Morton finished reading and looked up. The self-satisfied look on both Douglas and Susan’s face told Morton that they believed they had just laid down a winning hand.
‘Case closed,’ Douglas said arrogantly.
It was anything but case closed, Morton thought, becoming slightly riled by the conceited couple. Morton rubbed his chin and cast his eyes over the letter again. ‘How did you come by this letter?’
Douglas shrugged. ‘I guess it passed to my grandmother, Caroline, when her parents died.’
‘And what do you suppose Mary did that was so unforgivable?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Douglas said, finishing the last of his latte. ‘If anyone in the family knew, they didn’t pass that information on.’
‘Do you mind if I take a digital photo of the letter?’ Morton ventured.
‘Go ahead,’ Douglas said.
Morton withdrew his mobile and took a series of photographs of the envelope and the letter. He would later undertake a detailed analysis of it to make sure that it was genuine. From his initial assessment, though, it seemed real enough. As Douglas had said, it clearly read as though Mary were starting a new life and didn’t want to maintain contact.
‘Notice there’s no contact address,’ Susan said, almost inaudibly.
Morton had noticed and nodded his agreement, not wanting to give away that he still found it odd that she should remove herself from her entire family and nobody attempted to find her. ‘You said that you thought the story of Mary returning to her twin’s funeral wasn’t true, but I’ve seen the locket that was found on the grave,’ Morton said, carefully studying Douglas’s reaction.
Douglas shot a quick uncertain glance in Susan’s direction. ‘Doesn’t mean it was found at the grave, does it? I could hand you one of Susan’s lockets and make up any kind of a tale about where I got it.’
He had a fair point, although Morton felt that Ray Mercer was speaking truthfully and from the heart. Besides, why would he lie? Morton asked himself.
Another pregnant pause lingered between the three of them.
‘I said we should have had a whisky!’ Douglas said, gently squeezing Susan’s knee. ‘Heavy going, all this! It’s why my mum didn’t used to speak much about old Mary: there are just some family secrets that need to remain just that; a secret.’
Morton scribbled more notes on his pad, then finished his latte. ‘Is there anything else that you can think of that would help me?’
Douglas looked taken aback. ‘Help you do what?’
He really did think he had laid the winning hand, Morton thought. Case closed. ‘Help me find what happened to Mary.’
Douglas took a lengthy breath in and his cheeks flushed crimson. ‘Look, I don’t want to fall out over this, Mr Farrier, but I do urge you, in the strongest possible terms, to drop this ridiculous quest of yours. It’s going nowhere.’
‘It says so in the letter,’ Susan added feebly.
Douglas leant over, reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a leather wallet. ‘Here you are,’ he said, pulling out a wodge of notes. He handed them to Morton. ‘For your trouble. I know you’ve got to earn your money like anyone else.’
Morton took the money and quickly ran his thumb through the bunch of fifty pound notes. There was at least five hundred pounds in his hand. Morton placed it on the table between them. ‘Thank you, but I’m being paid by my client to find out what happened to Mary, and that’s what I intend to do.’
‘How much is he paying you? I’ll match it,’ he said, turning to Susan. ‘Get the chequebook, love.’
Susan began to rummage in her handbag again.
‘Please, stop,’ Morton said. ‘I’m not interested. I’m working for my client.’
‘You might regret that,’ Douglas said, standing up and signalling that the meeting was over. With his left hand, Douglas scooped up the pile of cash and Morton noticed for the first time that his two fingers, index and middle, were bandaged together. Morton sat and watched as the couple hurried from the hotel out onto Mermaid Street.
Well, that went well, Morton thought. At least he had digital copies of Mary’s letter to add to the growing jigsaw puzzle that surrounded Mary’s life. His uneasiness about the letter was only compounded by the fact that Douglas had driven nearly two hundred miles to deliver it personally, believing it would put the nail in the Mercer Case coffin. Morton didn’t trust the letter and he certainly didn’t trust Douglas Catt.
Morton finished his latte, packed up his bag and left The Mermaid.
A hulk of a man blocked the entrance to Blackfriars with unnecessary drama, standing with his legs apart and hand raised defiantly towards Morton’s Mini. The man, wearing a thick black bomber jacket, came over to the driver’s window. ‘Shut,’ he said eloquently.
‘What is?’ Morton asked, unable to resist a gentle goading.
The hulk flicked his head back towards the building. ‘Getting ready for filming.’
Morton nodded politely. ‘I’ve got an appointment to see Sidney Mersham, the archivist.’
‘The what-avist?’ the hulk asked with a snarl.
‘Archivist,’ Morton reiterated.
The hulk didn’t move. Or blink. Morton had a flashback to childhood staring competitions and looked belligerently into the hulk’s menacing eyes. Seconds passed. The hulk blinked, sniffed loudly then spat the contents of his nasal passages onto the shingle beside the car. Nice. Pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt, he muttered something inaudible, all the while keeping his gaze fixed firmly on Morton.
With a minute nod of his head, the hulk stood back and allowed Morton to drive towards the house. What a lovely maître d’, Morton thought, as he parked up close to the house. He had the choice of pretty well the whole car park today; the only vehicles on site were the monstrous trucks belonging to the television company here to film The Friary. A handful of casually dressed people milled about carrying television-making paraphernalia to and from the house. Morton followed one lad, with jeans inexplicably suspended halfway down his legs, into the main entrance of the house.
The grand saloon appeared very differently to Morton’s last visit; all of the photographs, life-size cut-outs and rope barriers had been removed and replaced by Edwardian-era furniture. Morton might have felt that he had stepped back in time but for the plethora of cables, monitors, lights and cameras directed in the general direction of the fireplace, ready for the next scene. A motley bunch of men and women all purposefully busied themselves about the set. Morton recognised the actors who played Lord and Lady Asquith; they were sitting on a chaise longue in full Edwardian garb, anachronistically tapping at their mobile phones.
‘Can I help you?’ a voice asked from beside Morton. He turned to see Mrs Greenwood, the sullen woman who had been on the entrance desk when he had last visited.
‘Hello again, you probably don’t remember me from my previous visit, but you kindly arranged for me to meet with the archivist.’
A flicker of recognition illuminated her eyes. ‘Oh, yes.’
‘I’ve got an appointment with him—do you know where he might be?’
Mrs Greenwood seemed slightly taken aback. ‘They’re letting you in, are they? Aren’t you the lucky one,’ she said with a smile. ‘I’ll take you down there—follow me.’
‘Thank you,’ Morton said, following her, as she dodged her way through the organised chaos of a television set.
She led him through the large hallway to a door with ‘Private’ written in large black letters. Beside the door was a security keypad, which Morton couldn’t help but stare at as she punched in the four-digit code: 1536. Was that a nod towards the beginning of the Dissolution of the Monasteries? Morton wondered. The beginning of the end for the Catholic Church’s ownership of Blackfriars?
The door led to another shorter and simpler corridor with four closed doors. Mrs Greenwood marched towards the one at the far end. ‘I’d love to get a look in those archives for my own family histo
ry,’ she muttered, her voice echoing around the low vaulted ceiling. ‘I have managed to take a peek but not quite what I’d like,’ she said, pulling open the door and beginning a short descent of a stone spiral staircase. ‘They’re a bit funny about people prying, even staff. Consider yourself very fortunate.’
Morton was sure that luck played no part in his admission but rather the Mansfields’ knowledge of a previous case which had gained him entry. ‘I can see why these parts aren’t open to the public,’ Morton said, almost banging his head on the ceiling.
‘You get used to it.’
As they neared the bottom, Morton tried to get a representation in his head of their exact location within the depths of the house. He reckoned that they were almost in the dead centre. The protected and concealed heart of the house. Another key-padded door awaited them at the bottom. Mrs Greenwood, making no attempt to conceal the code, tapped in 1540. The end of the Dissolution of the Monasteries and the granting of Blackfriars, eighteen years later, to the Mansfield family. Genius.
As Morton suspected, the door opened into a windowless room. It was a small and simple office, just a desk, computer and a few filing cabinets. There was no way that hundreds of years of history had been stuffed into those few metal drawers. At least, he hoped not. To the right of the desk was yet another door, behind which, Morton suspected were four hundred and seventy years of Blackfriars and Mansfield archives.
‘Mr Mersham,’ she called out. ‘Visitor for you.’
A man dressed in tweed trousers and jacket appeared at the door. Morton recognised the geeky round glasses and swept-over black hair from the picture in the Blackfriars guide. ‘Sidney Mersham,’ he said, offering Morton his hand.
‘Morton Farrier. Thank you for seeing me.’
‘You’re quite welcome. Please, take a seat.’
‘I hear you don’t usually open up the archives to researchers?’ Morton said, taking a seat on a cracked green leather chair opposite Sidney.
Sidney scrunched up his face. ‘Not really. We have in the past. It’s just not practical or manageable. I think on this occasion Daphne took a shine to you and your quest.’
Morton considered the brief conversation he had had with Milton and Daphne Mansfield: it was hardly worthy of his gaining unusual access to hundreds of years of personal papers.
Sidney must have sensed Morton’s uncertainty. ‘I think it was the nature of the case that swayed her. Essentially, it’s a missing person’s enquiry for a young girl. She’s got daughters and I think she empathised. Most of the requests we get are from people just wanting to be nosey. Although, now a lot of the requests are from people interested in The Friary.’
Morton nodded and Sidney opened his hands in a gesture which said fait accompli.
‘Let’s get started, then,’ Sidney said. ‘You tell me what you know already and I’ll tell you what we’ve got that might fit with what you’re looking for.’
‘Right—’ Morton began but was interrupted by Sidney frowning and raising a finger to stop him.
Sidney’s attention had turned towards the door where Mrs Greenwood was still standing, quietly absorbing the exchange between the two men. Sidney removed his glasses and stared at her. ‘I’m sorry, Jenny, was there something else?’
Her cheeks flushed. She shook her head, mumbled something incoherent then scuttled from the room.
‘Sorry, do carry on,’ Sidney said, remounting his glasses upon his nose.
Morton felt bad for the poor woman but, when he was about to speak in her defence, decided that the end of his appointment time might be a more appropriate time to suggest that she be allowed to conduct some personal research. Morton pulled his notepad from his bag and began to recount the salient points of the Mercer case.
As he wrote, Sidney nodded, made noises of agreement and scribbled his own notes. ‘A sad case for the family,’ he said solemnly when Morton had finished. ‘I think we should have a few bits and pieces which might show Mary’s life here. I doubt very much that the answer to her disappearance lies in there, though,’ he said, pointing to the room behind him. He shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’ Sidney smiled, stood and gestured for Morton to follow.
The room in which Morton found himself was much larger and somehow more modern than he had imagined that it would be. It was at least forty feet long with no windows and no other doors. A low, whirring sound emanated from a complicated labyrinth of tubes and vents, which Morton suspected was controlling the humidity and temperature of the room. On each wall were tall metal filing cabinets.
‘You look impressed,’ Sidney said, pushing his glasses onto the bridge of his nose.
‘Yes, I am,’ Morton said. ‘It must keep you busy.’
Sidney laughed. ‘Very much so. I’ve spent the last fifteen years trying to get the archives into some kind of order and to catalogue what we have. When I started here it was in one hell of a mess. Generations’ worth of paperwork. Of course, at the moment it’s the writers of The Friary that are keeping me busy, asking questions about the ins and outs of life here in the Edwardian period. That’s how I know exactly what we have here that might show your Mary.’
My Mary. Morton brought the photograph of Mary to mind. He supposed she was becoming his in some strange way. It always happened with an interesting assignment like the Mercer Case; after just a few hours of research, he was hooked. Juliette often said his passion for genealogy was like an addiction and she was right. Douglas Catt would have needed to offer him an awful lot more money for him to back out now. He was a forensic genealogist, employed to find Mary Mercer, and that’s just what he was going to do.
‘Right, most of the information on the domestic servants is in here,’ Sidney said, making his way towards a filing cabinet near the back of the room. He took out a silver key from his pocket and pushed it into the lock, then tugged open both doors. Inside were neat rows of books, boxes, ledgers and papers, bundled and wrapped like any decent archive.
Sidney held the sides of his glasses and scrunched up his face as he darted his head up and down like a curious meerkat. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said with a grin, as he plucked a small leather book from the shelves, followed by an A4-sized ledger. ‘Let’s have a look.’
Morton followed Sidney back out into the small office, where he carefully set the documents down onto the desk. Morton watched patiently, as Sidney opened up the first book. It was a light-brown, calfskin-bound book about the size of a paperback. Sidney turned past the marble-effect endpapers until he reached the first handwritten pages. Slowly, he ran his index finger down the side of the page. ‘1909,’ he muttered, turning the page and beginning his search again. ‘1910.’ On the next page he held his glasses and leant in to take a closer inspection. ‘Here we are, wages for the year 1911.’ He pushed the book over to Morton. ‘See if you can’t find your Mary.’
Eagerly, Morton grasped the book in both hands. He loved the feeling of touching history, making a special connection with the past, with the person who had held this very document in their hands more than a century ago. He scanned down a list of names, which seemed to be arranged haphazardly. The name Mercer jumped out at him. Morton moved his eyes across the line, Mercer, Edward, Second Footman. Mary’s first cousin. There then followed a run of dated, weekly columns, showing Edward’s pay of fourteen pounds. Then Morton spotted something curious. Edward Mercer’s pay ceased on Friday 19th May 1911—alarmingly close to Mary’s disappearance. Morton skipped forward to the remainder of the year, into 1912 and then 1913. No Edward Mercer. ‘Interesting,’ he said, capturing Sidney’s interest. ‘Her cousin, Edward worked here as a footman. He seems to have stopped work here the month after she disappeared. Could be a connection there.’
Sidney nodded emphatically, thrust his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and leant in for a closer look. Morton took out his pencil and notepad and began to scribble down the information. Working backwards, he found that Edward’s first pay at Blackfriars had been in 1908; there were
no breaks in employment until he left in May 1911. Finding what happened to Edward was definitely a priority, but for now he needed to continue his search for Mary. Morton returned to 1911 and ran his finger further down the page until he found her. Her wages, twelve pounds per annum, began in January 1911 and, as Morton had expected, ended on Friday 14th April 1911. He quickly checked if her name appeared elsewhere in the book but found no further trace.
‘Is it okay if I take a quick photograph?’ Morton asked.
‘By all means. I’ll hold it open for you,’ Sidney said.
Morton took a photograph of the relevant page, showing both of the Mercers’ terminated employment. ‘Thank you, that’s very helpful.’
Sidney slid the wage book to one side then picked up the A4 brown brushed-velvet ledger. ‘Now this…’ he said, stroking the front of the book as if it were a pet dog, ‘might well have been your saving grace. It’s the Blackfriars Day Book, the butler and housekeeper’s account of daily life in the house. It’s of varied usefulness, recording stock levels of wines and spirits, the purchasing of fruit and vegetables, household repairs and also the comings and goings of staff.’
Morton’s excitement about the promise of the Day Book was tempered by Sidney’s use of the word ‘might’, clearly meaning that the book would, in fact, be of no use to him. Although historically interesting, the quantity of claret and champagne consumed by a wealthy Edwardian family in one week was of no use to the Mercer case. ‘Go on,’ Morton urged.
Sidney flicked to the back of the book. ‘This one ends in January 1911.’
‘And the next one?’ Morton asked, already fearing the answer.
‘Still in use in 1939—’ Sidney began to explain.
‘The fire?’ Morton interjected, remembering what Milton Mansfield had told him about certain records having been destroyed.
The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2) Page 9
