The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Jenny smiled and watched as he returned to the Canadian Ancestry main page, then navigated through to the Message Boards whose tag line read The world's largest online genealogy community with over 25 Million posts on more than 198,000 boards. Faster than she could even read the words, Morton tapped out a quick request for anyone who knew of, or was taught by Martha Stone to get in touch.

  ‘There—done!’ Morton said as he hit the enter button.

  Jenny and Morton smiled conspiratorially at one another.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Max Fairbrother shouted from behind the help desk, ‘the archive will be closing in five minutes. That’s five minutes.’

  ‘Guess that’s us done, then,’ Jenny remarked, the disappointment evident in her voice.

  Morton could see how saddened she was by the day’s being over. ‘You’ve got your nice meal with Deidre to look forward to.’

  Jenny visibly cheered. ‘Oh, yes. Are you sure we can’t tempt you? She might even be able to suggest something on the case that we hadn’t thought of.’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Morton insisted. ‘I’m planning on calling in on my dad anyway. You two go ahead and have a good catch up. I’ll keep you up to date—don’t worry.’

  Jenny smiled. ‘Come on then, let’s go. We’re almost the last left!’

  ‘I’m always the last left,’ Morton groaned, as he shut down his laptop and scooped up all his belongings.

  ‘Bye, Max,’ Morton called as they left the Reference Room.

  ‘Cheerio, buddy,’ Max replied.

  Miss Latimer was still on duty, guarding the Reading Room like a vicious Rottweiler, snapping at people to hurry up and leave. She smiled when she spotted Jenny. ‘Be with you in a moment.’

  ‘Lovely,’ Jenny answered, before following Morton into the busy cloakroom. ‘Well, it’s been a lovely day, Morton. I’ll get George’s certificates over to you tonight and then we’ll take it from there.’

  ‘Great,’ Morton answered. ‘I’ve had a good day, too. It’s been nice having someone to work with. Have a lovely evening.’

  ‘Thanks. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Mark Drury was feeling anxious. He was getting impatient waiting for Morton to appear. All afternoon he had sat in his car, fiddling with his phone and watching as the GPS device tracked Morton’s every move, even within the confines of the archive. What the hell can anyone want to do in a crappy old library all day? Mark asked himself. How bloody boring is this bloke?

  Finally, the steady stream of people leaving the building suggested that it was closing time. The GPS signal confirmed his theory. He thrust the gun into the waistband of his jeans, got out of his car and made his way inside the building.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but the archive is closed now,’ the lady behind the reception desk called to him as he strode past.

  ‘Just left something in the locker,’ Mark said, flashing the receptionist an oafish smile. He could see that the look on her face suggested that she questioned if she had ever seen him before now, but she declined to comment further.

  Mark made his way to a locker out of her view and began to pretend to fiddle inside it. From this vantage point, at the tip of the bank of central lockers, he could see if Morton approached from either side.

  There he was.

  Mark pulled his head back slightly and watched as Morton passed the end of the lockers and headed into the toilet. Now was his chance. He patted the gun, which was sitting comfortably on his right thigh and waltzed down between the lockers towards the toilet. He briefly considered taking him out in the toilet, but quickly dismissed it when he spotted CCTV cameras pointing at the main entrance. No, I’ll flash the gun, march him out to his car, then take him off somewhere quiet. He grinned and made his way to the toilet.

  ‘Mark!’ a voice suddenly proclaimed.

  He couldn’t contain his surprise and jumped at being recognised. Damn it. ‘Hi, Jenny,’ Mark said coolly. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Jenny grinned. ‘I was about to ask you the same thing. This doesn’t strike me as your cup of tea somehow.’

  ‘Yeah, just doing some stuff,’ Mark said vaguely, looking around the room for a clue as to what actually went on inside the building. His eyes settled on a digital display. ‘Boats and stuff.’

  Jenny nodded with a vague look of understanding on her face. It was evidently enough not to arouse her suspicions. ‘Oh, lovely.’

  ‘See you later,’ he said, hurrying past her and out the door, cursing to himself for having been caught. There was no way he could do anything now that he had been recognised. Damn that stupid bitch!

  Mark reached his car, climbed in and wound down the window. A bead of sweat ruptured on his forehead and under his arms, as the adrenalin raged around his body, poised for what he had just been about to do. This has got to happen. Today. He thumped the steering wheel with his fist, then had an idea. He would go ahead of Morton and wait for him at home. He grinned, pulled a quantity of phlegm down the back of his throat, spat it out of the window and sped out of The Keep car park with his tyres squealing on the tarmac.

  Morton parked outside his dad’s semi-detached house in Hastings with apprehension. He switched off the ignition and just sat, staring at the house for a moment. Although his relationship with his father had improved a great deal since he had been told about his biological mother’s true identity, Morton still felt pangs of anxiety when left alone in his father’s presence. It was at times like this that he relied heavily on Juliette to assuage the awkwardness of the situation. When he looked back on the years between his adoptive mother’s death and having his true past revealed to him, Morton realised that he had often treated his father with an immature flippant attitude, bordering on contempt. It was no justification by any means, but Morton had spent much of his life feeling like the fifth wheel of the Farrier household and that his adoptive brother, Jeremy, was consistently treated as the miracle child who could do no wrong.

  Morton rubbed his tired temples and breathed slowly and deeply. It was time to grow up and move on from the past. In just a few weeks’ time, he would turn forty. Forty years old and he had no wife or children to show for it. Did that matter? Before he had met Juliette, he had always put his career first and the thought of being saddled with a wife and child had once filled him with genuine horror. And yet now, he wondered if his only objection to marriage and, maybe one day having children, was because he had always believed that that was the way his life was destined to be. Was it really all based on an outdated notion that he no longer believed in? He wasn’t sure.

  ‘See what you do to me, Dad,’ Morton mumbled to himself. It was true that the only time he became so introspective and maudlin was when he returned to his father’s memory-filled house. This house embodied his childhood, his teenage years, his mother’s death and the news of his being adopted. With a flash of clarity, he realised that this was the place that enveloped his past and could govern his future—if he allowed it to.

  A loud beeping from his phone jolted him from his mawkishness. It was a short text message from Juliette, giving him Susan Catt’s mobile number. Morton looked at the number, deliberating about whether to call or text. After such a long heavy day and with what he was about to potentially face, he didn’t feel as though he had the energy for a phone call. He typed out a quick text to her, suggesting that they meet somewhere in the next few days. He clicked ‘send’, pocketed the phone, then looked up at the house again. His father was waving at him with a huge frown dominating his face, as he looked left and right to see if Morton had been spotted sitting in his car staring at the house. Morton smiled, took a deep breath and climbed from his car.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ Morton said cheerfully, as the front door opened.

  ‘What the devil are you doing out there?’ his dad barked. ‘You looked daft as a brush, looking up at the house without getting out. I hope Dave and Sandra aren’t in.’

  ‘Sorry, just thinking,’ Morton said as he step
ped inside the house.

  ‘Dave’s running the Neighbourhood Watch now that Geoff’s passed on, so I expect you’ve been clocked.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Morton said sarcastically, then quickly reprimanded himself for his tone.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ his father asked when they reached the lounge.

  ‘Coffee, please,’ Morton answered.

  ‘You don’t have sugar, do you?’

  ‘No,’ he said, biting his tongue. Surely his own father should know after thirty-nine years that he didn’t take sugar?

  ‘Go into the lounge and I’ll bring it through.’

  Morton sat in the quiet room, deliberately choosing the armchair by the window rather than the sofa which faced the awful family portrait hanging above the fireplace of him, Jeremy and their mum and dad. Not only did he hate the way that he looked in the portrait, but it always reminded him of his mum’s death, as it was the last picture that existed of all of them together before she died. Having chosen the seat so as not to have to look at the portrait, he found himself craning his neck to see it properly. He looked his mother in the eyes and allowed happy memories to return. He smiled at her as his eyes filled with tears. ‘I miss you, Mum,’ he whispered.

  ‘Here we are,’ his father’s voice boomed as he entered the room carrying a tray. ‘Only got chocolate bourbons, I’m afraid.’

  Morton quickly ran his sleeve over his moist eyes. ‘That’s fine.’ He watched as his father’s doddery hand placed the cups and china plate of biscuits on the coffee table between them. After suffering from severe heart trouble last year, his father had, albeit very reluctantly, had a change of lifestyle. He had joined the local gym and cut back on his cooked breakfasts and he now looked much better for it. ‘You’re looking well.’

  His father waved his hand dismissively. ‘It’s all that rabbit food I’m eating. Do you know what the dietician suggested I eat once a fortnight? Millet! Ha!’ he said with a laugh. ‘Does she think I’m a budgie or something?’ He laughed again. ‘I ask you.’

  ‘It’s obviously working, though,’ Morton said, taking a bourbon. He observed his father and waited for the inevitable comeback along the lines of If this is going to make me live longer, then I’d rather not live, but it didn’t come. It seemed his father’s attitude as well as his appearance had shifted. Maybe broaching the subject of Aunty Margaret won’t be so painful after all, Morton hoped.

  ‘How’s work?’ his father asked.

  ‘Great, thank you. I’m working on a really interesting case at the moment,’ Morton began. Ever since his last high-profile case, his father had suddenly sat up with interest. He had even told the neighbours with a hint of pride that his son was the forensic genealogist who had brought down the Windsor-Sackville family. Up until then he had regarded Morton’s career with derision and open scorn.

  ‘Go on,’ his father encouraged.

  Morton recounted the highlights of the case, carefully choosing the parts which sounded the most exciting.

  His father looked impressed. ‘Very enthralling.’

  With his story over, a slight pause hung in the air, as both men sipped their drinks. Morton used the gap in conversation to broach the subject of Aunty Margaret. Here’s where it all goes horribly wrong, Morton thought. But he had to do it. The past would forever have a grip on him until he began to resolve the issue. Forever delaying meeting Aunty Margaret was not an option. Neither was discussing at his brother’s wedding, her rape at the age of sixteen. Even worse would be to pretend that nothing had changed. ‘I wanted to ask you something about the wedding,’ Morton ventured carefully. ‘I…I’m not sure about what I can say to Aunty Margaret…’ Suddenly, his mouth had dried and he struggled to swallow.

  ‘She very much doubts she’ll be coming to the wedding,’ his father said flatly.

  ‘Oh?’ Morton said.

  ‘She’s got lady troubles,’ he said, with an indistinct gesture towards his waist. ‘She’s due to have a big operation in a few weeks to… sort it all out. She’s been told she can’t do much for about six weeks, so unless the operation gets moved, the wedding’s sadly out of the question.’

  Morton wasn’t sure how to process the news that his Aunty Margaret wouldn’t be at the wedding. On the one hand, he was greatly relieved that there would be no awkwardness between them and he could just relax and enjoy the occasion. On the other hand, it was delaying the inevitable. He would have to see her again one day…

  A short silence began to draw out, gradually emphasising the elephant in the room to which Morton had just referred. He felt as though someone was slowly strangling him from behind, pressing and squashing his vocal chords. Say it! But no words would come. He looked over at his father and waited for him to swallow his mouthful of tea. Finally, their eyes locked. Say it!

  ‘I expect you’re dithering around asking me what she knows,’ his father said, unexpectedly.

  Morton nodded, still unable to speak.

  His father set down his tea and cleared his throat. ‘I told her about the situation when I got out of hospital last year; she knows everything,’ he said.

  Morton waited for more to follow, but, true to form, his father felt that no further explanation was required. It struck him as interesting that he had heard nothing from her since being told—just the usual Christmas card with the annual syrupy round-robin letter to tell everyone how their family had fared during the past year. It definitely didn’t include the lines ‘Discovered that my nephew, who is actually my biological son, now knows the truth!’ Did that mean she had taken the news badly? He had to ask, as painful and uncomfortable as it might be for his father. ‘How did she take it?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘She was a bit upset at first,’ he said. ‘She needed time—I think she still does. Her main worry is that you understand her reasons. I assured her that you understood.’ He looked seriously at Morton. ‘You do understand, don’t you, Morton?’

  Morton nodded that he understood, although deep down he didn’t know how he felt about it. The bottom line, despite all the reasons offered, was that his own biological mother had abandoned him at birth and, as far as she was concerned, wanted nothing maternally to do with him. She had then gone on to have her own two daughters. As a forensic genealogist, he couldn’t ignore the facts.

  His father smiled. ‘Then that’s it—everything’s fine. Back to normal.’

  But it wasn’t fine. And it wasn’t back to normal. Before he could ask any more questions, his father swiftly changed the subject.

  ‘How’s Juliette?’

  And that was it, subject changed. Morton knew better than to steer his father back to the previous conversation, so he accepted it. ‘She’s fine, getting on well with her police training.’

  ‘Oh right. Tell me about it.’

  An hour later, just as dusk began to stretch and pull at the shadows, Morton stepped into his front door. ‘Hi,’ he called out, kicking off his shoes. There was no answer and the house was quiet. She’s probably asleep on the sofa. Or gone out for a jog or to get something for dinner. With his laptop under his arm, Morton stuck his head into the lounge. The room was empty, so he pulled out his mobile and tapped out a quick text. Home. Where are you? xx He clicked ‘send’ and began to make his way up to the study. He probably had a few minutes to get a bit more done on the Mercer Case before she returned. He was quite looking forward to adding all the new details to his study wall. Just then, he heard Juliette’s phone beep upstairs. She was in the study.

  Morton padded up to the top of the stairs. The study door was slightly ajar. He pushed it open. ‘Hi…’ he said, then stopped quickly. Juliette was sitting in his office chair, bound with blue rope, her mouth gagged with tape. Standing over her, with a vulgar grin on his face, was a man he recognised but couldn’t immediately place. He held a gun to Juliette’s temple. She was trying to appear threatening and defiant but Morton could see the terror in her eyes.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Wedn
esday 1st November 1911

  It was working. Her astute plan was working. The future of the Mansfield family was being secured, their tenure on Blackfriars and their centuries-long high standing in society would continue for generations to come. A Mansfield baby—God-willing, a boy—was due imminently. Lady Rothborne was alone in her room, perched nervously at the edge of her bed, waiting. She had eaten nothing all day and her stomach was starting to cramp. When will there be news? Dr Leyden was called to Philadelphia’s room more than an hour ago. There must surely be something to report, she thought. She had personally requested that Dr Leyden himself keep her updated with news of the arrival. As time passed, she began to fear the worst. What if there were complications? She strengthened herself and sat up straight. She needed to exercise patience.

  And, sure enough, her patience paid off when, forty minutes later, there was a light tapping at the door. Lady Rothborne smiled a small, faint smile. ‘Come in.’

  An incensed snarl beset her face when she was not greeted by Dr Leyden, but by Mr Risler. ‘I specifically asked not to be disturbed,’ she growled.

  Mr Risler lowered his head deferentially. ‘I do apologise, Lady Rothborne. I thought it prudent to keep you informed of some developments.’

  Lady Rothborne stood, her body rigid and commanding, despite her aging years. ‘Developments?’

  ‘Your nephew, Frederick Mansfield, has arrived unexpectedly. He seems under the influence of alcohol and is most insistent at being present at the birth.’

  Lady Rothborne felt her pulse quicken and her throat tighten. ‘That’s the most absurd, disgusting idea that I have ever heard. Disgraceful man. Alert Lord Rothborne and request that he get rid of him at once.’

  ‘Yes, Your Ladyship,’ Mr Risler said.

  Turning her back to the door, Lady Rothborne began to make her way to the window. When her bedroom door did not shut, she turned to see Mr Risler still standing there with an apologetic look on his face. ‘What is it?’ she demanded.