The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 4)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  He couldn’t just sit here and wait for the day to end or for someone to come for him; he was getting married tomorrow. He stood up and began banging on the door. ‘Hey! Let me out!’

  It didn’t take long until he heard the key in the door and he was greeted by Tamara Forsdyke’s smirking face. Behind her, stood Shaohao Chen.

  ‘Hope you’ve had a good rest,’ she said.

  ‘I want to leave.’

  Tamara smiled. ‘Oh, you will—soon. We’ve been chatting, haven’t we?’ she said, turning to Shaohao. ‘We didn’t know what to do with an unannounced guest. We thought maybe a night-time walk along the cliffs might be nice. Just you and him.’ She nodded her head backwards again. ‘Maybe you can follow in my grandmother’s footsteps.’

  ‘You won’t get away with it,’ Morton replied.

  ‘Away with what?’ Tamara asked. ‘Before you go for that walk, why don’t you tell us what you think you know, exactly.’

  Morton’s eyes darted from Tamara to Shaohao, as he wondered exactly how to play the situation. ‘I think that during the early years of the war your grandmother, Agnes stumbled upon a lucrative idea. I think she opened her doors to vulnerable local girls who had got themselves into trouble under some pretence of an altruistic idea of helping them, but actually she was selling the babies to the highest bidders. Her friend, Ada Potter—a social worker—ensured that all the necessary paperwork was in place. All the information was kept in various folders that made up The Spyglass File, which you destroyed when I turned up asking about Elsie Finch.’

  ‘Very good,’ Tamara confirmed. She turned to Shaohao with a fake look of admiration. ‘Hasn’t he done well. Hit the nail well and truly on the head.’

  Shaohao regarded Morton through narrowed, searching eyes. ‘Yes, but I’d be interested to know how the past matters so much to him?’ He shrugged. ‘What does it matter what Tamara’s grandmother did during the war?’ Another shrug. ‘Should we have Tamara arrested for it?’

  ‘The Spyglass File wasn’t just about the war, though, was it?’ Morton asked. ‘You had files in the office just along the corridor from here that ran up to 1975—thirty-two years after your grandmother’s death.’

  ‘It’s still a very long time ago,’ Shaohao dismissed.

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara confirmed, folding her arms. Despite the circumstances, he detected a hint of admiration in her voice. ‘You’re completely correct. My grandmother, then my mother ran this place as a kind of mother and baby home and yes, they charged money for their services. These women didn’t want their babies and they were given to good parents who couldn’t have children. What’s so wrong?’

  ‘They weren’t given though, were they? They were sold—it was a baby black market.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara laughed. ‘That’s quite an apt way of describing it.’

  ‘Even your mother sold her baby, didn’t she? Pretending to everyone that it had died—an awful thing to have done,’ Morton ranted. ‘Was that how she managed to persuade Elsie to give up her baby, too? As some kind of replacement?’

  ‘You make it sound so sinister,’ Tamara mocked.

  ‘And then Daniel Winter came along and discovered what was going on, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes,’ Tamara confirmed. ‘And he, like you, didn’t get far with his accusations. Tragically killed in an air raid.’

  ‘Killed by your mother, you mean…’ Morton said. ‘And made to look as though he had been killed in an air raid.’

  ‘Grandmother, actually,’ she corrected. ‘It’s such a terrible shame that all those files that would corroborate this fact are all gone.’ She threw her arms up into the air. ‘All lost—sadly burnt in a fire and anything you’ve found in the public domain will be of little use. But, just to be safe, we’ll take you out of the picture, too.’

  Shaohao laughed a low, grainy, but harsh laugh. He turned to Tamara. ‘I think it’s time for Morton and me to take that walk, don’t you?’

  Tamara nodded. ‘I think so, yes.’

  Shaohao reached in and grabbed Morton’s bicep, pulling him into the corridor.

  ‘By the way,’ Tamara said, pointing back inside the bedroom, ‘this was Elsie’s room during the war. That was her bed that you were sleeping on.’

  Morton just managed a quick glance backwards before being yanked down the corridor to the top of the stairs.

  Shaohao prodded him in the back. ‘Walk.’

  Morton obeyed and slowly descended the staircase with Shaohao and Tamara a few paces behind him. At the bottom he turned to face his captors. ‘The thing I didn’t understand was what happened in 1975 to make you stop. I could have kicked myself, really. That pivotal year—1975—I should have known better. That was when local authorities had a statutory duty to provide an adoption service; your little baby factory here couldn’t continue, could it?’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ Tamara said.

  ‘The files stopped in 1975, yes—but your business carried on, didn’t it? That very year the pair of you started up a company that matches prospective English parents with babies from Chinese orphanages.’

  ‘Our business is approved by The Hague; there is nothing wrong or illegal in matching English parents with the abundance of poor abandoned Chinese babies.’

  ‘No, but your business is more than that, isn’t it?’ Morton said. ‘The babies in your orphanages aren’t given up voluntarily, are they? That was what the journalist discovered back in 2012, wasn’t it?’

  Shaohao suddenly shoved his outstretched palms into Morton’s chest, thrusting him back and making him topple over. ‘What do you know about that?’

  Morton grinned. ‘You thought you’d stopped our meeting today, didn’t you?’

  A dark look passed between Shaohao and Tamara.

  ‘I arranged that meeting via email knowing that you would intercept it,’ Morton revealed. ‘But I’d already met him. I know everything and he knows everything.’

  ‘Yes, well, whatever you think you know will be irrelevant once you’ve been for that walk along the cliffs.’

  ‘Get up!’ Shaohao ordered. ‘We’re going.’

  Morton stood and grinned. ‘Gladly, only, I’m not going for a walk; you’re going to untie me and let me out of the front door.’

  Shaohao laughed but Tamara looked anxious. ‘What do you mean?’ she barked.

  ‘You’ve confessed to everything,’ Morton said, glancing down at the RAF emblem on his shirt. ‘Say hello to Liu Chai—he’s been recording everything ready to publish a major story on your baby black market. Oh, and the police are also on their way.’

  Shaohao lurched out and punched Morton hard in the face, the force of the impact felling him to the floor like a feeble sapling. He jumped down on top of him and ripped the badge from Morton’s shirt, tugging behind it a series of wires. He turned to Tamara. ‘We need to get out of here!’

  Tamara was momentarily dumbstruck. ‘I…I can’t—I’ve got my mother…’

  Shaohao leapt up and ran for the front door.

  A hard wind blew in, brushing against Morton’s bleeding face. He looked up at Tamara, who appeared to be locked in a haze of shock, her eyes wide, gazing at the floor. ‘What have I done? What did we do?’

  It was all over.

  ‘Oh my goodness me!’ Barbara exclaimed when Morton arrived at her bungalow the following morning. ‘You’re a mixed bag. Wearing a super smart suit, looking all dapper with your face ripped to shreds. What on earth happened?’

  ‘Long story—the short version is that I’m on my way to a wedding, hence the suit. So, I don’t have too long.’

  ‘Come in,’ Barbara said.

  ‘So sorry for not getting here last night,’ Morton apologised, heading into the house. ‘Did you manage to get Paul and Rose back?’

  ‘Oh yes, they’re here—eager as anything to hear all you’ve got to say!’

  In the lounge, the same baffled questions were fired at him from Paul and Rose.

  ‘He hasn’t go
t long, so we’d better listen,’ Barbara instructed. She took a seat beside Rose, leaving Morton facing the three of them.

  ‘Right, well,’ Morton began, holding up a black folder. ‘It’s all in here for you to digest in your own time, but I’ll outline the basics for you now. As you know, Elsie joined the WAAF and was sent to Hawkinge, where she undertook some work very important to the war effort. It was at a dance on the 19th July 1940 that she first met your father,’ Morton directed at Barbara, opening the folder to the photograph of Elsie and William in Hawkinge Village Hall. He stood up and showed them the picture.

  ‘Is that William Smith that she’s dancing with?’ Paul asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Morton confirmed. ‘But he’s not Barbara’s father.’

  Morton’s words were met with three gasps and three perplexed faces.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Barbara questioned. ‘It stated on my adoption records that William Smith was my father.’

  ‘Elsie lied. Your father is in the back of the picture—sitting at the bar.’

  Barbara, Paul and Rose squinted at the photo. It was Rose who spotted it first. ‘Woody!’ she yelled. ‘No!’

  It wasn’t his usual diplomatic way of broaching such sensitive issues, but Morton was running out of time. ‘Yes, Woody is your father,’ Morton said, ‘although he didn’t know it at the time.’

  ‘But—when did he find out?’ Rose begged. ‘I can’t believe this—can you, Paul?’

  ‘Let him speak,’ Barbara said with a smile, tapping her sister lightly on the leg.

  ‘Elsie got pregnant on the 15th August 1940, whilst still stationed at Hawkinge—her last night there. Apparently, William Smith was a bit of a sleaze and tried it on with her—as he had done with several other ladies and was on the verge of being reported for it. From what I can gather, it looks as though he might have killed himself that day. His Hurricane ploughed straight into the ground, making no efforts to pull up or get out. I don’t know this for certain, however, but you can read the reports in here,’ he said, tapping the folder.

  ‘So, why did Mum say that William was the father, then?’ Paul asked.

  ‘I think to protect Woody and also because William wasn’t around to argue and say that he wasn’t the baby’s father. So, I don’t know how she managed it, but Elsie stayed on in the WAAF, just going to Cliff House to give birth before returning to her post at RAF West Kingsdown, where she had been working as an Assistant Section Officer. And here’s where it gets more interesting…’

  ‘Oh, dear—I’m not sure if I want to hear this,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Elsie wasn’t the only one to be giving birth there. There were lots of women—the house was like a kind of refuge. But, it had a very dark side,’ Morton warned, turning to face Paul and Rose. ‘I’m afraid that Laurie’s mum and sister were selling babies to the highest bidder.’

  Another chorus of disbelieving gasps.

  Morton faced Barbara and saw the anguish in her eyes.

  ‘So my mum and dad bought me?’

  Morton nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘Gosh,’ she mumbled, receiving Rose’s gentle hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Our grandmother was selling babies…’ Rose mumbled. ‘How despicable.’

  Morton paused and allowed the news to sink in. But the clock was ticking. He had to move on. ‘So, then Elsie was transferred to Valletta, Malta, which at that time was one of the most dangerous places in the world. Her work there undoubtedly saved lives on the island.’

  ‘Wow,’ Paul said, shaking his head.

  ‘Woody was also stationed on the island—he’d gone looking for her—but she still didn’t tell him about the baby. Elsie came to England and was promoted again for her work, then she was sent to RAF Bentley Priory.’

  ‘So when did Woody find out about me, then?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘Well, according to him, it was in 1944, after he’d been shot down. He went in search of her again and found her in Maidstone Prison.’

  ‘What?’ Paul said.

  ‘Are you joking?’ Rose begged.

  ‘She was imprisoned for desertion for four weeks.’

  ‘If she was doing such amazing work, why did she desert?’ Barbara asked.

  ‘She wasn’t officially dismissed until 1944, but her Record of Service shows her last date of work as being 12th July 1943. Does that date ring any bells?’ Morton asked, receiving three blank looks.

  ‘Was that when our grandmother died?’ Paul suggested.

  ‘Exactly,’ Morton confirmed.

  ‘Is there a connection?’ Rose stammered. ‘Between our mother and our grandmother’s death?’

  Morton held his hands up. ‘I only have Woody’s word for it—not a shred of documentary evidence…but, he alleges that Elsie’s friend, Violet had something to do with Agnes’s death.’ He faced Barbara. ‘The details of your adoption were contained in something called The Spyglass File. Elsie found out where your adoptive parents had taken you.’

  ‘And?’ Barbara said.

  ‘And she went and found them. She worked as a live-in housekeeper until she was caught eleven months later.’

  The look of shock on Barbara’s face was alarming; Morton wondered if he had perhaps said too much, too quickly.

  ‘1944, you say?’ Barbara queried. ‘So I would have been three…I…oh my goodness…I think I remember her…’ Her words faltered as the tears began to flow down her cheeks. ‘Her face is a blur now, but I remember her kindliness. I remember how much she cared for me and how much we loved each other. My goodness…She was my mother.’

  Rose glanced at her brother. ‘Are you sure about this, Morton?’

  ‘It came from Woody himself,’ Morton confirmed. ‘He met her from prison and that’s when she confessed. Your adoptive parents promptly moved away with you and Elsie returned to her life in Nutley. Lawrence was freed in 1945 and came back home. I don’t know for certain, but I doubt he ever knew anything about Elsie’s war.’

  Rose was stroking Barbara’s back. ‘And then we came along.’

  ‘Yes,’ Morton said. He had one last thing to tell them, but didn’t quite know how to say it. ‘There is just one more thing.’

  Three sets of eyes regarded him expectantly. Barbara, still in tears, reached for Rose’s hand to help her brace for any further potential impact.

  ‘Your DNA results came back.’

  Rose touched her mouth. ‘We’re not related, are we?’

  ‘Yes, you’re certainly related,’ Morton answered. ‘I’m not sure how to say it…’

  ‘Tell us, for goodness’ sake,’ Paul said.

  ‘You’re all full biological siblings; Woody and Elsie are all of your parents.’

  ‘What? How can that be?’ Rose demanded.

  ‘No…’ Paul muttered, lost for words.

  Morton shrugged. ‘Lawrence wouldn’t grant a divorce and she loved Woody.’ It was rude, he knew, but Morton stood and handed over the folder. ‘Everything is in here—I’m sorry, but I really must get to this wedding or I’ll be in huge trouble.’

  Barbara nodded and stood up. ‘Whose wedding is it, then, anyway?’

  ‘Mine.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  8th May 1945, Nutley, East Sussex

  Elsie Finch stood at the open back door of her cottage, gazing out into the garden, as the wireless piped out chirpy, triumphant songs from the kitchen. Her blonde hair was immaculate, her make-up flawless. Using a combination of saved-up clothing coupons and some clever reparations, she was wearing a long red dress with blue and white embellishments that looked almost brand new. She leant on the doorframe and plucked a cigarette from the packet of Will’s Gold Flakes in her hand, lit it and took a long drag. She swilled the smoke around inside of her mouth, considering the significance of the day. The war in Europe was over. The church bells—silent since 1940—had chimed non-stop all morning from St James the Less Church in the village, reminding her of her wedding day. Two unrecognis
able people in an unrecognisable time. She could never go back to that person, now. Nor, indeed, would she want to.

  She glanced back into the kitchen to the letter on the mantelpiece, contemplating its content and her response. It had arrived yesterday from America. From Violet. Having emigrated with her new husband, Charlie—the American GI that they had met in the London bar in 1943—she now sought Elsie’s forgiveness. Could she grant it? Right now, she didn’t know.

  She finished her cigarette and turned back into the house. The music stopped, the wireless having been switched off. Elsie rolled her eyes and entered the sitting room. ‘Had enough of the celebrations already?’ she asked.

  He didn’t look up and he didn’t answer. He just sat, like he always sat, staring out of the window.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Tea?’ Elsie asked. ‘Something stronger, to celebrate? I’ve been keeping a bottle of—’

  Laurie turned, his thin, sunken cheeks flushed with anger. ‘—No.’

  It was the answer she had expected. She took a deep breath and returned to the kitchen. From the cupboard she took out a bottle of rum, poured herself a generous measure and raised a silent toast to the end of the war and to all the other service personnel that she had known and lost along the way. She wondered if she should pour him a drink anyway and take it through, but quickly talked herself out of it.

  Laurie had been home for little over a month—after his camp was liberated by the Allies—and she could count the number of words that he had spoken to her on her two hands. He had returned, unannounced one day, just standing there on the doorstep, like a stray dog. A haggard, barely recognisable shadow of a man in baggy clothing. Despite all that had gone on, her instincts had kicked in and she had flung her arms around him, tears welling in her eyes. He had shuffled inside and undertaken the robotic routines of 1939: he had removed his boots at the door, hung his coat on his usual peg, then entered the sitting room, slumping silently down into his usual chair. She had spent the next days trying to understand the strange man who now occupied her home. He had eaten little, spoken little. Each night, he would put on his coat and wander the streets, returning home in the early hours, exhaustion forcing him into sleep. Every day Elsie had woken him from the same feverish nightmare.