The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  She stepped out of her cottage and closed the front door. Outside, the sunshine was glorious, with barely a cloud in the sky and Elsie’s spirits, tinged with mild trepidation, were lifted. She mounted her black, former postman’s bicycle and wound her way down School Lane—a thin single track bounded on either side by high hedges of honeysuckle-laced beech trees. The descent of the lane required little effort to pedal. As usual, she passed nobody on her journey. When she reached the village school, of which she had been an important part until forced to leave upon her marriage to Laurie, she kept her eyes facing the front, briefly holding the tiny Victorian building in her peripheral vision. She had been good at her job and she had missed it terribly. But now she had another job. A bigger job.

  School Lane gave on to the High Street, a road unusually busy for a village the size of Nutley, owing to its being on the direct route from London to Eastbourne on the south coast—Elsie’s destination. She dismounted at the bus stop, which was directly opposite St James the Less church, the place where she and Laurie had married. She saw herself leaving the church, clinging onto his arm, the smiling bride and the dashing groom, her parents delighted at the union. Laurie’s mother had made Elsie’s dress from a blue satin nightdress with puffed sleeves, which she had covered with dyed butter muslin and satin ribbon. It had been commented on and admired by all the guests. But it wasn’t what Elsie had wanted. None of it had been, not really.

  The arrival of the Leyland Titan double-decker bus shook Elsie back to the present and her lamentations over her wedding were quickly forgotten as she stepped into the bus with her bicycle. The bus was already full, petrol rationing having slashed the number of services down to two per day, so Elsie had to make do with standing close to the driver’s cab.

  The journey to Eastbourne took a little over an hour and then it was a further five-minute bicycle ride until Elsie reached her parents’ Edwardian semi-detached house. Pushing open the black iron gate, Elsie stood up her bicycle, removed her gloves and headed to the front door.

  ‘Oh, Elsie, you came!’ It was her mother’s shrill voice. She was standing at the door in a hairnet, wearing a floral apron over her knitted dress, her fingers fiddling with her necklace. For as long as Elsie could remember, her mother had suffered with her nerves. The war had only made things worse.

  ‘Did you get my letter?’ she asked.

  Elsie shook her head.

  ‘Wretched post. Come in, come in,’ her mother directed with a sigh, slamming the door behind them.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter, Mum?’

  ‘The bombing—it’s going to start!’ she cried. ‘Any minute!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Elsie scoffed. ‘What bombing?’

  ‘The Germans—it’s going to be any day.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ Elsie asked, concealing a mocking laugh.

  ‘Everyone says so,’ her mother answered, her eyes widening. ‘All the London children who were evacuated here last September—they were all packed away on Sunday—every last one of them. Sent off to somewhere safe. That’s what they were told. Eastbourne—the south coast—it isn’t safe anymore.’

  ‘But that doesn’t mean they’re about to start bombing,’ Elsie refuted.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ her father said, suddenly appearing at the door. He was in his habitual outfit of a shirt, tie, trousers and pullover. Come high days and holidays, her father would always be found in a tie. He took a seat beside Elsie’s mother, pulled her fingers from her necklace and turned to speak to her. ‘Have you told her yet?’

  Elsie’s mother shook her head.

  ‘We’re leaving—going to Coventry to look after your grandmother,’ Elsie’s father said. ‘She’s not coping since Klaus was taken and we, well, we think it best if you come, too. You’ve got time to pack—we’re taking a coach the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ve bought your ticket,’ her mother added with a glimmer of a smile. ‘With all that’s gone on it’ll be a nice fresh start for you. Doesn’t have to be forever, just until this bombing-talk calms down…or until Papa’s released…or until you hear from Laurie…’ her voice, like a floating feather, gradually came to a whispery halt.

  Her parents were looking at her, expressionless. Waiting for her to smile and accept their offer. To tell them that she would hurry home on the next bus and begin packing at once. To say that, despite all that had happened, there was a sense of adventure and mild excitement to the plans. To agree that it was the new beginning that they all needed. They would be delighted. Her grandmother would be delighted—she’d watched her beloved husband being rounded up with all the other German nationals as an enemy alien and carted off to an internment camp on the Isle of Man. For a moment, Elsie considered the weight of her decision. Could she go with them to Coventry? To live that life? The firm shape of her determination to join the WAAF suddenly softened. But then she thought of the boredom and dullness that would follow her, find her and eventually consume her.

  ‘No,’ she blurted.

  ‘No?’ her father parroted, unsure that he had heard correctly.

  ‘No, I can’t come with you,’ Elsie asserted, surprised at her composure. ‘I’ve joined up. I’m a sergeant in the WAAF.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ her father muttered. ‘A sergeant!’ He laughed and sharply thrust his elbow into his wife’s side. ‘Did you hear that, love: Elsie’s a sergeant!’

  Elsie had anticipated her father’s incredulity. Here was a man who had endured four horrendous years of suffering in European trenches, crawling to the finish line of war as a corporal in the British army; his daughter, with no previous military experience, now outranked him.

  ‘Are you pulling our legs, Elsie?’ her mother asked, having reverted to twiddling her necklace. ‘Because it’s really not the right time for such ill humour.’

  ‘It’s not humour, Mum; I’ve joined the WAAF and I leave tomorrow. I came to say goodbye.’

  Her mother raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Going where?’

  Elsie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got three weeks of training then I’ll be posted somewhere. I don’t know much and what I do know I can’t divulge.’

  Her father emitted a guttural grunt of dismissal, waved his hand and hurried from the room. The clunking of the backdoor moments later signalled that he had disappeared out into the back garden.

  Her mother began to sob into a tissue. ‘Please don’t.’

  Elsie crouched before her mother and placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll be fine, Mum—really I will. I’ll be in some warm office somewhere doing boring administration.’

  ‘It’s not you—I know you’ll be alright; it’s me, my nerves, Elsie. I’m not sleeping or eating with worry for Mother and Papa and Laurie and you…I’m losing my hair again,’ she whispered.

  ‘Oh, Mum. You need to try and be brave. The way Hitler’s sweeping across Europe, this war isn’t going to end any time soon. You need to be strong. I need to do my bit—I just can’t sit at home waiting for it all to end. I just can’t.’

  Her mother went to speak but only a sniffle and a shaky breath came out. There was a long pause and Elsie witnessed the heart-breaking scene of her mother trying to compose herself. ‘I half thought you wouldn’t come with us to Coventry. I thought I’d prepared myself for it, but look at me.’ She managed a half smile. ‘I’m just like my mother.’

  ‘He’s sure to be released soon, Mum. What on earth can a German man in his seventies, who’s been living in England since before Queen Victoria died, have to do with Nazism? I ask you. It’s preposterous.’

  ‘Will you stay for dinner, Elsie?’ her mother asked, breathing deeply and trying to regain her composure.

  ‘Yes, Mum, I’d love to. I’ll help you.’

  Elsie pushed her bicycle down the path and turned to wave. Her mother’s face was contorted and her mouth arched up to prevent herself from crying. ‘Goodbye, Elsie,’ she mouthed silently.

  ‘Goodbye, Mum. See you
soon,’ Elsie called with a wave. It was an effort—a battle of wits against herself—to keep things normal. No finality to her departure. No upset. She was just going one way for a while and they were going another. ‘Say cheerio to Dad.’

  She mounted her bicycle and pedalled towards the bus stop without looking back. Her father, having escaped down the alleyway that ran behind the garden, had not returned. ‘He’s probably just forgotten the time or got carried away down the allotment,’ Elsie’s mother had excused. Elsie was sure, though, that he was down the pub, working his way through several beers, wondering what had gone so very wrong in the world.

  With moist eyes, Elsie boarded the crowded bus home, knowing that tomorrow her life would change dramatically.

  Chapter Four

  2016

  Sandwich, East Kent

  Morton Farrier was distracted. He should be listening, transcribing, asking pertinent questions, but somehow the words died before they reached his ears. Barbara Springett was sitting opposite him in the lounge of her sprawling bungalow, staring at the mug she was cradling in her hands. She was speaking sombrely, telling him important information. He forced his eyes to focus on the notepad in front of him, but couldn’t make sense of the notes that he had only just made. He tried to push back against his meandering thoughts and the blistering migraine that sat above his eyes, like a vice. He looked up at her and she must have sensed his uncertainty, for she stopped speaking mid-sentence.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she asked.

  Morton flushed, as his thoughts pooled back together again, like liquid mercury. He nodded emphatically—a little too emphatically. ‘Please, go on.’ His odd smile had not fooled her and she eyed him all the more strangely. She held his gaze for a moment further then turned to face the large window that overlooked her back garden. He passed his hand over his unshaven chin and glanced at her. She looked good for her seventy-five years, he thought, only now fully taking her in. Her white tousled hair was styled neatly to her neckline and she wore subtle shades of blue eye shadow and crimson lipstick. Her clothes were casual but stylish and, Morton guessed, came with a hefty price tag.

  ‘And so,’ she continued, ‘there I was, in 2007 at the Family Record Centre, contentedly working on my Binney family tree—that was my maiden name—and I had ten minutes to kill before leaving and I thought, I know! I’ll look up my own birth reference.’ Barbara shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me why, but I’ve since learned that it’s quite a common thing for genealogists to do. Anyway, I went straight to the June quarter of 1941—nothing. So I tried September—nothing. Same for March, June, September and December of the following year. I had a panicky few minutes, thrusting various microfiche under the glass, desperately searching for myself. In the end the security staff had to ask me to leave as they were closing up! And I’d found zilch. So, when I got home, I wrote to the Mansion House Certificate Centre in Tunbridge Wells, asking them to search for my birth between 1940 and 1945 but they returned my cheque telling me that it hadn’t been registered there and they could be of no further assistance. Well, I’d always believed that I was born 10th May 1941 in Sandwich, Kent—a place I’ve remained my whole life! I married here, my children were born here and here I shall die.’

  Morton offered a reassuring smile, knowing what was coming next. It was the reason why, at a time when he was refusing new cases, he had agreed to take this one on in the first place.

  ‘So, anyway, I went back up to London to the Family Records Centre and tried again, presuming that I’d missed something in my haste, or that perhaps Binney had been spelt incorrectly, or… Anyway, after several hours of fruitless searching, a rather teary and fretful me approached the help desk and asked for their thoughts. ‘Have you tried the adoption register?’ a young man said, quite matter-of-factly. No, I hadn’t, but I did. And there I was, Barbara Binney—adopted.’ She set down her tea and looked at Morton. Her face tightened into an expression that he immediately recognised: an expression that he had seen staring back at himself in the mirror when he had learned of his own adoption at the age of sixteen. It was a look like no other that achingly epitomised the dichotomy of everything changing and nothing changing simultaneously. He supposed that it was the abruptness of it all, like the unexpected death of a close relative: the cruel absurdity that life had to continue.

  Her face lightened and she shifted in her seat. ‘And from there, as you can see’—she laid a hand on the large yellow ring-bound file on the table between them—‘it took months of countless letters, emails, phone calls, post-adoption social worker meetings, an abundance of forms from the General Register Office, before finally I received this letter.’ Barbara, with evident intimate knowledge of the contents of the folder, flipped several pages then slid it across to Morton.

  ‘The Children’s Society holds the records for the Church of England Waifs and Strays Society and has provided your adoption records,’ Morton read, casting his eye down the list of documents held. Adoption agency application form, medical reports, memorandums x4, certificate signed by the mother, inquiries form.

  ‘Christina Finch—that was my birth name, but I’m not sure if I was a waif or a stray,’ Barbara muttered wryly. ‘Named after my grandmother, apparently.’

  Morton smiled vaguely, captivated by the list of documents. Was there out there, somewhere, a whole stack of paperwork pertaining to his adoption? Or was it different for him because he had been adopted by his biological mother’s brother and his wife? Did that matter? Presumably it had still passed through official channels.

  ‘You were adopted, weren’t you,’ Barbara said, as though she had intuited his thoughts.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you understand, then.’

  Morton nodded slowly, each movement rattling his brain. He understood fully. ‘So, then what happened?’

  Barbara took a deep breath and turned the page in the folder. ‘Then I met with a social worker who went through all the paperwork they held on me.’ She flicked on several pages, then continued. ‘This folder is a copy for you, so you can go through it in your own time. The short story, though, is that it told me that my birth mother was called Elsie Finch and that she was a married woman whose husband wasn’t my father. It took another year of searching to discover that Elsie had died in 2004—I had missed her by just four years.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Morton said, his mind wandering back to his search for his own biological father and the worry that he might also be too late.

  His scattered thoughts snapped back when he heard his name again. Barbara was frowning at him, concerned. Concentrate. ‘Sorry, carry on,’ he mumbled.

  Barbara’s blue eyes continued to search his face before she spoke again. ‘Is this case a little too close to home for you, Mr Farrier?’

  ‘No, it’s just making me think, is all,’ Morton answered. He sat up and focussed his mind. ‘So, what is it exactly that you want me to find out?’

  ‘Quite simply: Elsie’s life during the war, the circumstances surrounding my birth and anything you can find about my birth father.’

  Morton nodded. ‘Okay, but I do have to warn you, though, that by the very nature of that period, records are scarce, edited, have information redacted, are subject to closure orders, or have simply been destroyed,’ he warned, sounding more bleak and pessimistic than he had intended.

  Barbara agreed. ‘That’s what I found. I’m not entirely useless when it comes to genealogy—I’ve spent hours on the internet, but got nowhere. I suppose I’m looking for something… anything to understand her mind at the time. What made her do what she did?’ She sighed and gazed around the room. ‘Maybe she was lonely and the war made her behave in a way that she wouldn’t otherwise have done. I don’t know. Almost six years of war is a very long time. Was her life really just a drudge of rationing, bombing and Vera Lynn?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can come up with,’ Morton said, picking up his notepad and shuffling back in his chair, a move which evidently surpri
sed Barbara.

  ‘Oh, have you heard enough?’

  ‘I think so, yes,’ Morton said, fully aware of how unprofessional he must have appeared to her. If he was honest, he didn’t have the first idea if he’d taken enough information; his notepad was as muddled as his mind. ‘I’ll be in touch if I’ve got any further questions that your documents don’t answer.’ He stood and offered her his hand. ‘Well, it was good to meet you.’

  ‘And you—and thank you for taking on this case.’

  Morton smiled and headed towards the front door.

  ‘Good luck with your own family,’ Barbara said, following behind. ‘Give it time.’

  Morton nodded and smiled reassuringly, but he detected that inside she was questioning whether or not he was up to the job. As he crunched his way down the pea-beach drive, he wondered if he was up to the job.

  He climbed into his red Mini, shut the door and slumped forward, resting his forehead on the cool leather steering wheel. This was his first new case in several weeks and it was already going badly. Was this going to be the next in a line of recent failures? His last two clients’ genealogical brick walls, that he prided himself on being able to break down, had remained resolutely firm and unbreakable, forcing him to give up on them. His mind just wasn’t on the job at the moment.

  An urgent banging on the window felt like someone had just tightened the vice clamped to his brow. He shot up and looked out. It was Barbara, looking concerned and holding up the yellow folder. ‘You forgot this! Are you okay?’

  Morton wound down the window and took the file. ‘Sorry—I…’ He had no more excuses. ‘Thank you—just got a headache, is all.’ He started the car and pulled away, exhaling with gratitude when the house disappeared from his rear-view mirror. He had really messed things up in there.

  It took just seconds for his mind to drag him back to the main source of his distraction: the letters. Three days ago, he had received a phone call from Madge, his father’s fiancée. His deceased father’s fiancée. She had been clearing out the house and had discovered a pack of three letters—all of them unopened. They were addressed to Margaret Farrier—Morton’s biological mother and had been stamped in America. On the reverse of each letter was his biological father’s name, Harley ‘Jack’ Jacklin. That any communication between his parents existed was intriguing enough, but when Madge had told him the date that they were stamped, it sent Morton’s intrigue off the scale. 1976. Two years after his birth. ‘Surely you mean 1974?’ Morton had asked.