The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  She was taken aback when she opened her eyes, but smiled nonetheless. In front of her, quite unexpectedly, stood Mrs Cuff, Miss Herriot and Lady Philadelphia. By the aghast looks on the faces, they had not run into Lady Rothborne yet. Mary suddenly felt silly and foolish, yet she didn’t need to—she had been given permission to be here. Still, it would take some explaining.

  ‘Miss Mercer, kindly explain why you are in my bedroom, wearing my clothes?’ Lady Philadelphia demanded, stepping boldly towards her. Gone was the charming, kind person Mary had seen when they were last together in this very room.

  ‘I…I…’ Mary stammered, unable to formulate an explanation. ‘I’m looking for a wedding dress.’ As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Mary regretted them. They were silly and unfathomable to the people standing before her, who knew nothing of her engagement.

  ‘Miss Mercer, you’re making things worse for yourself,’ Mrs Cuff exploded. ‘What are you doing?’

  Mary needed to think fast and explain herself fully. She took a deep breath and began her explanation. ‘I’m engaged to my cousin, Edward, and Lady Rothborne said that I could find a dress amongst Lady Philadelphia’s wardrobe.’ It was brief, but it covered it.

  A look of profound astonishment and incomprehension passed back and forth between the three women.

  Lady Philadelphia let out a horrible, sardonic laugh that chilled Mary and told her in no uncertain circumstances that she had not been believed. ‘Lady Rothborne told you to help yourself to my wardrobe?’

  Mary nodded pathetically. ‘Ask her.’

  ‘Yes, I certainly would do,’ Lady Philadelphia said. ‘Except that she isn’t here.’

  ‘And hasn’t been all day,’ Mrs Cuff added.

  Mary’s eyes began to fill with hot tears. This can’t be happening! This is a huge mistake. With her lip quivering, Mary tried to speak. ‘She was here. She left about ten minutes ago, I promise.’

  ‘Miss Mercer, please stop lying, it will serve you no use. You are no longer an employee of Blackfriars, so telling such wild stories will not help your case,’ Lady Philadelphia ranted. She turned to Mrs Cuff. ‘See that she leaves immediately.’

  Mrs Cuff nodded obediently.

  The realisation of the situation and its far-reaching implications hit Mary just as surely as if she had been struck down by a speeding automobile. A torrent of emotion was made manifest in a great outpouring of tears.

  Mary’s time at Blackfriars was over.

  Edith Mercer stared into the tiny hallway mirror and smiled. At last, her thick and previously unmanageable hair was obeying her. It fell, in neat ringlets just like Ellaline Terriss’s centre-parted locks and she was happy. Using much of her first pay packet, she had visited the best hairdressers in Rye. She had taken the postcard of Ellaline Terriss with her and told the hairdresser to copy the style precisely. Whilst in Rye, Edith also purchased for herself a new summer dress, which she now proudly wore. Just one week from hers and Mary’s eighteenth birthday, her skin and body was finally beginning to behave as she wanted. Things were looking up for Edith. After being overlooked for the job of third housemaid at Blackfriars, she had secured a promising and exciting job as second housemaid at Durrant House. With her new job, her new hair and clothes, a surprising wave of confidence filled Edith as she carefully powdered her face. There was just one thing missing: a man in her life. Edward. Although his replies to her letters came seldom and were usually of the briefest in nature, she was sure that he wouldn’t be able to resist her when he next saw the woman that she was growing into. Edith remembered how Mary had disapprovingly commented on their potential courtship owing to him being her cousin. But it wasn’t unheard of and it certainly wasn’t illegal, so the family would just have to get used to the idea. Love was love and that was all there was to it as far as Edith was concerned.

  Edith’s growing certainty and joviality elevated when she remembered the very reason that she was getting all dressed up: it was the day that she and Mary would be collecting their mother from the sanatorium. She was finally coming home, which hopefully meant that Caroline would be leaving.

  She looked at the carriage clock quietly ticking on her bedroom fireplace. Mary would be finishing work in about half an hour. Edith thought about what to do while she waited. She had an idea. Rather than wait around the house, she would walk down to the Blackfriars gates and collect some of the lovely wild flowers growing there and meet Mary on her way up the path. She will love that, Edith thought. I’ll pick some flowers for her and some for Mother. Edith was so taken with the idea that she bound down the stairs and out of the house without saying a word to her father or to Caroline. Her father wouldn’t have even uttered a response, but she was sure that Caroline would have some bilious remark to make.

  Edith closed the door behind her and stepped out into a beautiful April day. The day was unusually warm and all of the houses that she passed had their windows flung wide open, releasing a burst of the sounds and smells from within. Knowing that her neighbours might see Edith in her new dress with her music-hall-star haircut gave her an extra spring in her step.

  The picturesque flowers nestled around the base of the large stone Blackfriars pillars came into view: a stunning concoction of pink fairy foxgloves, white fritillaries, yellow Jew’s mallow and pink sorrel, all bathed in a pool of gorgeous sunlight. Edith hurried over to them and, with a warm contented smile, she set about plucking some of the stems from the ground. In just a few minutes, her left hand was filled with the delightful flowers. Mother and Mary will absolutely love these! Edith told herself. But it needs more colour. She knew places just inside the Blackfriars estate where she could find some superb white field pansies. And then there were the bluebells just the other side of the old abbey ruins. She knew that it was technically trespassing, but everyone in the village helped themselves to the odd flower or pinched a bit of fruit every now and then. Nobody would mind, she told herself as she stole into the grounds.

  She walked slowly down the path towards Blackfriars, basking in the warm sunshine and the inner glow that she was feeling. In just a few moments she would meet Mary walking up the path and she would hand her a big bunch of flowers. She was so relieved to have patched things up with her twin. Like all sisters, they had their ups and downs but they shared a bond which could never be broken.

  Edith spotted the white field pansies just off the path and headed towards them. She was careful to take just enough to provide balance to her growing posy. As she stood up, she saw a flash of movement in the corner of her eye. She hoped that it was Mary and smiled. But it wasn’t, it was a girl who she knew to be the scullery maid.

  ‘What you think you’re doing?’ the girl called at Edith.

  ‘Just gathering one or two flowers,’ Edith said, irked that she had been caught out doing what so many of the villagers did.

  ‘That’s thieving, that is,’ the scullery maid said.

  ‘Oh go away, you silly girl,’ Edith said, beginning to turn her back.

  ‘Expect you’re looking for your sister, aren’t you?’

  Edith had no patience and decided to ignore her. It would be much simpler to walk back up the path and wait for Mary outside the gates. She began to walk away when the scullery maid started again.

  ‘You’ll probably find her with her fancy man. Her fiancé, I should say.’

  Edith stopped in her tracks and turned towards her. ‘What are you talking about? Mary doesn’t have a fancy man. Go back to the scullery.’

  ‘She hasn’t told you!’ she said with a mocking laugh. ‘Your own twin sister hasn’t told you that she’s engaged to your cousin, Edward! That’s funny.’

  Edith felt her stomach fall. It couldn’t possibly be true. There was no way Mary and Edward were an item. Engaged! The very idea was plainly absurd. Mary would never humiliate her like that; she knew that Edith liked him. ‘Don’t talk such rot. Will you please just go away and leave me alone?’

  ‘Ask her. She’s got a rin
g and everything. He gave it to her. It was his grandmother’s. Your grandmother’s.’

  Every part of Edith wanted to scream at this awful, tittle-tattle-telling vixen, but she maintained her composure and smiled, watching and waiting as she walked up the path and out of the estate.

  It was true. She knew it. Her sister—her twin sister—had betrayed her and done the unthinkable. Edith’s blood ran cold, as feelings of betrayal were replaced with feelings of anger. With her blood boiling, Edith ran to the old abbey ruins and smashed the bouquet of flowers violently against one of the walls. Watching as a handful of blooms tumbled to the floor, Edith drew the bunch back and again smashed them into the wall. She kept on thrashing them back and forth, angry tears rushing down her cheeks, until she held nothing but a few pathetic stalks.

  She would make her twin sister pay. As she stood by the wall giving a view over to the path, Edith spotted the sandstone lintel and the initials etched onto it. That was the last straw.

  Lady Rothborne nervously watched from her bedroom window. But for the usual abundance of wildlife attracted to the estate’s varied habitats, there was little stirring outside. She could see Mr Phillips and one of the local lads employed as a gardener working in the kitchen garden, but other than that, the gardens were still.

  She looked directly below her window and watched as Mary Mercer, audibly in great distress, was ushered out into the courtyard by Mrs Cuff. A slight altercation with raised voices—but not clear enough for Lady Rothborne’s ears—took place before Mary marched indignantly up the path towards home and Mrs Cuff headed back inside the house.

  Almost not daring to breathe, Lady Rothborne clutched her Bible and watched as a smile appeared on her wizened face.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Morton was sitting in The Apothecary Coffee House on the corner of Rye’s East and High Street, gazing through the small rectangular window panes as an endless torrent of rain fell from the miserable skies. Given the current weather and his position on the Mercer Case, he had assigned today as a computer-based research day and, rather than being cooped up in his attic study all day, Morton had decided that he would rather be working in the cosy and atmospheric coffee shop. Of the plethora of tearooms and cafes in Rye, this was one of Morton’s favourites, retaining as it did many characteristics from its rich and colourful history as an apothecary. The modern features of a coffee shop had sympathetically been placed alongside vestiges from the past. Morton enjoyed looking at the banks of original wooden medicine cabinets which lined the room. As he ran his eyes over the neatly labelled drawers, he could only imagine what mysterious illnesses such exotic Latin names as ‘B.Capsici,’ ‘Amylum,’ ‘Vermicel,’ ‘G. Benzoin,’ and ‘Glob Tussi’ were once dispensed for.

  Outside, the streets were empty. The rain had kept away all but the most ardent tourists and Morton was able to sit in relative solitude by the window with a good excuse to drink copious quantities of coffee all day without being reprimanded by Juliette. He was already in her bad books. His dilemma about whether or not to tell her about the anonymous, threatening package sent to him or the slashing of his car tyres had been decided for him yesterday. It had taken him so long to find a tyre-fitters who had the correct tyres in stock and who were willing to come out to him to change them that Morton knew his lateness home meant either telling her exactly what had occurred or lying to her. Up to now he had omitted to divulge everything, but he hadn’t actually lied. As he had finally driven back from The Keep, he played out the impending scenario in his mind. She would tell him about her day at work, then she’d ask about his day. He would have to tell her about the tyres. Oh, and I forgot to say that I also received an anonymous letter through the post which basically threatens your life. Something along those lines.

  ‘Hi,’ Morton had said when he got in.

  ‘Hi. You’re late—The Keep must have shut hours ago,’ Juliette had remarked, sitting in her uniform on the sofa, reading a dreadful celebrity-gossip magazine.

  Seeing her in uniform always unnerved him slightly and made him feel guilty, usually without reason. Today, he had a reason to feel guilty. ‘Yeah, it did,’ Morton had replied. Literally hours ago. First he had seen all the remnant visitors and researchers leave, shortly followed by the staff: the receptionist had been lovely and asked if he needed any assistance; Quiet Brian had quietly walked by with a barely audible acknowledgment; lastly, Miss Latimer had waltzed gaily past him looking like Mary Poppins. Morton had considered that to be the worst part about having his tyres slashed—that she had seen and clearly gloated about it.

  ‘Where did you go then?’ Juliette had quizzed.

  ‘I had to have someone change the tyres on my car,’ Morton said, knowing full well that using the word tyres would immediately kick-start Juliette’s investigation. It would just take a few seconds for her to register what he had just said. And it did.

  Juliette had put down her magazine and turned to face him. ‘What do you mean, tyres?’ she asked. The investigation had begun.

  Taking a deep breath, Morton sat down beside Juliette and told her what had happened. Inexplicably, he decided not to start at the beginning, but to start at the end—with the slashing of the tyres.

  ‘But why would someone want to slash all your tyres? Were any other cars vandalised?’ she had asked.

  ‘No, just mine,’ Morton had said, recalling the sight of the totally deserted car park.

  ‘So, you were targeted, then?’ Juliette had asked, sweeping her dark hair back over her ears. ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘The Mercer Case,’ Morton had muttered.

  Juliette’s eyes had rolled dramatically. ‘What now? Come on, Morton, there’s plenty you’re not telling me.’

  And so, the majority of their evening last night had been spent going over the ins and outs of the Mercer Case. Morton had mentioned the threatening package he had been sent, half-expecting it to freak Juliette out, but she had taken it all in her stride. Police Constable-in-waiting, Juliette Meade was not at all phased. ‘I look a bit rough, don’t I?’ had been her initial reaction to seeing the picture previously. ‘I think I should wear a bit more make-up.’

  Surprisingly, Juliette had been more intrigued in the case than anything else—not what he had expected. Even more surprisingly, she hadn’t warned him off it. She had just asked that he tell her everything that went on with the case, which Morton had readily agreed to do.

  ‘Here’s your latte and fruit scone,’ the waitress said, bringing Morton back to the present.

  ‘Thank you.’ He fired up his laptop, ready to get stuck in: he had a lot of research avenues to pursue today. Flipping his notepad back to the lists of people close to Mary in 1911, Morton re-read each list in the light of recent developments. He had made good progress finding out more about Edward Mercer. His gut reaction was currently that he and Mary were more than just friends, work colleagues and cousins. That placed him very highly in the rank of people who might have known what became of Mary. But, as he had died the month following her disappearance without having married or had children, Morton couldn’t think of any other areas of research concerning Edward that could currently push the case forward. Looking at the rest of the Blackfriars domestic servants, Morton began a mundane, yet necessary line of enquiry: finding their marriages, deaths and, with luck, living descendants.

  He had finished his latte and ordered a second cup in the time that it had taken him to find living relatives to a good portion of the names on the work list. He had drafted letters outlining the bones of the case with a request for any information or photos to descendants of Charlotte Cuff, Walter Risler, Sarah Herriot, Clara Ellingham and Joan Leigh. Owing to his unusual name, Morton had found an email address for Bartholomew Maslow, grandson of Jack Maslow. Morton could find no marriages or children to Susannah Routledge, Agnes Thompson or James Daniels. Charles Phillips had married another Blackfriars servant, Eliza Bootle and they had emigrated with their two children to Australia. Since he
did not appear again in the UK, Morton guessed that the chef, Guillaume Bastion, had returned to France. He would print and send the letters first class later today. For the other employees on the list, history had left little to trace easily. If this initial batch of people went nowhere, he would more ardently pursue the remainder of the list.

  Next, Morton added the Mercer’s immediate neighbours to the ‘Friends’ list. Of course, he didn’t know if they actually were friends or not, but they needed to be considered. Running the same types of searches, Morton found living descendants from the adjacent properties and occupants of the two houses opposite to the Mercers in 1911.

  Morton’s second latte had been finished for some time when the waitress returned to clear his table. A few customers had come and gone since his installation by the window, but the coffee shop was not busy.

  ‘Another latte?’ the waitress asked with a pleasant smile.

  There was a question. His coffee-addicted brain desperately wanted him to say yes, but, from the dark recesses of his mind, he could hear Juliette reprimanding him for his caffeine intake. She was like some wartime minister, handing out rations of coffee. ‘Decaf, please. Thank you,’ he said, satisfying himself with the compromise.

  Whilst he waited for his drink, Morton focussed his attention on the Mansfield family. Of the main family line, much had already been documented in various sources. Morton cross-referred the various burial dates for the Mansfield family that he had procured from the Winchelsea parish registers with what was available online. Lady Rothborne, her son Cecil and his wife Philadelphia had all been interred in the family vaults of St Thomas’s Church, along with their only son, George, who was the last member of the family to appear in the burial register when he was buried in July 2008. The only other family member present at the time of the 1911 census had been Cecil’s cousin, Frederick Mansfield. Morton racked his brain to think if he had read anything about him in the guidebook to Blackfriars, but nothing came to mind.