Morton finished reading and looked back at the engine, his thoughts briefly returning to what Freddie had told him at the Memorial to the Few—or rather, what he hadn’t told him. Smith hadn’t blacked out behind the controls. He hadn’t attempted to correct the fatal trajectory of the plane. He hadn’t tried to bail out. The account left little doubt in Morton’s mind that, for whatever reason, William Smith had crashed his Hurricane deliberately.
He took out his notepad and began to laboriously copy down the text.
Once he had finished, Morton continued through the museum, scanning and skim-reading the text for any further mentions of William Smith. When he had completed his tour of the museum, he returned to the entrance, took his mobile back from the delightful man behind the counter, then left. He was ready to go home and switch off.
Then, as he pulled his car out of the museum, he spotted what was on the other side of the road: the cemetery. He crawled in first gear across the street, parked in the cemetery car park and began to trudge through the rows and rows of graves. He was searching for the distinctive tell-tale white war graves. He found them on the other side of the cemetery. There were around thirty of them, formed in a neat but pitiful triangle. He walked slowly along one line of graves, stepping back from his job for a moment and taking a purposeful account of the loss of life. German and English men—boys, practically—buried alongside one another under the soil of war, their names forgotten, or, like the grave now in front of him, never having been known. Ein Deutscher Soldat.
Morton came to the end of the row, then began to pace the next. Three graves in, he found William Smith. It was a simple white oblong grave and under the emblem of the thirty-second squadron was the inscription: Pilot Officer W. Smith. Royal Air Force. 15th August 1940. Aged 19. Until the day breaks and the shadows flee away.
Morton placed a hand on the top of the grave, tracing its hard edge with his fingers. ‘Hi, William. I don’t know if you know this, but you’ve got a daughter,’ he said quietly. ‘She wants to know all about you.’ As he took a photo of the grave, he remembered what Barbara had said about her mother dying just a few years too late for their possible reunion. Somewhere inside, his indecision about opening the letters from his biological father lifted like a fog, leaving him with certain clarity about what he needed to do next in his own quest.
With a sudden surge of energy, Morton strode back to the car park.
Chapter Nine
‘We could have a problem,’ Tamara said quietly.
‘Oh?’
She shot a look across the table. Shaohao Chen’s tone and his furrowed brow conveyed much more than the single sound that he had just uttered. She glanced around herself then leant in closer and lowered her voice, although there was really no need. They were eating lunch in the Chatberry-Long Private Members’ Club, a location deliberately chosen for its privacy and discretion. They were sitting at one of several round tables, subtly positioned around the long hall—a high-ceilinged room with ornate furnishings and tall windows overlooking the Thames. ‘Someone’s snooping around.’
Shaohao stared at her, saying nothing. He was fifty-five, short and with entirely white hair.
Tamara continued, ‘Someone’s looking into the past—a genealogist,’ she warned. ‘Morton Farrier—ever heard of him?’
Shaohao shook his head and laughed. He had a laugh that was rasping and grating, and it drew attention from two gentlemen who were sitting at a table a tactful distance away. ‘The past?’ he finally said.
‘The 1940s,’ Tamara responded.
Another laugh, then: ‘Just destroy the contents of The Spyglass File. Then there’s nothing to worry about. No evidence. You worry too much, Tamara.’
Tamara didn’t share his optimism. Destroying The Spyglass File—more than thirty years’ worth of files, folders, paperwork and documents—was easy enough, but what about what Morton could dig up from public records? ‘What about information he’s already found? Can you access his computer to find out what he knows?’
Shaohao nodded. ‘Leave it with me. Now, tell me everything you know about this man.’
And so, she did. They discussed the problem in detail and then, over an hour later, had conceived a plan.
It was his fourth coffee of the morning and it was only just gone ten. Morton clasped the cup between both hands as he stood in front of the only wall in his study not to be monopolised by bookshelves. It was on this wall that Morton would usually attach all the puzzle pieces of his genealogical cases, but, on this occasion, the Finch Case was being held entirely on his computer and in notebooks. Instead, in the centre of the wall was a piece of A4 paper on which was written the name of his biological father: Harley ‘Jack’ Jacklin. From his name flowed a spider’s web of string, coloured pins and bright post-it notes; everything that he knew so far about his father’s family.
He tried to look at the evidence before him with a detached attitude, to place logically into the puzzle the three letters from 1976. But, just like every day since discovering the names of his father and paternal grandparents, his eyes sprang from one record to another, the content—names, dates and places—so intimately engrained in his mind that they no longer had any impact; familiarity had dulled their meaning.
It was time to try a different approach: Juliette’s methodical timeline.
Spreading several sheets of plain paper out on the floor, Morton went back to the beginning, to the very first in a veritable flurry of documents that had flowed from the Ancestry website, promising so much, so quickly: his grandparents’ marriage entry. He carefully copied out the record from the Massachusetts Marriage Index 1901-1955, where he had found that Roscoe Jacklin had married Velda Henderson in Wellfleet in 1953.
He finished noting down the details of their marriage, experiencing a resonance of the overwhelming pleasure and satisfaction that he had first felt when it had appeared onscreen a few months ago. His entire career had been built on reassembling histories with irrefutable, concrete facts and so it came as an almost pleasing shock when he allowed his thoughts to slide into the territory of his imagination. He had pictured his grandparents’ wedding several times since that day, each time the scene became a little more embellished and a little more real. It was in the summer. A cool, Cape Cod breeze tempering the high heat of the day. The church, overlooking endless stretches of sandy beach, was built of pristine white weatherboards and had a small bell-tower atop. His grandparents—she in white, he in a sharp black suit—exited the church under the Stars and Stripes, blissfully happy, as friends and family showered them with confetti.
With some degree of effort, Morton refocused his meanderings back on the facts presented on the wall before him; the warm-coated, nostalgic scenes slowly fading away.
He began to copy down the single document that he had wished to see for so long. He looked at the original, stuck to the wall, despite its being etched onto his memory. He had found his father’s birth record in the Massachusetts Town and Vital Records Index 1620-1988 with not a single bit of effort; it had been sitting online all this time, just waiting to be accessed.
Date of birth: 2nd June 1956
Name: Harley Joseph Jacklin
Sex: Male
Colour: White
Condition: Legitimate
Place of birth: Barnstable
Names of parents: Roscoe Joseph Jacklin & Velda Henderson
Residence of parents: Barnstable
Occupation of father: Businessman
Birthplace of father: Boston, MA
Birthplace of mother: Wellfleet, MA
Informant: Roscoe Joseph Jacklin
He had questioned the three-year gap between his grandparents’ marriage and his father’s birth and, having returned to the birth index, had quickly found another child. The details were all identical, but for her name and date of birth: Alice Velda Jacklin, born 19th October 1954.
Accompanying those three documents had come a carefree, JFK-era fantasy world of detached
white homes with perfectly manicured lawns; of Harley and Alice paddling on the Cape Cod shores whilst their smiling parents watched and waved from the sandy beaches; of family holidays in a red Pontiac; and of traditional white Christmases. It was stupid and indulgent, he knew that, but still he had allowed the fantasies to continue. Trying his luck, Morton had searched for his newfound family on social media sites. Nothing at all for his father, but he found, with surprising ease, his new aunt on Facebook. Alice Velda Jacklin, an artist, born 1954, was now living in Provincetown, right on the tip of Cape Cod. He had looked at the photos of her with tears in his eyes. She looked a feisty thing—wild curly hair, striking dark eyes, bohemian clothing and, in every picture, unsmiling. ‘Oh my God, but she’s the spitting image of you!’ Juliette had declared, craning her neck to get a better view of the photographs. ‘Do you think so?’ Morton had asked. But he had seen it, too; there was an unmistakable likeness. ‘Undoubtedly! I swear if I had seen her without knowing who she was I would have thought that she was related to you. God,’ she had said.
He had spent an age composing a message to send to her. His first, full of exclamation marks, was a gushing I-can’t-believe-I’ve-finally-found-you type of message. Then he had deleted it all and written a much flatter, more neutral introduction. Then he had deleted that and written a short and simple sentence, not wanting to spook the poor woman. Dear Alice, I wonder if you can help me? I’m trying to track down an old friend of mine, Harley Joseph Jacklin, whom I think is your brother. Many thanks, Morton Farrier.
He had sent the message at nine o’clock in the morning and had then waited all day long, nervously anticipating the reply. It had come that evening. I have neither seen nor heard from my brother since 1976. Alice.
And there, Morton’s American Dream fantasy had ended. The imagined scenes of his father’s life began to peel away like a veneer.
He had replied immediately, but when that message had elicited no response, he sent a follow-up three days later, this time explaining everything. It had been a long message, carefully crafted with Juliette’s help over several hours. He had clicked send and waited, impatiently checking his emails every few minutes. A nervousness such as he had not experienced before scratched and irritated his every fibre. When, as the following day ended, he had gone to send another follow-up message, he had discovered that she had blocked him, vanishing into thin air. It hadn’t been the best of starts with his biological family, it had to be said.
Morton glanced back at the wall. The next official record for the family came in the Massachusetts Death Index 1901-1980, where he found his grandfather’s death. In 1976. The same year the letters were sent to Aunty Margaret. The same year that Alice had last heard from her brother Harley. It all happened in 1976.
The US Social Security Death Index added snippets of further detail to Roscoe’s life, but nothing to the conundrum of his death and what had occurred that year.
Name: Roscoe Joseph Jacklin
SSN: 033-30-3245
Last Residence: 2239 Iyanough Avenue, Hyannis Port, Barnstable, Massachusetts, USA
Born: 3rd April 1928
Died: 24th December 1976
State (year) SSN issued: Massachusetts (1957-1959)
And there, Morton’s research had come to a crashing halt. Long, long searches that ran into the night, on every family history website to which Morton had access, had drawn a blank. His father and his grandmother had, for forty years, escaped public record and his aunt Alice clearly wanted nothing to do with him.
Morton added his father’s and grandparents’ visit to England in January 1974 to the timeline. Then he added his own birth, 25th September 1974. The timeline continued into 1976 with the addition of Roscoe’s death and then, suddenly, it ended; the story of his past tumbled over a cliff edge into the abyss. There was, of course, something to add: the letters.
They were on his desk, exactly where he had left them. He walked over to them and picked them up. As he had done several times already, he held them up to the light of the window, but their contents remained resolutely hidden inside. The envelopes smelt sour and were covered with small rashes of sepia circles. The recipient’s address was the same on each, written in identical handwriting. Margaret Farrier, 163 Canterbury Road, Folkestone, Kent. The letters were in date order; the first was date-stamped 19th March 1976, the second 8th July 1976, the last 30th December 1976. In smaller letters on the back of the first two envelopes was written Jack Jacklin, 2239 Iyanough Avenue, Hyannis Port, Barnstable, Massachusetts. On the third envelope was written Jack Jacklin c/o 256 Ocean Avenue, Hyannis Port, Barnstable, Massachusetts.
For a long time, Morton stood holding the letters, taking the first and placing it to the back in an endless shuffle. He had to open them, he knew that, but only because the alternative ideas were more horrific. Destroying them was not an option. Sending them to Aunty Margaret without first checking to see if the content was appropriate was not an option. Filing them away and deferring the decision would send him into an asylum with the persistent pondering about their contents. No, he had no real choice. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to actually tear the envelopes, to break that confidential seal that existed between his father and mother.
He set them down with a sigh, dismayed at his own weakness, and opened up his laptop. He dragged himself through the afternoon, half-heartedly pursuing the Finch Case. He printed the WAAF disclosure forms ready to give to Barbara to sign, then continued his research into the work of the Y-service.
Finally, he heard the sound of the front door being slammed shut, heralding his salvation: Juliette was home. He couldn’t open the letters, but she could.
He picked them up, taking one last look at them in their unblemished, sealed condition and carried them downstairs.
‘Hi,’ Morton greeted when he found her drinking a glass of water in the kitchen. ‘Good day?’
Juliette kissed him on the lips then sneered as she thought about his question. ‘More wonderful government cutbacks in the offing. I think we’ll be restructured, pared back and streamlined until there’s just one police force left covering the entire country.’ She shrugged. ‘How was yours?’
Morton presented her with the letters. ‘I’ve decided to open them. Well, I’d like you to do it, actually.’
The letters hung between them, he trying to offer them, she refusing to take them.
‘Why me?’ she asked.
‘I just can’t do it.’
‘Come on, you’re not a teenager opening your exam results. Just do it,’ she said. ‘Besides which, I don’t want to be blamed if you decide afterwards that it wasn’t such a good idea after all.’
Morton lowered the letters and stared at them, unsure if they were a blessing or a curse to his investigations into his own family.
Juliette sat herself down at the table and folded her arms, waiting, as if for the commencement of some grand performance.
Morton turned the first letter over in his hands. It would be so easy to open it, yet still the doubts persisted.
Mentally, he closed off his pernicious misgivings, imagining them to be behind a crematorium’s closing curtain, on the verge of being permanently eradicated.
With his mind cleared, he dug his index finger into the corner of the gummed flap and teased it to the other side.
He had done it.
As he withdrew the single cream sheet, he realised that his breathing had become laboured and shallow. He unfolded the letter, catching glimpses of intriguing but arbitrary words. He tried to breathe normally but couldn’t. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to read the letter aloud, as Juliette was obviously willing him to do.
‘Well?’ Juliette said.
He met her eyes, still trying to normalise his breathing, as he opened his mouth to speak.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Chapter Ten
15th August 1940, Hawkinge, Kent
Elsie finally left Maypole Cottage—thirteen hours after
her shift had officially ended—and she was exhausted. It had been the busiest day of the war so far, with over a hundred Luftwaffe aircraft in the skies above Kent at any one time. The beleaguered WAAF operators had worked flat out, transcribing so many conversations taking place between the pilots that only intercepts of immediate operational value were fully recorded. It seemed that the Luftwaffe were targeting Hawkinge. Three days ago, in the first attack in the aerodrome’s entire history, a squadron of Junkers JU88s had peppered the place with high explosive bombs. Hangars had been obliterated, equipment stores and billets had been reduced to waste, planes had been rendered beyond use and five personnel had been killed and many injured.
She stood for a moment outside the cottage and looked up at the plain, blacked-out windows. It looked so ordinary given that what went on inside was so extraordinary. Following the attacks on the aerodrome, it had been decided that operations tomorrow would be moving to safer and higher ground. She would miss working here, she realised, feeling a pang of lamenting the loss of the old place already.
Collecting her bicycle, she cycled along the road towards the stricken aerodrome, but, as she neared it, the roads became almost impassable; troops from the nearby Shorncliffe Camp had been drafted in to help clear the devastation. Elsie watched as she rode past soldiers standing ankle-deep in a slurry of murky water that poured like an unstoppable river from the aerodrome. They sifted and shifted the rubble, wood, broken glass and other unrecognisable detritus that had been blown over the fence in a series of massive explosions.
In the midst of all of the chaos, however, stood Annie’s tea van.
‘Morning, Annie,’ Elsie greeted as she dismounted. ‘Tea and a ham sandwich, please.’
The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4) Page 11