the room. As soon as they were out of his earshot, she turned to him and instigated what looked to Morton like a very animated conversation. He had a gut feeling that had Daphne remained in the conversation, he would not have received the invitation to meet with Sidney and possibly search among their archives; he hoped that her influence would not now jeopardise his access.

  Morton took one final look around the library before continuing the tour upstairs past various bedrooms, which were all well-appointed with full Edwardian splendour and many of which he recognised from The Friary.

  Having completed the tour of the house, Morton made his way to the tearoom, which was located in an airy, converted barn a short distance from the house. Morton ordered a large latte and took a seat at a round metallic table. He sat in a warm shard of sunlight, which cut through the glass front. But for an elderly couple queuing at the till, the tearoom was deserted. Sipping on his drink, Morton began to read the Blackfriars guidebook. He quickly learnt that the Mansfields had resided here since shortly after the Dissolution of the Monasteries, when they were gifted the property and the title Earl of Rothborne from Henry VIII. At the centre of the guidebook was a pull-out genealogical chart of the Mansfield family. The current owner and title-holder was Milton Francis Mansfield, Earl of Rothborne, who had inherited the property from his father, George Richard Mansfield. Morton studied the chart carefully: during Mary Mercer’s time at Blackfriars, the property was held by Cecil and Philadelphia Mansfield. Morton flipped to the index page and searched for further references to Cecil and Lady Philadelphia; predictably, there were several, as their tenure at Blackfriars neatly coincided with the period portrayed in The Friary. Morton went to the first reference and found a photo of the couple alongside a similar modern image of the actors playing Lord and Lady Asquith in The Friary. The accompanying information wove a potted history between the Mansfie
lds and the Asquiths, largely, it seemed to Morton, where interesting contrasts and comparisons could be drawn.

  Morton tucked the guidebook away in his bag, intending to finish reading it later, and left the tearoom to get a better feel for the whole estate. He followed the gravel footpath and slowly meandered through a patchwork of tall pines, low rhododendrons and great swathes of tidy grass upon which a sprinkling of visitors were picnicking. The path turned and opened out onto a large lake in the shape of a pinched oval. It was filled with lilypads and bordered by a variety of plants, flowers and trees whose low-slung branches dangled inches from the water’s surface. Morton felt compelled to take a seat on one of several benches slightly set back from the path facing the water. He sat and watched as a small flock of Canada geese pushed off from the water and elegantly flew off into the distance. Across the water stood a charming, evocative and slightly dilapidated boathouse. The gabled, wooden structure gave Morton the impression of an ancient church, swallowed up by the murky depths, leaving only the peak still visible. He guessed that the boathouse was once used by the Mansfields to access a tall cylindrical stone building situated on a small island in the centre of the lake. The building had no windows, only an arched wooden door. Curious to know more about the strange building, Morton opened his guidebook and read that the tower was a folly, serving no useful purpose. Inside, a metal staircase rose to the top, giving an unobstructed view of the formal rose gardens and Koi fish pond further down the estate. It had been built in the 1850s and so was certainly here during Mary’s time as a housemaid.