The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Let me get these,’ Morton said, fumbling for his wallet.

  ‘Nope. My treat. You’re the only person beside my husband who thinks I’m not totally bonkers.’

  ‘Okay,’ Morton said, packing up his belongings. He held onto the Next carrier bag until Jenny had finished paying. ‘Thanks for that. Here’s your bag.’

  ‘Keep it—it’s a photocopy of all my research which is relevant to Mary.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling open the door and stepping out into the quiet streets. The bright day had turned slightly overcast, with thick clouds shielding the sun.

  ‘I wonder what on earth went on there?’ Jenny said, as she and Morton looked into the churchyard. The entrances at each corner were still sealed off with police tape. It looked as though the forensic tents were being taken down and the operations scaled back. Just one police car and three policemen remained.

  Morton grinned. ‘I might tell you later. Come on, let’s go.’ Morton turned to leave when something caught his eyes. It was a name on a headstone. His eyes darted back to the name carved into the simple grey memorial.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Jenny asked, realising that Morton was transfixed by the grave.

  ‘This grave. It can’t be.’

  Jenny leant over and looked. ‘Martha Stone, 1890 to 1902.’ Jenny switched her attention to Morton. ‘Do you know her?’

  Morton nodded. He knew her alright. She was alive and well, living in Canada in the 1920s. He needed to think. Fast. He quickly took a picture of the grave, then addressed Jenny. ‘Let’s go—I might need your help this afternoon. I’ll explain later. For now, we need to go and see this vicar.’

  ‘Okay,’ Jenny said, sounding slightly confused.

  Morton led Jenny across the street to a rather grand peg-tile-covered house. It was detached and had an immaculate garden filled with bright red roses. A pink climbing rose with a thick trunk splayed out across the front of the house. ‘This is it,’ Morton said, checking the address with what he had scribbled on his notepad. He rang the bell and waited.

  A moment later, a squat man with white hair, wearing a cassock and dog collar, opened the door. ‘Morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Mr Farrier?’

  Morton nodded and shook the vicar’s hand. ‘Yes, thank you for seeing me. This is my friend, Jenny.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jenny,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Come in.’ The vicar stepped to one side to allow them in. ‘I might have to cut this short if I get a visit from our friends over there.’ He nodded his head over to the church and sighed. ‘First time I’ve ever been barred from my own church. Terrible business.’ He showed them into a small room at the front of the house. It was a simply furnished one, which Morton guessed was used for parish business rather than personal use. It had three fabric chairs, which had seen better days, and a small table. On the walls was an assortment of watercolours of scenic views around Sussex.

  ‘What happened?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Murder,’ the vicar said, taking a long breath. ‘I don’t know the full extent yet. A man was shot dead. You can’t imagine anyone in this town with a gun.’

  ‘Have they caught the murderer?’ Morton asked.

  The vicar shook his head, making his jowls shake like a boxer dog. ‘Not that I know of, no. It’s terrified my poor parishioners, I can tell you.’

  ‘I bet it has,’ Jenny commented.

  ‘Well,’ the vicar replied, facing Morton, ‘as I said on the phone, we’ve only got a few parish chest bits and pieces but pretty well everything of importance, official church records, etcetera were handed over years ago. It’s mainly letters to and from the diocese. Don’t get your hopes up.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Morton said. ‘Just checking every avenue.’

  ‘I won’t be a moment. Take a seat.’ The vicar strode from the room, leaving Morton and Jenny to sit at the table.

  ‘So, is Martha Stone something to do with this case you’re working on, then?’ Jenny asked.

  ‘Possibly. I need to get to The Keep pretty quickly after this. Fancy coming along?’

  ‘Oh, yes please!’ Jenny said enthusiastically.

  Morton smiled. ‘I’ll bring you up to date on our way over.’

  The vicar pushed open the door with an apologetic look on his face. In his hand was a bundle of papers bound by a red ribbon. ‘It really isn’t much,’ he said, setting the bundle down on the table and proceeding to unpeel the binding. ‘I’m afraid, for security reasons, I’m going to have to stay in the room while you look at them.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Morton said, leaning over to inspect the bundle. He felt like a child in a sweet shop when presented with historical artefacts, desperate to delve in. He took the first document and Jenny took the second. He could see instantly that the piece of paper was of no use. It was simply a letter written from the diocese to the church about a village event commemoration in 1978. Morton set the paper down and took the next, a bundle of papers which he skim-read. They were a series of letters about the erection of a tablet commemorating the life and distinguished service of one of their organists, who had died in 1948. Jenny set down her document and took another.

  ‘I did warn you,’ the vicar said with a look of slight embarrassment.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Morton said. ‘We’re just very meticulous.’

  After ten minutes of fruitless searching, the end of the pile drew closer when Jenny suddenly sat up straight. ‘Morton,’ she said, a hint of excitement in her voice. ‘Look at this.’ She handed over a letter.

  ‘Dear Rev. Knowles, I am writing to you to request that you prepare a marriage licence so that I can be married at your earliest convenience. I enclose the sum of 7s 6d, which I believe to be the cost. I am currently in Scotland with the Mansfield family, but I would like to marry my fiancée, Mary Mercer as soon after my return to Winchelsea as possible. I hope this is all as it should be. Yours sincerely, Edward Mercer.’

  ‘He somebody of interest?’ the vicar asked, sitting up with curiosity.

  ‘Very much so,’ Morton replied. The letter proved that he and Mary were an item. They were engaged. Marrying by licence often, but not always, implied a rushed marriage. Was Mary pregnant and they were marrying quickly to avoid the scandal of having a child out of wedlock? Morton studied the letter again. It was dated Monday 10th April 1911. It disproved one of Morton’s initial theories: that Mary had taken herself off to Scotland to be with Edward. He can only have learned of her disappearance upon his return with the rest of the household. And then he was dead just over a month later, drowned in the Blackfriars lake, just like Florence McDougall. ‘Mind if I take a photo of it on my phone?’

  ‘By all means,’ the vicar answered.

  ‘Would a copy of the licence exist somewhere?’ Jenny asked hopefully.

  ‘I’m guessing that the reason this letter is still here is because the licence wasn’t granted. Vicars couldn’t, and indeed still can’t, issue marriage licences. This Edward chap of yours was in such a hurry that he wrote to the wrong place. The Bishop of Canterbury would have been the person to issue the licence. If it had been granted, then the marriage would likely have taken place soon after. Your best bet is to see if they actually married. The marriage certificate will tell you if it was after banns had been called or by licence.’

  ‘They didn’t marry,’ Morton said.

  ‘Oh, I see. He seemed keen enough. Maybe young Mary wasn’t quite so keen.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Morton said, not wishing to waste time conveying the details of the case.

  Jenny carefully held the letter whilst Morton took the picture.

  ‘Right, let’s finish the bundle and then we’ll let you get on,’ Jenny said to the vicar.

  Morton and Jenny continued looking through the remaining papers, both working in silence as they considered the implications of chancing upon Edward’s letter. They reached the end of the pile, with no further trace of the Mercers or Mansfields.

  Morton than
ked the vicar and handed him a ten-pound note. ‘For your trouble.’

  ‘It was no trouble, but thank you,’ the vicar said, holding the front door open for them.

  ‘Well—that sure was a discovery!’ Jenny beamed once they were out of earshot. ‘That proves that they were a couple. And we know they looked alike.’

  ‘It doesn’t prove that she was pregnant with his child, which was then given over—willingly or otherwise—to Cecil and Philadelphia.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ Jenny said with a wry smile.

  As they walked towards Morton’s car, he couldn’t help but feel a hint of admiration for Jenny and her determination to prove her theory through her own personal endeavours. If it all came to nothing, it would still be a pleasant afternoon spent in the company of someone who shared his passion for uncovering historical truth.

  Mark Drury was agitated and angry. Last night had not gone to plan and he was pissed off. He was sitting in his van clenching his jaw, impatiently waiting. Suddenly, the GPS signal from Morton Farrier’s phone was moving. A small green dot representing Morton’s signal moved apace across a map on Mark Drury’s laptop screen. The laptop was open on the passenger seat of his car. Mark was little over half a mile from Morton’s present location in Winchelsea. Turning onto the main road, Mark began to follow the signal. With the technology sitting beside him, he had no need to ever get into Morton’s view and could comfortably hang back and allow the GPS signal to guide him to wherever he was going. In the glove compartment was Mark’s Sig Sauer handgun, loaded and with a silencer. After a severe reprimand from his boss, Mark knew that it had to end today.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thursday 18th May 1911

  Two weeks of solid sunshine had given way to violent storms. Dense black clouds raged outside and the windows of Blackfriars were pounded by the heavy rain.

  ‘Goodness, I think we might have to light some fires tonight, if this continues,’ Mrs Cuff said, as she walked beside Edward along the corridor towards the housekeeper’s room. It was half past eight in the evening and the servants had just finished their tea.

  Edward agreed with an inaudible mumble; he knew that she was just trying to make small talk, despite obviously having something more significant to say to him. It had to be a personal issue—if it were work-related then Mr Risler would have spoken to him. Maybe it was about Mary, Edward hoped. He had known all day that something hadn’t been quite right with Mrs Cuff; her lingering, uncertain looks implied that something was on her mind. Now he was about to find out what.

  When Mrs Cuff entered her dimly lit room, she rubbed her hands together and tried to put on a smile; Edward could see that it was all in an attempt to make him feel at ease, although he felt anything but at ease. ‘Don’t tell Mr Risler, but I shall certainly be lighting a small fire tonight,’ she said with a quiet laugh.

  Edward smiled. ‘What is it you wanted to see me about, Mrs Cuff?’ he asked, willing her to get on with whatever she had to say.

  ‘Take a seat. I just wanted to see how you were getting on…since Mary left.’

  ‘Not very well,’ Edward answered flatly as he sat opposite her in the gloomy room.

  ‘It must be very hard for you. And for her sister.’

  Edward nodded. ‘It’s unbearable. We’ve looked everywhere for her. At great expense, poor Edie’s even had Mary’s picture copied and sent it to all the major shipping ports to ask them to search their passenger records. She’s contacted carriage companies, charabanc companies. The local police have all but closed their case because of that wretched letter from Scotland.’

  ‘You never did believe that she was in Scotland, did you?’

  Edward shook his head vehemently. ‘Never. I know you did, but—’

  Mrs Cuff interjected. ‘Well, that was why I wanted to speak to you.’

  Edward looked puzzled but remained silent.

  ‘I did believe the letter, yes. I hoped the letter was genuine—desperately, in fact.’ She took a pause and stared at Edward, as if unsure of whether to proceed. ‘It reminded me all too much of Florence McDougall.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A young lady who worked here just before you started. Lovely girl, she was.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ Edward asked, just as a ferocious gust of wind rattled the window, making them both jump.

  ‘She disappeared.’

  ‘Oh,’ Edward said flatly. ‘Was she ever found?’

  Mrs Cuff nodded. ‘Unfortunately, yes. She turned up a few days later. They found her dead in the lake here.’

  ‘That’s awful,’ Edward said looking shocked. From what Mrs Cuff had said earlier, he didn’t like the sound of where this conversation was going.

  ‘It was awful. The poor girl…’ her voice trailed off, as if she were unable to vocalise the past. She shuddered. ‘The coroner ruled it as suicide and the unfortunate episode passed. Time moved on as it always does, taking with it any uncertainties about the situation.’

  ‘What kind of uncertainties?’

  ‘Nothing specific. It was only when Mary disappeared that it set me wondering. You see, Mary looked a lot like Florence, which I thought was just a coincidence, but then it got me thinking back to Mary’s interview: she didn’t have one. Edith was interviewed and found suitable for the job, then Lady Rothborne stepped in and offered it to Mary instead. I mean no offence to Mary, but she didn’t really have the right experience to be a housemaid, unlike Edith. Then, when she disappeared I remembered Florence…so, I was relieved when Mary had written a letter to say she was well and in Scotland.’

  ‘You sound as though you’ve had a change of heart,’ Edward said.

  ‘I have. I didn’t know if I should tell you or not…but, after Florence…’

  ‘Please, Mrs Cuff—you have to tell me.’

  Mrs Cuff sighed, accepting that she was about to start a chain of events over which she would have little control. She lowered her voice to the point that Edward had to lean forward to hear what she was saying. ‘I overheard something yesterday that made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t quite believe it and spent all of last night tossing and turning, unable to shake it from my mind. It’s too unbelievable.’

  ‘What did you hear?’ Edward implored.

  Mrs Cuff took a moment and he could see that her hands were trembling slightly. ‘I heard Mr Risler saying that the plan had worked. He said that he had posted Mary’s letter from Scotland to her parents to make it look as though she was there.’

  Edward gasped. ‘So she was never in Scotland?’

  Mrs Cuff shook her head solemnly.

  Countless questions and thoughts sped through Edward’s mind. His firm belief that Mary would never have run away to Scotland without him was right. Risler had posted the letter. But why? Who was he working with? ‘Who was Mr Risler talking to?’

  ‘Lady Rothborne.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand,’ Edward said loudly. ‘Why would Lady Rothborne and Mr Risler want to lock Mary away?’

  ‘Edward, be quiet,’ Mrs Cuff urged.

  ‘Sorry. I don’t understand.’

  Mrs Cuff leaned closer. ‘Did you know that Mary was pregnant?’

  ‘Pregnant? Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ve seen her with my own two eyes.’

  ‘But… that’s not a reason to lock someone up! I’m going to marry her. She’s not the first unwed girl for that to happen to…’

  ‘I don’t think that what’s happened is through moral condemnation.’

  ‘Pardon?’ Edward was truly lost.

  ‘I think that she’s being used as a surrogate. Her baby will then be given to Lord and Lady Rothborne.’

  ‘But that’s not right,’ Edward protested. ‘Mary would never agree to that!’

  ‘That’s why I’ve told you. I fear that poor Florence was being used in the same way and that didn’t end well for the poor girl.’

  Edward failed to comprehend all that he had just heard. He
wanted to scream and cry and shout, but most of all, he wanted to find Mary. ‘Do you know where they’re keeping her?’

  Mrs Cuff shook her head. ‘Somewhere on the estate. There can’t be too many places.’

  Edward leapt up, jettisoning his chair backwards.

  ‘Wait, Edward,’ Mrs Cuff called, just as he reached the door. ‘Listen to me, when you find her you both need to go—you need to leave Blackfriars forever. Maybe even leave Winchelsea for a while; I don’t think either of you are safe here.’

  Edward nodded. It suited him to get away anyway. He would find Mary, go back to her house to pack, then onwards to his house. The vicar of Winchelsea might still have the marriage licence that he had asked for upon his return from Scotland. They could marry quickly, then head off somewhere together as man and wife. As he went to leave the room, Edward turned back to Mrs Cuff. ‘Thank you.’

  She smiled and watched as he darted along the corridor. Her smile faded as a deep dread and foreboding washed over her. She listened to his heavy footsteps travelling down the corridor to the Butler’s Room, where she knew Edward would find Mr Risler. Mrs Cuff stood up, closed the door and slumped backwards with her hands over her ears.

  Edward Mercer had always approached the Butler’s Room with the deferential decorum that had been drummed into him from the moment he had arrived at Blackfriars in 1908. He would knock lightly, stand back a step with his head slightly bowed and his hands behind his back. But not now—primal instinct instead of a sense of duty made him kick the door back as hard as he could, sending it flying inwards.

  ‘What in God’s name!’ Mr Risler exclaimed, leaping up from his chair. He had been quietly reading a newspaper, which he dropped to the floor. ‘Mercer!’

  Edward saw no need for a polite conversation or explanation. Mary was out there somewhere, waiting for him. He attacked Risler with the proficiency of a top-class boxer, almost dancing on his heels as he rushed towards him. The speed of the first punch lifted Risler clear off his feet, sending him crashing backwards into his wooden table. Risler yelped and tried to speak, but his mouth met with another powerful right hook. He tumbled to the ground, curled into a foetal position and covered his face with the squeal of a helpless animal as he braced himself for the next impact.