The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton moved to the open window and watched the plethora of summer tourists pushing their way up the cobbles of Mermaid Street. With casual glances to the growing patchwork of evidence attached to his wall, Morton allowed his mind to wander around the puzzle of the Mercer Case. The Scotland coincidence bothered him. Mary had apparently written a letter from there, severing all ties with her family in Sussex at a time when the majority of the Mansfield family and their domestic servants were on a hunting trip in the same place.

  Returning to his laptop, Morton used the Scotland’s People website to run meticulous searches in their archives using a variety of name combinations for Mary. Of the various Mary Mercers that showed up, each was demonstrably not the correct person. Yet she had written a letter postmarked in Scotland.

  Drinking the dregs of his coffee, and vowing it to be his last cup of the day, Morton opened up the digital image of Mary’s letter. In the new knowledge of Mary’s dismissal, one phrase stuck out. I have behaved and acted in an unforgivable manner, which, if you were to learn of the whole matter, would bring embarrassment to the Mercer name. Wearing the mistress of the house’s clothes and jewellery was not behaving in an unforgivable manner, even by Edwardian standards.

  It didn’t take a degree module in graphology to work out that Mary Mercer was the definite author of the letter, although having a degree module in graphology compelled Morton to look more closely. He zoomed in close to the letter and studied the formation of the letters carefully. As he worked, he retrieved lectures from the stored repositories of his mind, given by his esteemed lecturer, Dr Baumgartner, whom Morton greatly admired. Dr Baumgartner had taught him to study everything as if through a slow-motion macro lens: meticulously, painstakingly and intricately. It was because of those lectures that Morton spotted the anomaly. Yes, the letter was written by Mary Mercer, but there was a subtle underlying stress and tension in the way that she had formed the strokes on the page. Morton then compared her handwriting to that found on the note left at Edith’s grave. That the letter revealed that she was more stressed and anxious than when she wrote the note placed on her twin’s grave, spoke volumes to Morton. He considered the possibilities: that Mary really did go to Scotland to escape an embarrassing exit from Blackfriars; that she went to Scotland to go to someone from Blackfriars, or that somehow she was forced to write the letter. The only way that Mary could have remained in Scotland was under a pseudonym, since she failed to appear in any official records there. Unless she used Scotland as a stepping stone to somewhere else, Morton thought. He remembered that Ray Mercer had told him that emigration records had drawn a blank, but maybe he was searching English disembarkation records. Morton opened up the Outward Passenger Lists 1890-1960 on the Findmypast website, filtering the results with a departure place of Scotland. Although he was hopeful with this line of enquiry, he was unsurprised to find that there were no good matches for Mary Mercer. Spending a lot of time changing the search parameters returned the same frustrating answer: zero matches.

  Morton noticed that he was slumped in his chair, having spent a ridiculous number of hours gaping at the laptop screen. He rubbed his eyes and stood from the desk. He returned to the open window and drew in a long, deep breath, holding it before slowly releasing it into the still air. The streets below were much quieter now. Morton looked at the time: 4:46. Juliette would be home any moment; it was almost time to stop searching. Almost. He decided to use what little time he had left until she arrived throwing the search wide open. He removed all the search filters and searched all outward passenger lists under the name Mercer. Eight thousand, five hundred and thirty one results. A needle in a haystack and a pointless waste of time. He removed the forename and surname and simply searched under the exact birthplace of Winchelsea. One match. Edith Leyden. Morton clicked to see the original image. The page pertained to a crossing of the RMS Celtic II from Liverpool bound for Canada, disembarking 18th December 1925. Morton scanned down the alphabetised list of passengers until he found her.

  Name: Mrs Edith Leyden

  Last address in the United Kingdom: Wisteria Cottage, Winchelsea

  Port at which passenger has contracted to land: Halifax, Canada

  Proposed address at destination: 4 West Street, Halifax, Canada

  Profession, occupation or calling: Housewife

  Age of passenger: 32

  Country of last permanent residence: England

  Morton printed the page then found her return voyage to England two weeks later on board the Albania. To some family historians, the record provided an interesting snapshot of a two-week holiday in Canada. For Morton, it provided another potential avenue for research. He now needed to know who was residing at 4 West Street, Halifax in 1925. Morton wrote the Canadian address on a post-it note and attached it to his laptop screen. He was about to start up a new search when he heard the front door slamming shut. Morton smiled and went downstairs to meet Juliette. A sharp, wonderful smell of fresh chips wafted out from the kitchen. Morton followed the scent and found a sweaty Juliette in tracksuit bottoms, casual t-shirt and no make-up, running herself a glass of tap water.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said, pecking him on the lips. ‘Good day?’

  ‘Hi. Yeah, it was good thanks—spent most of it staring at a computer screen. How was yours?’

  Juliette sighed and downed the water. ‘More in the classroom—not bad though. We spent the day doing role-play. The supervisors threw various situations at us and we had to go through it as though we were on the job, deciding whether an arrestable offence had been committed, or not.’

  ‘Fish and chips?’ Morton said with a grin.

  ‘Yeah, I was driving past the Kettle of Fish and couldn’t resist.’

  ‘Good—I’m starving.’ Morton sat up to the island in the centre of the ultra-modern kitchen. It was this room which had sold the house to Juliette, which Morton found ironic since she was such a dreadful cook.

  ‘Here you go, sir,’ Juliette said, thrusting a wrapped parcel towards him.

  Morton unwrapped the packet and ravenously tucked into the cod and chips. ‘Delicious, thanks.’

  Juliette nodded her agreement and smiled.

  ‘This arrived today,’ Morton said, pulling an envelope from its position, tucked behind a magnet on the side of the fridge.

  Juliette wiped her hands on a piece of kitchen roll and opened the envelope. ‘Oh, wow! They’re getting married. How lovely.’

  It was an invitation to his adoptive brother Jeremy’s wedding. The thought of the wedding brought back a sensation of mild nausea akin to that felt prior to a job interview. It had been just a few months ago that Morton’s adoptive father had finally revealed the truth about Morton’s past. Believing himself to be on death’s door, he had revealed that Morton’s Aunty Margaret was in fact his birth mother, giving him up when he was just a few hours old. His adoptive brother, Jeremy, whom he had previously felt little connection with, was in fact his cousin. His own flesh and blood. Following his father’s near-death experience, Morton had worked to restart his relationship with his adoptive brother, not easy with Jeremy being in the army and away for weeks at a time. And now here he was getting married. ‘What do you get for your brother when he’s marrying a man?’

  Juliette smiled. ‘What would you have got your brother if he was marrying a woman?’

  Morton shrugged. It was a fair point.

  ‘You’re not actually bothered about it, are you?’ Juliette asked with a quizzical look on her face.

  ‘Course not,’ Morton said. It was kind of the truth. He actually didn’t care at all about his brother’s sexuality. He was still feeling a little miffed that he was the last person in the family to actually find out. It reminded him of the feelings that he had had when he was told that he was adopted, that he was the family’s extra limb, surplus to requirement. Most of all, however, he was dreading seeing his Aunty Margaret for the first time since being told that she was actually his biological mother. The thought of see
ing her made his stomach lurch. What would he say? What could he say? Did she even know that he knew their true relationship?

  ‘Good.’ Juliette picked up another chip and muttered under her breath, ‘At least he’s getting married.’

  Morton rolled his eyes and pretended not to have heard. Since very early on in their relationship, Juliette had wanted to get married. She wanted the big fairy-tale, white wedding. He, though, wanted none of it. For years, he knew the block emanated from his past, that he couldn’t give his betrothed a surname which did not belong to him. But since discovering that his surname actually belonged to his mother at the time of his birth, his feelings on the matter had begun to thaw.

  Juliette, not quite willing to accept Morton’s silence as reluctance to speak about the subject, draped a chip over the ring finger on her left hand. ‘What do you think?’

  Morton took her hand and kissed the chip. ‘Suits you.’ Then he snatched the chip in his mouth and swallowed it. ‘Fancy going for a walk after this?’

  ‘Sure. We could walk along the river past the windmill.’

  ‘Great.’

  Chapter Ten

  Morton watched Juliette leave the house. He didn’t take his eyes off her as she climbed into her car and headed down the uneven cobbles before disappearing out of sight. He had asked her to text him as soon as she got to work, which had immediately aroused her suspicions. ‘What’s up with you?’ she had asked.

  ‘Nothing, just want to make sure you’re okay,’ he had replied. She had frowned incredulously at him, but let the matter rest. He hadn’t told her that, when they had returned home last night from a walk along the river, a brown A4 envelope had been waiting on the doormat with his name handwritten on the front. Thankfully, Juliette had been in the toilet when he had opened the envelope or else had she seen the contents, she would have leapt back on duty and turned into police constable-in-training, Juliette Meade.

  With Juliette gone for the day, Morton padded up to his study wearing his night boxer shorts and t-shirt. He picked up the envelope, which he had hidden below a stack of Mercer Case papers and withdrew the contents. On the top was a simple note which read, ‘We can all dig, Morton.’ Next was an incredibly neat, hand-drawn family tree for his branch of the Farrier tree. Morton’s name was at the base of an inverted pyramid, which then split into two for his parents. Whoever had compiled this tree hadn’t done their homework. The parents listed were his adoptive parents, not his biological ones. At the bottom of the stack, and most alarming of all to Morton, was a photograph of Juliette taken yesterday as she queued at the Kettle of Fish chip shop with the words, ‘Juliette Meade, 1975-?’ The threat was made real. Only one person had wanted him to stop researching the Mercer family enough to warrant this: Douglas Catt.

  Morton dialled the Mermaid Inn. ‘Hello, I’d like to speak to a guest of yours please, Douglas Catt,’ Morton said, trying to suppress the anger in his voice.

  ‘Okay, one second,’ a polite female voice on the other said. The line went quiet and Morton was treated to a few random bars of an unidentifiable piece of music before the voice spoke again. ‘Hello. I’m sorry, but Mr Catt checked out two days ago.’

  ‘Two days? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely. Sorry.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he left anything for Morton Farrier? A message of any kind?’

  There was a small pause and Morton heard some computer keys being tapped. ‘No, nothing. Sorry.’

  ‘Okay, thank you for your help.’ Morton hung up, reflecting on what he had just heard. Just because he had checked out, didn’t actually mean that he had returned home. He might well be staying at another hotel, Morton thought. He remembered then that Douglas’s home phone number was in an email sent to him. Bringing up his emails on his iPhone, Morton skimmed through until he reached the exchange between him and Douglas. He quickly located the correct email and then dialled Douglas’s home in Bristol. The phone rang for several seconds before being picked up.

  ‘Hello?’

  Morton hung up; in hearing that single word he’d ascertained for certain that the voice on the other end had belonged to Douglas Catt. Morton was perplexed. If Douglas hadn’t sent the packet, then who did?

  He tucked the contents back into the envelope and slid it out of sight from Juliette. He wasn’t sure how or even if to tell her about it. He didn’t want to worry her unduly. Was it reckless to not tell her? Especially when the threat was ostensibly aimed at her?

  Morton headed downstairs to his en suite bathroom. As he showered and the hot powerful water pelted his nape, Morton allowed his mind to wander around the Mercer Case. It was often at relaxed times like these that he had his Eureka! moments and an avenue of research which he had previously overlooked might jump out at him. However, no such revelatory moments happened today. He couldn’t stop his mind from vaulting between seeing Aunty Margaret at Jeremy’s upcoming wedding or the haunting words written below the image of Juliette in the chip shop. By even referring to a possible date of death for Juliette, the author of the package had, presumably as intended, slid a cold knife into Morton’s heart. Allowing his mind to drift without direction today was not a wise idea. He switched off the shower, dried himself and pulled his towel around his midriff.

  As Morton crossed the hallway, he spotted something at the foot of the stairs on the doormat. His heart began to beat faster as he padded down the stairs, fearful of the contents. As he drew closer he could see that it was a small white envelope. He bent down to pick it up and was relieved to see the familiar blue stamp of the Office of National Statistics emblazoned on the front. Panic over.

  Morton tore into it and pulled out Edward Mercer’s death certificate.

  When and where died: 18th May 1911, Blackfriars estate, Winchelsea RD

  Name and surname: Edward Mercer

  Sex: Male

  Age: 20 years

  Occupation: Footman

  Cause of death: Accidentally drowned certified by J. D. Leyden MRCS

  Signature, description and residence of informant: John William Mercer, father, Old Post Office, Icklesham

  When registered: 24th May 1911

  Edward had drowned little over one month after Mary had vanished. Morton reasoned that his death must have compounded the loss already felt in the Mercer family by Mary’s absence. He wondered if Edward had died trying to find her. Morton knew only too well how wildly unpredictable and dangerous the nearby River Rother could be. He looked back at the death certificate. It said that Edward had drowned in Winchelsea, not Rye. Morton considered the geology and landscape around Winchelsea; being situated on a hill, there were no large tracts of water or flowing rivers. How did Edward accidentally drown in a town with no large areas of water? Morton wondered. His curiosity was aroused: he needed to know more. He carried the certificate up to his study, then quickly changed into fresh clothes and prepared his laptop and a bag for a trip to The Keep—the repository for archives and records pertaining to parishes within the county of East Sussex. When he reached his bedroom he saw his phone screen light up announcing the receipt of a text message. It was from Juliette. ‘Got to work, Weirdo. Do I need to text regular updates?! xx’ Morton smiled and replied, ‘Glad you got there okay. No need for updates. Text when you leave! Off to The Keep. xx’

  Morton arrived at The Keep, situated just on the outskirts of Brighton, and found the car park pretty well empty. The archives had thankfully shifted from the inaccessible and unsuitable building in Lewes to a brand new, purpose built repository, opened by Her Majesty the Queen. They had even upgraded their archive request system to a digital, computer-based one. At last. Morton parked his Mini in a quiet corner, gathered up his belongings and made his way into the light and airy building.

  ‘Morning,’ a jovial receptionist greeted from behind her semi-circular desk.

  ‘Morning,’ Morton replied, marching into the cloakroom area, placing all prohibited items into one of the large grey lockers. Carrying just his
laptop, notepad, pencil and Edward’s death certificate, Morton walked through the lobby area with its round wooden tables and chairs, through a glass door and into the main body of the repository. The archive was principally comprised of two main sections: the Reading Room and the Reference Room. The Reading Room, in which genealogists and members of the public could come and go freely, housed rows of large tables on which were sited digital microfilm readers and large computers giving access to various online resources. To the side of the room were rows of tall shelves containing books and photocopies of parish registers pertaining to East Sussex. The Reference Room housed several large map desks and rows of research desks, allowing work with original documents.

  Morton walked into the Reading Room and took a seat in the front row at one of the digital microfilm readers. His first avenue of research would be in the local papers in the hope that Edward Mercer’s death had been reported. He set down his laptop and other belongings, switched on the reader then headed to the bank of short metal filing cabinets, whose drawers were filled with mile upon mile of microfilm reels. Morton searched the drawer-edge labels and found The Sussex Express. Pulling open the drawer, he was greeted by the sight of dozens of yellow boxes. Having selected the box which said ‘Jan-Dec 1911’, Morton returned to his desk and loaded the film onto the reader. Gone were the old arm-numbing days of hand-winding a whole roll of film; the entire process could now be conducted using the large, touch-screen computer in front of him. Morton pushed the film through on fast-forward, stopping at regular intervals to check that he hadn’t overshot the relevant month. After just a few short bursts, he was at the beginning of May 1911. Advancing slowly through the black and white print, he stopped at the Friday 26th May 1911 edition of The Sussex Express. In its original form, the paper would have been a broadsheet, jam-packed with stories, adverts and snippets of county news. Morton found the section of the newspaper he was looking for: the part in which the smaller villages and towns of Sussex told of their parish news. As he had hoped, in this edition there was a bold heading for Winchelsea. Morton placed his fingers on the screen and splayed them apart to zoom in on the story.