The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton sighed. It quite easily ranked amongst the worst possible days of his life. It wasn’t that bad, really, he just couldn’t stand the commercial aspect of marriage. With a slight groan, he realised then that he was turning into his adoptive father, a man who refused to take part in any special occasion, apart from birthdays, because of commercialisation. Even when Morton and Jeremy were small boys, he never bought Mother’s Day cards or gifts on their behalf; it was only when they went to Sunday school and primary school that their mother began to receive anything. The two boys learnt early on not to bother with Father’s Day when their efforts at homemade cards were met with the derisory glimmer of a glance before being tossed to one side. He never bought Valentine gifts for his wife and only really took part in Christmas celebrations begrudgingly and under duress from the rest of the family. Ever since Morton’s mother had died of cancer, his father had celebrated Christmas alone, despite numerous offers from friends and family. Every year was the same for him: a quiet walk around the park, a meal of shop-bought fish and chips at home and strictly no television. Since 1990, Christmas had officially been banned from the Farrier household. Morton was determined not to turn into him.

  ‘What do you think of this one?’ Juliette said quietly, handing Morton an example of the photographer’s work. It was a close-up of the bride’s shoes and a close-up of a filled champagne glass with a red lipstick mark on the rim.

  It was hard for Morton to select among a possible bank of adjectives to describe the photos. He decided to use one that Juliette wanted to hear. ‘Stunning.’

  Juliette shot an incredulous look at him, turned her head away from the man behind the table and lowered her voice. ‘Morton, don’t just say what you think I want to hear.’

  ‘I…’ he began when his phone began to shriek its ringtone into the air. Saved by the bell. ‘Sorry,’ Morton said, pulling his phone from his pocket. It was an unidentified mobile number. He answered the call and stepped away from Juliette, who pulled an apologetic face to the man behind the table. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello, is that Morton Farrier?’ a female voice asked.

  ‘Speaking.’

  ‘This is Jenny Greenwood here. I’ve just got your letter.’ Her voice was flat and Morton couldn’t detect her reaction to having received the letter.

  ‘Oh yes, thank you for getting in touch,’ he said, treading very carefully with his words.

  ‘Well, even though your letter doesn’t mention that we’ve already met at Blackfriars, I’m guessing that you’ve discovered my little secret?’ she asked. There was still no emotion in her voice.

  ‘It did click, when I found out that Vivien Mansfield had had a daughter called Jennifer and she’d gone on to marry a Greenwood, that it was you, yes. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask the whys and wherefores of your situation. I’m really only interested in Mary Mercer—as I set out in the letter.’

  The line went quiet and Morton removed the phone from his ear to check if the call had ended, but it hadn’t. After a few seconds, Jenny spoke. ‘I’ve got my own reasons for working there, which I will tell you. Can we meet up?’

  Morton thought for a moment. He didn’t need to see Jenny to discuss why she was working at Blackfriars when she was actually a member of their family. ‘Listen, Jenny, you really don’t need to explain your story to me. As I said—’

  Jenny interrupted him. ‘What if part of my story is part of Mary’s story?’ she asked cryptically.

  Interesting, he thought. ‘Okay… when do you want to meet, then?’

  ‘My next day off is in two days. That any good?’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine. When and where?’

  ‘How about one o’clock at the Winchelsea Farm Kitchen? It’s just a stone’s throw from Blackfriars and not far from you.’

  Morton, ever the tearoom connoisseur, knew of the place. ‘Yes, that will be fine.’

  ‘See you then,’ Jenny said and hung up.

  Morton was intrigued about what Jenny had just said. The implication was surely that Frederick Mansfield was somehow associated with Mary Mercer’s disappearance. He was about to put his mobile away when he spotted that he had two new emails. He glanced over at Juliette. She had now moved on to a table filled with every type of wedding cake imaginable. She was in her element; he had plenty of time to open his emails. The most recent one was from Ray Mercer. Dear Morton, Thank you for your very detailed email. I can see why you are a ‘forensic’ genealogist! You sound as though you are pursuing avenues I wouldn’t even have thought of. I was most intrigued by what you said about my grandmother travelling to Canada. I had no idea about this, but of course it was years before I was even born. She certainly never mentioned it to me. Perhaps just a holiday? You asked after my health—not good I’m afraid. I’ve been given the details of a nearby hospice, which I’m sure doesn’t require much more of an explanation on my part. I know you’re working at full speed, so hopefully my lost ancestor will appear from the shadows of the past sometime soon. With warmest regards, Ray. Morton felt an even greater sense of urgency now that Ray’s health was deteriorating. He really needed to go all out on bringing this case to a resolution as quickly as possible. When he considered all that he had discovered so far, he believed he would find out what happened to Mary. Before Morton looked at the next email, he peered over at Juliette, who was now busy stuffing her face with cake samples. The email was from Bartholomew Maslow, grandson of Jack Maslow, a Blackfriars servant. Morton, I received your email. I have something to show you which might be of interest. Meet me in St Thomas’s Church, Winchelsea tonight at 8pm. Morton re-read the email several times. He had found Bartholomew’s email address on the University of Brighton’s website, although the reply was sent from a Gmail account. Probably not wanting to use his work email address for personal business, Morton reasoned. He was excited that his email had hit the right person and he had something which might help the Mercer Case. Brilliant. He felt a surge of satisfaction that his relentless efforts were starting to pay off.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Juliette asked when he rejoined her.

  ‘Yeah, just had an email from Ray Mercer—he’s been told to contact the local hospice.’

  Juliette pulled a sympathetic face.

  ‘He really needs closure on this before…’ Morton let the words hang in the air before continuing, ‘…I had another email,’ he said, more upbeat. ‘From a Bartholomew Maslow, the grandson of one of the servants, and he wants to meet me tonight.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Juliette said with a smile. ‘The jigsaw’s coming together.’

  Morton nodded. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘We haven’t found a present for Jeremy and Guy yet. And I haven’t looked at any of those stalls over there,’ she said, indicating the far side of the room.

  Morton groaned. As much as he wanted to just leave Juliette to it and go and get a coffee somewhere, he knew he couldn’t. ‘I’m going to go and sit over there by the door and do some bits on my phone.’

  Juliette nodded her agreement and he sloped off to a bench beside the door. It was the only entrance or exit to the warehouse, so he could easily keep an eye on Juliette and anyone else intent on taking pictures of her. Morton opened a web-browser on his mobile and began to research Canadian electoral registers. None of the main genealogy websites offered him what he was looking for, so he headed to the Nova Scotia Archives website and sent an email asking if electoral registers existed for Halifax and if so, whether they could check the occupancy of 4 West Street. It would be pushing his luck, but he asked for searches to be carried out 1921-1930 and then emphasised that he was from England and couldn’t search the records for himself. In his experience, most archives and record offices were happy to help with research requests, although he recalled one burial search request for a cemetery in Chatham which resulted in a twenty-five pounds fee for a search to be carried out ten years after and ten years before the date of death. Madness.

  Morton scanned the warehous
e and located Juliette. She was happily chatting to two women behind a table on the far side of the room. He slowly cast his eyes over the rest of the place—no sign of Douglas Catt, thankfully.

  Morton pondered the Mercer Case. The Scottish connection still bothered him. Mary had, it seemed, been sacked from Blackfriars at a time when most of the household was in Scotland, then written a letter from there saying that she wouldn’t be coming back. Yet she failed to turn up ever again in the country. Morton opened up the Scotland’s People website and again began a series of searches for Mary, but no credible leads were forthcoming. Unless Mary lived her whole life under a pseudonym, her time in Scotland must have been very brief.

  After more than two hours at the wedding fayre, Juliette wandered over to Morton and said the magic words: ‘Right, let’s go.’

  Through bleary eyes, Morton looked incredulously at the accumulation of gift bags that she had acquired during one afternoon in a chilly dilapidated warehouse. He still couldn’t quite fathom how this could be enjoyable for anyone.

  Morton stepped outside and raised his umbrella to shield against the incessant, driving rain.

  ‘Well, I’ve got loads of ideas for our big day,’ Juliette said, as she slipped her arm through his.

  ‘Go on then, enlighten me.’

  ‘I’ll need to be asked the question first,’ she said with a smile.

  Morton leant over and kissed her. ‘Okay. Will you, Juliette Meade, please tell me about your ideas for our big day?’

  Juliette squeezed his arm and smiled.

  The pair hurried through the saturated streets, navigating ever-expanding puddles until they reached home.

  Having unlocked the front door, Morton hastened inside and was relieved not to see another envelope waiting for him on the doormat. He looked at his watch. He had another three hours until his meeting at the church with Bartholomew Maslow. Plenty of time to shower and freshen up.

  In a tiny box-room that he had self-proclaimed as his office, the man grinned. The room only contained a desk and a laptop, but it was enough. He had just compiled a detailed report of all the activity on Morton Farrier’s mobile phone. Everything. He had logged his exact movements, his incoming and outgoing text messages and phone calls, his emails and internet browsing. The file was growing impressively and the man began to feel like a real spy. He laughed at how easily he had intercepted the email to Bartholomew Maslow, then created a false Gmail account from which to reply to Morton. He glanced at his watch. Two hours until his scheduled meeting in St Thomas’s Church. Then it would be case closed for Morton Farrier and all activity on his phone would end. The man laughed raucously as he picked up his latest acquisition—a Sig Sauer p232-22 handgun. Aiming the weapon at Morton’s communications file, the man pretended to fire.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Farrier.’

  Morton was running late. He had seriously misjudged the time that it would take him to prepare the fish pie that he had cooked for him and Juliette. He zoomed, far too fast, up Strand Hill, almost colliding with an oncoming car when the road narrowed to a single lane in order to pass through the fourteenth-century Strand Gate.

  ‘Shit,’ Morton yelled, slamming on his brakes and allowing the other car through. It didn’t help that his visibility was severely reduced owing to the incredible quantity of rain thrashing down.

  Morton raced around the corner and parked in a similar spot to the one used on his last visit here, just outside the former Mercer house on Friar’s Road. He killed the engine and leapt from the car, pulling his waterproof coat collar up to try and get some protection from the dismal weather. The exterior of the church was up-lit by the burnt amber glow from several huge floodlights dotted around the churchyard. Even in the driving rain, Morton thought that the grand church looked majestic and impressive. Apart from the lights beaming onto the church, Winchelsea had very little street lighting and Morton struggled to see where he was going.

  ‘Damn it!’ he cursed again, having stepped into a deep puddle that lapped up over his left shoe. He remembered then that his iPhone had a torch function and rummaged around in his pockets for it. He stopped still on the path, fumbling infuriatedly. He’d left his phone in the car.

  Douglas Catt, wearing a dark wax jacket and matching hat, was cowering behind a tilted gravestone to the south of the church entrance. He had chosen a grave just behind one of the huge floodlights to conceal himself better. He had tailed Morton from his home in Rye, almost rear-ending him at the Strand Gate. He had no idea what Morton was doing here, but Douglas was certain that it somehow involved the church and Morton’s ridiculous quest to find out what happened to Mary Mercer—a quest Douglas was determined to end. Douglas quickly pulled out his camera, checked that the flash was not on and took a grainy, blurred photo of Morton. It wasn’t a great image by any means, but it would be enough to spook Morton. Douglas watched as Morton stopped on his way towards the church. He had evidently forgotten something. Morton turned around, hurrying back towards his car. Now was his chance to get into the church ahead of Morton and find somewhere to hide. Using the powerful shaft of light to shield him, Douglas moved from grave to grave, always keeping Morton in view, until he reached the chunky outer wooden door. He pulled it open, wincing at the amount of noise emanating from the ancient hinges.

  ‘Bloody thing,’ Douglas muttered to himself, hoping that the sound of the wind and rain was enough to mask the sound.

  Pushing the door tightly shut, Douglas moved through the vestibule, opened another creaky door and turned into the gloom of the church. The only light was that which filtered in through the stained-glass windows, producing an unnatural, eerie glow around the church ceiling. He quickly cast his eyes around the room for somewhere to conceal himself and decided that a large, gothic pillar might be a good place in which to hide, since it offered him the ability to manoeuvre around it, should the need arise. He crept over to the pillar and ducked down, his eyes set firmly on the door.

  From the other side of the church, Douglas heard the unmistakable sound of a stifled cough.

  Someone was already here. Whoever it was started to approach him.

  Morton reached his car, climbed in and instinctively locked the doors. Groping around by his feet, he found his mobile. He picked it up and saw that he had a missed call with an answerphone message. He checked the time. It was eight twenty. Even though he was twenty minutes late, Morton decided it would be wise to listen to the message since it might be Bartholomew Maslow. Hopefully he’s running late, too, Morton thought. Accessing his voicemails, he listened carefully. It wasn’t from Bartholomew, it was from a descendant of Sarah Herriot who had been phoning to say that she knew nothing at all of her grandmother’s time at Blackfriars; that she worked there at all had been a fascinating revelation to her. Morton saved the message, switched on the torch function and stepped out of the car.

  The torch provided sufficient light to guide Morton back into the churchyard towards the door. He was half expecting Bartholomew to be stood in the vestibule ready to greet him and share whatever information he had. Morton very much hoped that whatever it was he wanted to show him was inside the church. He pulled open the inner church door and began to feel slightly unnerved. It hadn’t really occurred to him just how creepy the church might be when unoccupied after eight at night.

  Morton stood in the chancel and allowed his eyes to adjust to the low light levels. He scanned around the vast edifice, expecting to see Bartholomew sitting in the pews, but there was nobody in sight.

  His heart began to beat a little faster as he crept along the chancel towards the altar, turning his head nervously as he went. Something didn’t quite feel right.

  Suddenly Morton’s phone beeped loudly with an email alert.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ he said, annoyed for having made himself jump. He pulled his phone out to switch it onto silent when he noticed that the email was from Bartholomew Maslow. The first line made no sense and stopped Morton in his tracks in order to read it fully. D
ear Mr Farrier. Many thanks for your email. Yes, you have correctly identified me! Although, I’m not sure what help I can be. I have pictures of my grandfather (Jack) during his time at Blackfriars, which I’m happy to scan and email you. Never heard of Mary Mercer though, unfortunately. Get back to me if the photos are of use. Regards, Bart Maslow. Morton was baffled. This email was a direct reply to Morton’s, with his original message below.

  A sudden wash of panic hit Morton when he realised that he had been set up, lured to the church by someone other than Bartholomew Maslow. His heart rate shot through the roof and his breathing became restricted. He needed to get out. Right now.

  Morton turned, ready to run from the building. As he did so, something caught his eye. Something on the floor beside the altar. Not something, someone. Someone lying splayed out not moving. Dead.

  Morton gasped and froze as he stared at the person on the floor. From the limited light cascading from the stained glass windows, Morton could see a bullet hole in the person’s forehead. It was then that he recognised the body: Douglas Catt. As his mind began to try and fathom what on earth Douglas Catt was doing dead in Winchelsea church, he suddenly realised that the killer might still be inside here. Without another second’s thought, Morton ran for the door, tugged it open, momentarily praying that the vestibule would be empty. It was. He pulled open the outer door and rushed into the rain. The previously innocuous shadows that bordered the graveyard were suddenly frightening harbours of potential evil.

  He took a deep breath and ran for his car. His single focus was on getting in the car and getting away. Then he would phone the police. As he neared his car, the thought entered his head that maybe Douglas had slashed his tyres again, but thankfully that was not the case. Morton climbed into the Mini, started the engine and sped from Friar’s Road as fast as he could.