Morton continued his journey around the periphery of the lake, sauntering slowly and enjoying the fresh air and warmth from the hot sun. The path took him past a Victorian heather-covered ice-house and into the orchard, which contained an array of traditional English apple, pear and plum trees. Close to the path by which he had entered Blackfriars were the ruins of the oldest part of the abbey. The guidebook informed him that it was the ruins of a thirteenth century Franciscan chapel. Morton entered the ruins—just two stone walls and two arches were all that remained. With little else to see, Morton made his way back to the main path to leave. The quickest route back to the car would be the back path which he had taken to get here, but Morton decided to leave via the front entrance, just to get a different perspective on the estate.
The main road into Blackfriars was heaving with cars, coaches and pedestrians, such was the popularity of The Friary; Morton, the only person heading in the opposite direction, was like a determined salmon, fighting its way upstream. Finally, he reached the main road, Monk’s Walk, and turned right towards the church.
Winchelsea church, dedicated to St Thomas the Martyr, had always seemed out of keeping to Morton, incongruous in the small town, as it was originally built to cathedral proportions. Only the chancel of the original church still existed, following years of ravaging raids by the French and Spanish. Like most of the town, the church sat in a neat square parcel of land. As Morton entered the churchyard, a cool breeze rose around the monstrous church buttresses. He pulled on his jumper and began to search the churchyard for the Mercer family grave.
Despite knowing the age of the graves for which he was searching, Morton still conducted a meticulous search, intending to log any instances where the Mercer name cropped up. In the event, there was only one grave with that name. After fifteen minutes of searching, he found it on the south-east side of the church. Weathered grey with spots of orange lichen, the grave was slightly tilted, but otherwise legible and in good condition.
Morton took several photographs of the grave and also jotted down the inscription. In loving memory of Katherine Mercer, born 2nd March 1870, died 8th December 1932. A wonderful mother and wife. Also, Thomas Mercer, husband of the above, born 21st April 1870, died 1st November 1938. A small open book made of stone had been added to the grave and summarised the life of one of their daughters: Edith Leyden (née Mercer) 1893-1962.
Here they were, a small splinter of their fractured family, gone to the grave with no knowledge of Mary’s whereabouts. Morton’s thoughts turned to what Ray had told him about Mary returning for her sister’s funeral. She had stood here, on this very spot in 1962. He wondered if that had been her first visit to Winchelsea since 1911. What kept you away, Mary? Morton thought to himself, wrangling with the seemingly unanswerable question. Why did you only come back when all of your family were dead and buried? Morton’s gaze turned to the enormous church but his mind was firmly on Mary. She had disappeared without trace in 1911, never showing up again on official documents. The most obvious and likely scenario was that she had changed her name. The chances of her legally changing her name and leaving a paper trail were not likely but still needed investigating. Morton knew that it was perfectly legal to change your name without registering the fact, so long as it was not for illegal purposes. He knew that the records were not online or even digitised as yet; it would require a personal visit to the National Archives at Kew or the use of a paid researcher.
He took one last look at the grave, then made his way across the diagonal path in the clawed shadow of the church until he reached his car on Friar’s Road. Morton opened the Mini, climbed in but did not fire it up. Instead, he sat in the peace of the town, allowing his mind to sew and weave a mental collage of the case. It had always helped Morton to visualise his cases, to bring them to life from the bare boring bones of names and dates. The tapestry in his mind contained the sepia picture of Mary and Edith as children, 3 Friar’s Cottage, Blackfriars and the churchyard. The answer to the disappearance of Mary Mercer was woven somewhere into the fabric of this.
Within an hour, Morton had arrived home and sent a research request to the National Archives to search among the indexes of J18—name changes 1903-2003. He had considered visiting the archives in person but with currently only one research avenue to pursue there, the twenty pound search fee per fifteen minutes seemed a better option. He had poured himself a large glass of red wine and then set about the task of making his and Juliette’s dinner. Although he had officially stopped work for the day, the case was always being worked on in the back of his mind, as new avenues and ideas were produced.
Juliette arrived home just before six o’clock. ‘Wine,’ she said, strolling into the kitchen and kissing Morton on the lips.
Morton pointed to the glass waiting on the worktop. ‘And how was the Initial Police Learning and Development Programme today?’ he teased. Juliette was in phase three of a four-phase training programme to become a police officer and, despite the odd moan and groan, she was loving it. She was born to do it. Juliette kicked off her boots and perched herself at the kitchen table.
‘After having a few brilliant days of supervised patrol with the guys from Ashford, today we were back in the classroom at Maidstone. Class-based learning. Hence the need for wine. I just don’t take it in very well coming from a textbook or the ancient ex-police wheeled in from retirement to share anecdotes. I want to be out on the streets, learning from real life.’
‘It won’t be long,’ Morton reminded her, as he dished up their dinner and carried it over to the table.
‘Thanks—looks lovely. How was your day?’
‘Not bad,’ Morton said, relaying the main highlights of his day. After more than two years together, Morton could now gauge the very thin line of giving just the right bullet-pointed amount of detail about his day before her eyes glazed over and he lost her. He almost crossed the line when he told her that he had hired a researcher at the National Archives to search the records of the Supreme Court of Judicature, then hastily added ‘Name change records.’ Ever since his last high-profile case, which involved a great deal of illegal activity on his part, she had demanded to know his every move. Now that she was training to become a police officer, she insisted that he always stayed on the right side of the law.
‘I think we’ve got an episode of The Friary in the Sky planner to watch. Fancy it after dinner?’ she asked.
Morton couldn’t tell if she was joking of not. ‘Only if we can follow it with an episode of The Bill.’
Juliette smirked. ‘A film it is, then.’
‘Perfect. Cheers.’
Under the focussed light from a desk lamp, a man methodically searched, read and printed every page on Morton Farrier’s Forensic Genealogist website. With a thirsty concentration, he pored over the printed papers, absorbing and digesting every word. Then he ran a Google search, pulling up pictures and quotes from Morton’s past cases. Opening up a new tab in his browser, he logged into a family history website and used some of Morton’s own tricks to find out everything about him, including where he lived and with whom. With some difficulty, owing to two bound, broken fingers, the man scooped up all the papers and pushed them into a manila envelope. ‘Morton Farrier, I’m coming for you,’ he breathed.
Chapter Four
Tuesday 3rd January 1911
Mary Mercer’s alarm clock sent its shrill tones into the silent room. She switched it off and sat up in bed. From the other side of their small shared bedroom, Edie emitted a protracted and irritated sigh. Mary had slept very little, the weight of her decision to steal her sister’s coveted job preventing her mind from succumbing to sleep. When the two sisters had reconvened in the Blackfriars kitchen, Mary had been assured by Lady Rothborne that the housemaid’s job would be hers. She had waited for Edith with her eyes fixed to the floor. Minutes took hours to pass, until she finally arrived. Seventeen years without separation had told Mary everything that she needed to know from her twin’s face: Edie
already knew that she had lost the job to her sister.
‘Edie! Wait!’ Mary had cried, as she had bolted through the kitchen door into the blustery Winchelsea snowstorm.
A hand had grabbed Mary by the wrist and prevented her from following. Mary had twisted around to see Mrs Cuff, a polite yet forceful look on her face. ‘Let her go. She’ll just need some time.’
Mary had given her sister time; she had walked back home so slowly that the freezing air had penetrated through her coat, deep into her very core so that her skin was pink and prickly. Silently, she had headed straight to her room, like a scolded puppy. She had lit the fire, tucked herself under layers of woollen blankets and remained there until bedtime. Such was the weight of her guilt, she could not even bring herself to read the pristine copy of Four Sisters, given to her by Lady Rothborne, which she had stared at on her bedside table. It was the first time in her life that Mary had really stood in defiance of Edie, having never previously had the courage. Her heart was heavy and she was filled with remorse for the way that it had happened, yet underneath it all, she stood by her decision. Why should Edie always get everything handed to her on a plate? It was high time that she learnt to be in someone else’s shadow for once.
Her father and mother had visited Mary on separate occasions last night. Soon after she had arrived home, her father’s explosive diatribe blasted the air. ‘What do you think you’re playing at, my girl? That job was Edie’s, not yours. You was only going to keep her company. She’s devastated.’ Her father’s canine-like face had moved closer to hers. ‘What have you got to say for yourself, Mary?’
The blankets on Mary’s shoulders had moved fractionally with her shrug, as she watched bubbles of angry spittle forming at the corner of her father’s mouth.
‘Answer me!’ he had bellowed, loudly enough to wake the dead in St Thomas’s churchyard.
‘Lady Rothborne said I would be perfect for the job, so I took it,’ Mary had said meekly.
‘Perfect on what grounds?’ he had seethed. ‘I ask you… those stuck up idiots, they don’t know nothing. A housemaid, Mary… you can’t even keep your own room tidy. You can’t make beds, sweep room after room and clean fire grates.’
Mary had drawn in a big lungful of air and risen from the bed, like a caged lion being taunted through the bars. She had levelled with her father. ‘Those things can be taught, Father. I’ll learn them in a matter of minutes. How hard can it be to put some blankets on a bed or push a broom around? Have you ever thought that maybe I got the job on my personality? That Lady Rothborne thinks of me as the right calibre for Blackfriars? Did it ever occur to you that your precious Edie might not have been right for the job?’
Her father had laughed in mock indignation then slapped Mary hard across the face, sending her tumbling backwards onto her bed. ‘My goodness, girl. I don’t even recognise my own daughter stood in front of me. You’re deluded if you think you’re one of them. Calibre? That a word your Lady Rothborne friend taught you, is it?’
Mary had yelped in pain and clutched at her face, determined not to cry. ‘You said I needed to get a job, to pay my own way…’ Mary’s voice trailed off, having nothing left to add.
‘Not Edith’s job! That was meant for her. It’s a disgraceful way to treat your sister. What’s she ever done to you?’ her father had seethed.
Mary could have listed a thousand times that Edie had taken precedence over her, got her own way and been treated more favourably, but she chose to say nothing.
‘Disgusting behaviour,’ were her father’s parting words before he had slammed the door shut; the roaring fire in the grate had responded by scattering a fiery burst of orange ash into the room.
Some time later, her mother had quietly pushed open the bedroom door. ‘Are you awake, Mary?’ she had asked.
Mary, wide awake but with a blanket pulled over her head, couldn’t tell from her mother’s expressionless tone how she was going to act towards her. In past family quarrels, her mother’s default position was to sit back in quiet but steadfast support of her husband. Very rarely had she opposed him in an argument because, when it happened, the ill after-effects were felt in the Mercer household for days or even sometimes weeks on end.
‘Mary,’ her mother had said more loudly.
Mary pulled down the blanket and had hardened herself in readiness for another scolding. ‘Come on then, get it over with.’
Her mother had perched herself down on the edge of the bed and taken Mary’s left hand in hers. ‘Look at me, Mary.’
It was a polite request, not an order, so Mary had looked at her mother and waited for the tirade to begin.
‘No, I mean really look at me. Look at my face.’ She had paused, allowing time for Mary’s eyes to study the features. ‘I’m forty-one, yet when I look in the mirror, an old haggard woman stares back at me. I’ve done domestic work all my life. The job of a third housemaid is jolly hard. It’s relentless. I watched domestic service slowly kill my own mother and vowed that my three girls wouldn’t be taken by it. It’s a poison, Mary. They may seem like a lovely lot, but they’re not cut from the same cloth as us. They don’t care about the likes of you. Once you put that uniform on, you belong to them. They’ll take everything from you until you’ve nothing left to give, then they’ll send you to the Rye workhouse where you’ll wait for humiliation and shame to take you to a pauper’s grave, just like what happened with your gran. The same will happen to me if your father goes first.’
Mary had been staggered by her mother’s beseeching outpouring. Stories of the workhouse had always haunted and terrified her. ‘If that’s true, then why did you send Edie to work there? Why’s it okay for her and not me?’
Her mother’s face had scrunched slightly, revealing deep-cut wrinkles and lines around her eyes. She was right; domestic service had worn and jaded her. ‘It’s what Edie’s always wanted. Her whole life, she wanted it and I thought that if that’s what she wanted, then she can jolly well be the best she can and climb up the ranks to be a housekeeper—at least they’re treated and paid better. I’ve prepared her for that life.’ Her mother’s voice had softened. ‘But you, Mary—you’re better than that. Like Caroline, you could be more than an old laundry maid like me. You always talked of travelling and getting a decent education. What’s suddenly changed?’
‘Maybe I’ve just grown up,’ Mary had replied. Then she had considered her words against the truth of taking a job because she might one day get the chance to run away with Lord Rothborne and in the meantime she had a library full of books to keep her entertained: she was anything but grown up. She was a silly, immature girl. Mary had suddenly burst into tears.
‘It’s okay,’ her mother had said, pulling Mary into a comforting embrace. ‘It’ll work itself out. Something else will come along for poor Edie. Maybe even another job at Blackfriars.’
Through her watery eyes, Mary had thought that she noticed a shadow move from outside her bedroom door: someone had been listening.
The fire in the tiny bedroom hearth was long since dead: all that remained of it now was a handful of unburnt wood and a pile of black and white ash. Mary pulled a blanket around her shoulders and opened the curtains. A glimmer of moonlight peered in through the window, tinting the room with fine white edges. The snow had continued to fall overnight: a new spotless carpet of powder had covered the streets. She needed to wrap up warm, even for the short journey to Blackfriars. She was told by Mrs Cuff to start promptly today at six-thirty, which meant packing a suitcase and preparing to live in. Mary caught her ghostly reflection in the window and remembered what her mother had told her about life in service and how it would take everything and leave nothing unless she worked hard and rose through the ranks of the staff. It is time to grow up, Miss Mary Mercer. Stop those silly fantasies and dreams of grandeur. You’re a servant now. Prove that you can do it.
Mary took a deep breath of cold courage and began to get dressed. Once she had pulled on sufficient layers to stop he
rself from shivering, she took a battered brown suitcase out from under her bed and began to fill it. She tiptoed around the room as quickly and quietly as possible, but she knew the creaking floorboards and groaning chest of drawers must have woken Edie a long time ago. Yet Edie did not move. She kept her back to the room, with sheets and blankets held tightly up to her ears.
Her suitcase filled, Mary made her way out of the bedroom. She paused before closing the door and looked at her twin sister. It’s now or never, Mary, she told herself. Say something to Edie. Apologise. Make amends. Yet no words came from either sister. Indignant, Mary pushed the door closed and crept downstairs to the front door. As she slid back the metal bolts on the front door, the sound of a chair creaking came from the sitting-room. Mary turned to see her mother standing in the haunting light of a muted lamp. Her eyes were swollen and red.
‘Mary,’ her mother said softly. She opened her arms and pulled Mary in tightly.
‘Mother, I’m only going a quarter of a mile down the road! I’ll be back next week.’
Her mother released her and smiled as tears streamed down her cheeks. ‘Goodbye, love.’
Mary kissed her mother on the cheek. ‘Bye.’ She turned, tugged open the heavy-set door and stepped out into the freezing darkness.
Through the upstairs bedroom window, Edith watched her sister trudge towards Blackfriars, her wild red hair contrasting with the bright white snow. Then she was gone.
Mary arrived at the back entrance to Blackfriars, expecting to be greeted by the warm smile of Mrs Cuff. Instead, she came face to face with the ugly scowl of Monsieur Bastion. ‘Quoi?’ he barked.
The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2) Page 5
