The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘There’s something else,’ Mr Risler began. ‘Mrs Caroline Ransom is in the kitchen demanding to see a member of the family.’

  Lady Rothborne scowled. ‘Tell her to go away. Who is she? Demanding to see one of the family. Why did you even entertain such a person, Risler? And on such a day as today.’

  ‘She’s the sister of Miss Mercer,’ Mr Risler said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘She’s under the impression that Miss Mercer is here and is expecting a child at any moment.’

  Lady Rothborne’s perfect poise faltered and she stumbled.

  ‘Your ladyship,’ Mr Risler called, hurrying to her aid.

  ‘Get off,’ she scolded, sitting herself down on the bed. ‘Who knows that she’s here?’

  ‘Just myself and Monsieur Bastion at the moment.’

  ‘Take her to the library and see to it that nobody is made aware of her visit. I will speak with her presently. I trust that is all the developments?’

  ‘Yes, Lady Rothborne.’ Mr Risler bowed his head and backed from the room.

  Clenching her fists to control a slight tremble that had wracked her whole body, Lady Rothborne stood stoically. She knew that in the next few minutes, the fate of her family’s future would be sealed: history was about to be written.

  Elegantly and gracefully, Lady Rothborne left her room. From the disturbance emanating from the floor below, she surmised that Cecil had been unable to prevent her dreadful nephew from reaching Philadelphia’s chamber. She prayed that she was not too late.

  Standing outside Philadelphia’s bedroom, her disapproving eyes fell upon Frederick with his open shirt, dishevelled hair and a general stench of fetid alcohol. He was grinning from ear to ear, as if he had just been told the greatest joke on earth. Behind him, forcing one arm bent back between his shoulder blades, stood his angry cousin, Cecil.

  ‘Hello dearest Aunt,’ Frederick slurred. ‘I’ve come to pay my respects.’ With a wriggle and a fierce wrench, Frederick released himself from Cecil’s grip.

  With the force of an angry bull, Lady Rothborne strode to Philadelphia’s door. ‘You will not be permitted entry into a lady’s boudoir in this house at any time,’ she hissed. ‘You most certainly will never be permitted entry when such an intimate event is taking place. Your father would be disgusted.’ Lady Rothborne stood tall and firm in front of Philadelphia’s bedroom door.

  ‘Ouch!’ Frederick moaned, turning back towards Cecil. ‘No need to be so brutal, Cousin dearest. I just wanted to wish my dear Philly well.’

  ‘It is uncouth, it is vulgar and it is not going to happen,’ Lady Rothborne ranted. ‘Kindly take to your room with a glass of water for a few hours.’

  The distinct burst of a new-born baby’s cry resounded from the bedroom, cutting through the commotion. Everyone stopped and stared as a happy sweat-covered Dr Leyden pulled open the door. ‘A boy,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Come and meet him.’

  A subtle nod of the head by Dr Leyden at Lady Rothborne told her that she could permit Frederick’s entry into the room.

  Lady Rothborne, Frederick and Cecil walked behind Dr Leyden into the bedroom. Looking hot and tired, Philadelphia sat up in bed carefully cradling her new baby in her arms. She was smiling and seemed oblivious to the new arrivals.

  Lady Rothborne heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the tiny baby with its small tuft of bright red hair. A boy. A Mansfield boy in fine health. Under normal circumstances, she might have allowed herself to shed a tear but there was still work to be done. Only part of the story was written.

  Cecil rushed to his wife’s side and gently kissed her on the lips, before kissing his new-born son.

  Lady Rothborne turned her attention to Frederick. He was transfixed by the baby and all the colour had drained from his face. ‘I think it’s time you left Blackfriars,’ she said quietly. ‘For good. No more impromptu visits. No more annuities. You need to stand on your own two feet. Goodbye, Frederick.’ She determined right there and then, that the family would no longer suffer this man.

  Frederick opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out. He staggered from the room, slamming the door behind him.

  The baby screamed his startled response and Lady Rothborne smiled. Her next problem was Caroline Ransom.

  Mrs Cuff sat in the servants’ hall beside Risler’s vacant seat. All the other servants were seated and silent, just as she had demanded them to be. Mrs Cuff stared at her empty plate. She had requested no food when the under-butler had offered it. She felt sick and had no appetite. The mood amongst the servants was, after many months of despondency and sorrow following Edward Mercer’s death, positively euphoric. Even the generally more glum staff were delighted at the prospect of a new baby arriving at Blackfriars. The older members recalled that the last birth had been with Lord Cecil himself, way back in 1880. Before she had ordered silence, there had been excited talk of parties, champagne and extra holiday days. She couldn’t stand it. The euphoria was based on a horrible, sordid lie. After what had happened to Edward when she had told him the truth, Mrs Cuff had vowed to keep silent on the matter and allow events to evolve and unfold without her interference. But this morning, with all the hype and excitement rippling and bubbling through the hierarchies of the house, she could take the disgusting ruse no longer and had slipped unnoticed out of the house to the Mercer household.

  Mary’s older sister, Caroline had answered the door with a grimace. ‘What?’

  Mrs Cuff had looked uncertainly at the surly, unwelcoming face and turned to leave.

  ‘What do you want?’ Caroline had called after her.

  Mrs Cuff had stopped and knew she just needed to say it. Come what may, she needed to unburden herself. She had moved closer to Caroline and lowered her voice. ‘I know something about Mary. May I come in?’

  Caroline had shown Mrs Cuff into the tiny sitting-room and directed her to a chair.

  ‘Mary’s in Scotland. What about it?’ Caroline had barked.

  Mrs Cuff, for many reasons, had needed this to be over quickly. She had had no time or desire to discuss the subject in detail. ‘Mary’s being held—I believe against her will—at Blackfriars. Any moment now she’s going to give birth and the baby will be kept by Lord and Lady Rothborne, who are unable to have children of their own.’

  Caroline, as expected, had been stunned into shocked silence.

  Mrs Cuff was brought back to her present surroundings in the servants’ hall by the gentle thud of the door closing and heavy footsteps heading towards her. She looked up and saw the beaming face of Mr Risler.

  The sound of wood scraping stone resounded around the room as the servants pushed their chairs back to stand for the entrance of the butler.

  Mr Risler indicated that they could sit. ‘I have some wonderful, delightful news!’ he chirped. ‘It is my great pleasure to announce the safe arrival of Master George Richard Mansfield.’

  Mrs Cuff smiled, unable to look anybody in the eyes and joined in with the chorus of clapping and cheering that erupted around the room.

  ‘On this occasion…’ Mr Risler began to say over the din, but nobody was listening. Talk had returned to parties and time off. Mr Risler bent down and spoke to Mrs Cuff. ‘I was going to say, on this occasion they would be permitted to talk!’

  Mrs Cuff offered a weak, pathetic smile.

  ‘Not excited about the news, Mrs Cuff?’ Mr Risler asked, raising a knowing eyebrow.

  ‘Of course,’ she answered flatly. Any moment now, the Mercer family—maybe even the police—would arrive and stop this awful charade.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Morton was paralysed to the spot with fear. Every muscle was frozen. He didn’t do well in fight or flight situations such as this. He focussed on Juliette’s puffy red eyes. She had been crying but didn’t look hurt. He tried to think what she would do if the situation were reversed. Negotiate. Be nice to him. Buy time.

  ‘You finally turned up, Mr Farrier,’ Mark Drury laughed. ‘Your poor old bird here has
been waiting ages for ya.’ He lowered his head towards Juliette’s face. ‘He must have gone the wrong way back from that big library place in Falmer. Or, do you reckon he’s got another woman on the go somewhere?’’ Mark grinned. ‘Expect you’ll be glad when I’ve shot him.’ He laughed in a hollow, exaggerated way.

  Juliette squirmed in her seat and tried to speak, but all that came out was a muffled, nonsensical sound.

  ‘What is it you want?’ Morton asked, trying his hardest to stay calm. ‘Money?’

  ‘Naa,’ Mark answered. ‘Cup of tea maybe. But don’t worry, I’ll make it myself when I’ve finished here.’ He laughed again and drew a quantity of phlegm from his nose.

  That was when Morton was able to place from where he knew him.

  ‘I ain’t come for nothing except to kill you. Don’t get much simpler than that, really, does it? It was a bit of a surprise finding her here, so I’ll have to take her out as well, but never mind.’

  ‘Please—I can get you money—lots of money for you to just walk away,’ Morton pleaded, his eyes darting around the room for something—anything—with which to hit the assailant if it came to it. He was almost certain that negotiation would fail and he would need to take action to keep him and Juliette alive.

  ‘I told ya, I ain’t here for money. You or her first?’ Mark asked.

  Morton’s brain was racing at lightning speed, as he tried to work out what to do next for the best. From past experience, fighting wasn’t a great option and so far he could see nothing in the room that could be used as a weapon.

  ‘I asked you a question—you or her first?’ Mark shouted.

  ‘Er… me,’ Morton stammered. ‘But before you do it, could you answer me one question?’

  ‘No,’ Mark said with another laugh.

  Morton was running out of time. ‘I know you work as a security guard at Blackfriars, so I assume the order came from there…’ Morton let his words hang in the air, hoping that it would catch the intruder off-guard. He remembered that Juliette had said he was hapless and not a very good shot. Morton had quickly assimilated a hasty plan and it relied very heavily on that information’s being correct.

  ‘How do you know I work there?’ Mark asked, lowering the gun slightly.

  ‘I’ve seen you there. Was it Lord Rothborne that sent you to do his dirty work?’

  Mark scowled. ‘No, he ain’t got a clue about none of this.’

  ‘Who then?’ Morton persisted.

  Mark sniffed and smiled. ‘Suppose there’s something quite poetic about the last words you hear being the name of the person who wants you dead.’ Mark laughed again.

  Morton saw his chance.

  With all the power he could muster, he launched his laptop from under his arm, aiming straight for the assailant’s hand which held the weapon. The laptop flew through the air. Mark saw what was happening a moment too late, raised the gun to take a shot, just as the laptop cracked down on his wrist. He squeezed the trigger and the barrel flipped upwards in a jerking motion, as the bullet glanced his forehead and penetrated the ceiling. The gun tumbled from Mark’s hand and fell to the floor. Both Mark and Morton dived for it, but Mark, being closer, had the advantage and his hand reached out towards the hand grip.

  Morton watched as, in a flash, Juliette rocked her chair from one side then to the next, sending herself crashing down onto the intruder. It was enough to buy Morton a few precious seconds. He reached down, grabbed the gun and backed himself away to the door.

  With a hulking shove, Mark pushed Juliette off him; her head hit the floor with a painful thud. ‘You ain’t going to use that,’ Mark sneered. ‘Go on, shoot me.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ Morton shouted.

  Mark slowly began to pull himself up until he was standing.

  ‘I said don’t move,’ Morton yelled.

  Still Mark ignored him, a loutish grin wide on his face and made a step towards him.

  Morton knew that he had to act but he also knew that he couldn’t bring himself to actually kill someone. He lowered the gun slightly and pulled the trigger.

  Mark let out an agonising scream as the bullet passed into his right foot.

  ‘Sit down or I’ll shoot your other foot,’ Morton warned, surprising himself with the commanding authority in his voice.

  Mark fell to the floor clutching his foot, moaning and writhing in pain.

  Morton, with the gun pointing at Mark, carefully stepped over to Juliette and removed the gag from her mouth. She gasped and drew in a great lungful of air. ‘Are you okay? Did he hurt you?’

  ‘I’m fine, a little bit dazed from hitting the floor just then,’ she said.

  Morton moved behind the chair and began to untie the rope. Moments later, Juliette was freed and Morton offered her the gun.

  ‘You keep it, you did a really good job, Morton. I’ll phone the police.’

  ‘Hang on a moment,’ Morton directed. He had suddenly became aware of the vast quantities of adrenalin rushing around his body and he felt his limbs begin to quiver. He definitely was not suited to a career in law enforcement. However, he wanted to make one final use of his power.

  Juliette looked at him in surprise. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Shoot him and plead self-defence,’ Morton said firmly.

  ‘But…’ Juliette began, ‘you can’t. Don’t!’

  Morton aimed the gun at the assailant.

  ‘Stop!’ Juliette shouted.

  Mark looked up pitifully, having removed his shoe and sock he was now cradling his foot in his arm, as though it were a new-born baby. Wet streaks coursed down his cheeks. ‘Please, don’t shoot me.’

  ‘Who sent you?’ Morton demanded.

  Mark needed no extra threats. ‘Daphne Mansfield.’

  ‘Why?’ Morton asked. He already knew the answer.

  ‘She didn’t tell me the ins-and-outs of it, just that she wanted to protect the next generations of Mansfields at Blackfriars. That’s all I know. Honest.’

  Morton nodded to Juliette and she called the police.

  It was game over for Mark Drury.

  Four hours had passed since the drama had ended and the police had carted Mark Drury away. Lying in his dark bedroom with only a glimmer of moonlight creating bizarre shadows and shapes on the ceiling, Morton was wide awake. Juliette was sleeping peacefully beside him, as if being taken hostage and threatened with a gun was just another ordinary day. He supposed that it was the kind of situation for which she was being trained. She had fallen asleep within seconds of her head hitting the pillow and now Morton was left wide awake, mulling over the latest developments in the Mercer Case. He remembered, then, that Jenny was going to send over the certificates for George Mansfield’s birth, marriage and death. He could easily and quickly have checked his emails on his phone, but he convinced himself to head back up to his study to look at them on his laptop in the context of the whole case.

  Having made himself a decaf coffee, Morton made his way to his study. With a slight trepidation, he pushed open the door and switched on the light. The violent scenes from earlier in the day, made manifest in the blood-stained carpet, replayed in his mind and he considered just how close he and Juliette had come to being seriously injured or worse. Although Juliette and the armed police who stormed the house all praised his actions and bravery, in reality he knew that his survival was more down to Mark Drury’s incompetence than his own gallantry.

  With his laptop fired up and thankfully unharmed from being launched at Mark, Morton opened his emails and sipped his coffee. Above an email with attachments from Jenny were two other emails. He started at the top and worked his way down. The first email was from a Thomas Day. Dear Morton, I received your letter about my grandmother, Joan Leigh, with great interest. I have been researching the family tree for a number of years now, so take an active interest in such things! My grandmother died before I was born, so I only have a limited amount of information on her and scant amount for the precise period you ar
e researching. I attach a photo of Joan in her servant’s outfit, which would have been taken around 1914. From what I can gather from my mother, Joan wasn’t overly keen on her time at Blackfriars and was ready to leave when she met my grandfather, Andrew Day in 1915. I’m not sure this is of any use to you, but I wish you luck in your search! Yours faithfully, Thomas Day.

  Morton opened the attachment of Joan Leigh in her uniform. She was standing beside a man dressed in a First World War soldier’s uniform, which confirmed that the picture had little value for the Mercer Case, although Morton always appreciated putting a face to a name. He printed the picture and added it to the wall under Joan’s name.

  The next email was from a Henry Goacher. Hello Morton! Received your letter about my granny, Clara Ellingham. Dear old lady, she was. You’re in luck! Granny kept a diary her whole life and, much to my wife’s consternation, I have a whole bookcase full of them! I’ve always intended to publish them one day as a kind of social history—perhaps when I retire. Anyway, I’ve had a good look through the diary for 1911 and Granny makes several mentions of your Mary Mercer—is she a relation of yours? I have scanned and (hopefully) attached the relevant pages. All for now, Hen Goacher.

  Morton found himself holding his breath as he clicked to download the seven attachments, each entry saved as a photo. Onscreen appeared the first entry, written in a typical Edwardian scrawl. It took a moment for Morton to break into the style and letter formation before he could read each entry. He scanned for any salient elements.

  3rd Jan. The short time having my own bedroom is now over. A new girl, Mary Mercer has started as third housemaid. Seems nice enough but no previous experience. Her sewing is awful! Still, good to have a bit of company in the evenings I suppose.

  18th Jan. Mary Mercer really is a mischievous one! Today she was caught in Lord Rothborne’s bed! Fortunately he was not in it at the time…

  30th Jan. Mary really has been down of late. She hasn’t taken well to being a domestic servant—think she has dreams and ideas above her station. I’m having a great difficulty getting off to sleep owing to her constant crying at bedtime.