The Lost Ancestor

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton opened it at the first page, dated 1907 and began to assimilate the type of information on offer. As suggested by Sidney, it told of the general life at Blackfriars, signed off each week by the housekeeper, Mrs Cuff and the butler, Mr Risler. Morton turned to the back few pages where 1911 began then skimmed through it until the first mention of Mary occurred. Morton felt compelled to read aloud so that Sidney could share in his discoveries. ‘Monday 2nd January 1911. Employed new housemaid, Miss Mary Mercer, little previous experience—will need a great deal of support. Another entry for that week: Wednesday 4th January. Miss Mercer’s limited experience in any domestic area is putting a strain on the other domestic staff. Her haberdasher skills leave plenty to be desired.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Sidney said with a grimace. ‘Doesn’t sound like your Mary had a good start here.’

  ‘Nor a good end…’ Morton said solemnly. ‘Is it okay to take a photo?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  As Morton took out his mobile phone, the sound of the keypad being pressed was followed by a mechanical release and the door opening. In the doorway stood a smiling Daphne Mansfield. She was dressed impeccably in high heels, short patterned skirt, blouse and jacket. Every garment shouted its origin as Knightsbridge.

  ‘Mr Farrier,’ she greeted. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘Hello, Lady Rothborne. Thank you for allowing me in here. I know you must be up to your eyes with the filming.’

  ‘Oh, no worries at all,’ she said, dismissively waving her perfectly manicured fingers at him. ‘Have you had any luck in your quest to find this lady of yours?’

  Morton considered the question. He had certainly become more acquainted with Mary Mercer and the wages ledger had offered a new lead for her cousin, Edward. ‘Yes, very profitable, thank you.’

  ‘Smashing. So you’ll have no need to break in at some ungodly hour, then to raid the archives?’ she said with a wry smile.

  ‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Morton said, feeling somewhat sheepish at her reference to a previous case where breaking and entering seemed to have emerged as a natural and obvious part of his research strategies. He hoped that the Mercer Case would be strictly legal, if only to make his home-life easier. Now that Juliette was training to be a police officer, there was no way she would be undertaking anything remotely illegal.

  Daphne smiled. ‘Sid, I’m sorry to interrupt, but the producers have just halted filming over some historical inaccuracy or other in the script. Is there a chance Mr Farrier could spare you for five minutes upstairs?’

  Sidney looked uncertainly at the open archive door. ‘Er, can it wait at all? Half an hour or so?’

  ‘I think it needs sorting now, don’t worry about your precious archives, Mr Farrier will watch them for you.’

  Morton smiled as Sidney reluctantly followed Daphne from the room. The door closed behind them with a heavy clunk.

  Morton continued to scan the ledger, disappointed that the one book he really wanted had been consumed by the 1939 fire. What were the chances? he thought. Then he flicked back to the start of the book. It started in 1907 and ended in 1911. Four years. Four years in one ledger. The next one apparently ran from 1911 until 1939. Morton considered that there were three options at play here: one, that record-keeping had changed between those years and little was recorded each week; two, that Sidney had made a mistake in believing the ledger destroyed or three, that he was lying. The first option seemed flimsy to Morton. The last two options meant that there was a real possibility that a Day Book commencing in January 1911 was currently sitting in the filing cabinet in the adjacent room, the door of which was open. He was fairly sure that what he was about to do could not be considered illegal since all doors were open. He recalled Juliette once enlightening him to the fact that you couldn’t be prosecuted for breaking and entering if a door was already opened.

  Morton couldn’t waste this golden opportunity to take a look for himself. He stood, listened quietly for a moment, then darted inside the archive room. With his heart beating fast, he pulled open the cabinet doors and began to run his eyes across the archives, searching for something resembling the other Day Book. His eyes settled on a ledger of similar size and colour. Morton pulled it down and opened the first pages. Bingo! It began where the previous had ended. As much as he would have dearly loved to have searched every page, time was not a luxury he had, so he hurriedly flicked through until he reached the week beginning Monday 10th April 1911—the week of Mary’s disappearance. Morton quickly took a digital photograph of the page.

  A noise close by came from the office.

  Someone was tapping at the keypad.

  He heard the clunking of the heavy door opening.

  Morton quickly took a photo of the week prior and following her disappearance, before hastily placing the book back where he had found it.

  Time up.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ came the sound of Sidney Mersham’s agitated voice.

  Morton held up the wages book. ‘Just being helpful and putting this back. I didn’t like to keep reading the Day Book without you there,’ Morton said, amazed at his own composure.

  Sidney looked doubtful. ‘Right, come on, let’s get this done. There can only be another few pages left. I’ve got work to do now upstairs. Honestly, you’d think they would have done their homework before filming.’

  Morton heaved a sigh of relief and headed back into the small office. In doing his best to appear calm and cool, Morton failed to spot the CCTV camera just above the door, fixed on him and following his every move.

  Chapter Seven

  Wednesday 8th February 1911

  Mary had been working at Blackfriars for more than one month. The desperate, daily ache in her muscles had gradually eased, but the ache in her heart had not; she still despised and resented every moment of her time as a third housemaid. Each day ended the same, with Mary crying herself to sleep, attempting to stifle her sobs from Clara, who was growing increasingly irritated by her emotional outpouring. After the last failed attempt, Mary had given up using her half days off to go home. Instead, she spent as much of her free time as possible with Edward.

  Just like today, at precisely one o’clock, Mary would flee Blackfriars via the kitchen entrance and steal her way up the back path in the direction of her home. Part way, when a screen of firs temporarily eclipsed the house, Mary would sneak through the orchard and into the abbey ruins, where she would await him. Sometimes he came, sometimes he could not get away without being seen and they had to wait another week to be reunited.

  Today, he was late and Mary was beginning to doubt that he was coming at all. She had been cowering in the wintry ruins for more than twenty minutes, sitting on a cold chunk of sandstone that looked as though it had once been a window lintel, rubbing a shard of flint back and forth, rhythmically creating a short gully. She had wrapped up as much as she could but it was not sufficient to keep out the cold; she longed for warmer days when intimacy did not mean having every part of her body frozen to the bone. Last week, she had been so deeply chilled that it had taken almost half an hour trembling in front of her bedroom fire for the painful surge of blood to return to her extremities, which had aroused Clara’s suspicions. ‘Have you not got fires at home?’ she had asked, taking pity on Mary by donating blankets from her own bed to wrap around her shoulders. Mary had responded by saying that her father was still out of work and there the conversation had ended.

  Mary recoiled with fright as someone jumped out from behind the ruins wall.

  ‘Mary!’ Edward called.

  ‘Oh, don’t do that!’ Mary said, laying a hand on her chest, as if to slow down the sudden change in her heart rhythm.

  There he was, standing in full black and white livery, as handsome as ever. He had, by far, the most pleasing appearance among the male domestic staff.

  Edward grinned. ‘Did you think I wasn’t coming?’ he asked, huddling down beside her and placing his arm over her
shoulder.

  ‘I’m just glad you made it,’ she said, pushing her body into his warmth.

  Edward closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers. Mary kept her eyes open, desiring that each of her senses absorb and soak him up. Finally, she opened her mouth and allowed their shared passion to flow between them. Grappling exploring hands led, as it always did, to a fervent union.

  Afterwards, Mary always regretted how quickly it was over, that no time could be allowed in a normal warm bed for the closeness to continue. Maybe in the summer months they could take themselves off to a secluded woodland where prying eyes and arctic temperatures could not reach them.

  Hurriedly, the pair dressed and returned to the stone seat, where they sat like a pair of owlets huddled together for warmth. Mary picked up the piece of sharp flint and returned to scratching at the sandstone, carving the letter M.

  ‘What are you going to write?’ Edward asked. ‘Mary loves Edward?’

  Mary giggled and nudged him playfully.

  Edward held her hand and waited for her to look up. He had a serious look on his face. ‘Do you…’ Edward began, his gaze falling to the floor. ‘How do you feel…what do you feel towards me?’ He kicked at a small pebble. ‘Because… well…’

  Mary laughed. ‘Well what?’ She knew, of course, the words which would not come. She felt it too, that unmistakable fluttering and desire deep inside her that consumed more and more of her thoughts.

  Edward stood up, his back to her. He paced to the edge of the ruin and stared out. ‘I…’ he stammered. ‘Oh, God!’

  ‘Just say it, Edward!’ Mary pleaded.

  ‘Your sister’s walking down the path!’ he blurted, ducking behind the stone wall.

  ‘What?’ Mary said, jumping up and heading towards him. ‘What’s Edie doing here?’

  ‘Get back!’ Edward said in a hushed whisper. ‘It’s not Edie; it’s Caroline.’

  Mary, body tucked behind the wall, stuck her head out just enough to see the unmistakable black figure striding down the path towards the house. ‘What’s she doing here? She should be at home in Bristol.’

  ‘I don’t know, but we’ll be rumbled if she reaches the kitchens and they find out you haven’t been going home. Quick, you need to catch her up and stop her before she gets to the house.’

  Mary ran her fingers through her squally hair, pecked Edward on the cheek and dashed from the ruins. Once she had reached the path and was a safe distance from Edward, she called out. ‘Caroline! Caroline!’

  Caroline stopped, just yards from the kitchen door and turned, placing her hands on her hips. Her husband, William had died a month ago and Caroline was still wearing full black mourning clothes. She waited until Mary was within earshot then demanded: ‘Where have you been?’

  Typical Caroline, thought Mary, haven’t seen her in months and she storms down here like she owns the place. ‘For a walk,’ she answered. ‘What does it matter to you?’

  Caroline seemed to have aged terribly since Mary had last seen her. She had, in Mary’s quiet opinion, had the misfortune of inheriting their father’s fiery and unpredictable temperament and their mother’s haggard looks. ‘It matters to me because you haven’t been home in weeks. Mother’s not well.’

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Mary asked, taking a furtive glance back at the abbey ruins. She could just make out Edward’s red hair poking from behind the wall as he tried to catch their conversation.

  ‘Tuberculosis. The doctor sent her to the sanatorium last week. She’s not good, Mary,’ Caroline said. ‘The house is so cold it’s a wonder she hasn’t died already.’

  Through the Victorian black veil covering her face, Mary could just see into Caroline’s grey eyes; they had always seemed empty to her but now they appeared entirely devoid of life. ‘Will she be okay?’ Mary asked, realising then that she could have made more of an effort to make amends at home. She chided herself for her weakness. Now her mother, her only ally at home, was unwell.

  Caroline snorted. ‘If you really cared, you would know the answer to that.’

  Mary gritted her teeth, resenting her sister’s self-righteousness. ‘So what do you want?’

  ‘I want nothing,’ she said haughtily. ‘I need money. Money to keep the household going. With mother away and father out of work we have nothing other than your wages.’

  Mary had been saving all of her wages in the hope of buying something nice for Edward’s birthday. ‘How much do you need?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Everything you have,’ Caroline retorted. ‘I don’t think you realise how bad the situation is at home. I’m having to use the pittance I get for my widow’s allowance to pay the rent here. If the situation continues for much longer, I’ll have to let my own house in Bristol go.’

  Mary nodded; she understood. If Caroline having all of her wages meant the family were able to hold onto the house and put food on the table, then that was what must happen; Edward’s present would have to wait. She still had several hours of free time left—plenty of time to collect the money, spend some time at home and be back at Blackfriars by nine. ‘I’ll go and get it now.’

  ‘See that you do.’ Caroline sighed, turned around and marched back up the hill.

  Mary walked quickly, instantly deep in thought, back to Blackfriars. She would have to explain herself to Edward later. How had life become so desperately miserable so quickly? she wondered. The final visit to her ailing grandmother in Rye workhouse, coupled with her mother’s words about her being consumed by domestic service entered her troubled mind. ‘I just want to go,’ Mary recalled her grandmother pleading. ‘I’ve done my time. I need to sleep.’ Mary now realised that her grandmother saw her time as a housemaid as a prison sentence, something to be served before the welcome salvation of eternal sleep. At the time, Mary had no grasp of what the old woman was feeling, having a naïve and youthful outlook on life. But if the rest of her life had to be spent like this, Mary understood her desperation for it all to come to an end.

  ‘Quoi encore? Qu’est ce que tu veux maintenant? Tu t’crois à l’hôtel!’ Bastion shouted at Mary, brandishing a long silver knife in her direction. The repulsive, rude man was mid-way through beheading a pig carcass, a job he seemed to relish a little too much for Mary’s liking.

  Mary turned her head and strutted through the kitchen, having learned quickly to simply ignore the disgusting man. She darted up the ninety-six stairs to the female servants’ quarters. As expected, she found her bedroom mercifully empty; she didn’t want the hassle of explaining herself to Clara or the other servants. It was a very rare thing for a servant to return from time off a moment before absolutely necessary. Mary headed over to her bedside cabinet and pulled open the drawer. Carefully wrapped inside an old blouse, she found the Rowntrees Cocoa tin in which she had been diligently saving her wages. Tugging open the tin, Mary tipped the money onto her bed and momentarily stared at it. Reluctantly, she took out a handful of the money, leaving a few paltry coins behind—at least something towards a gift for Edward. Then she thought of her poor family, struggling to exist, whilst she lived rent-free with almost as much food and drink each day as she cared to consume. Taking every last coin from the bed, Mary set the tin back and was about to slide the drawer shut when she noticed her locket. It was sterling silver with a fake diamond set in the centre. Mary clasped the locket to her chest for a moment. The twins had received the lockets as a birthday present from their parents last year. Mary recalled the day fondly. She and Edie had woken early and travelled by train to Hastings to have a carte-de-visite taken at Pearson’s Photography Studio on the West Hill. They had spent the rest of the day on the seafront, enjoying ice cream, a walk along the crowded promenade and a Punch and Judy show on the stony beach.

  Mary pulled open the locket. Inside, was a tiny photograph of Edie looking unduly severe. The girls, giggling like mad things, had been chastised by George Pearson and told not to smile for the pictures. In Edie’s locket was an identically stern photo of Mary.
Mary closed the locket and placed it carefully back inside the drawer.

  After sitting down with Caroline in the chilly kitchen and receiving a tirade of criticism, Mary had sought a moment’s sanctuary in her old room. But she did not find any refuge there; a thorny discomfort bit at her stomach. The house was so terribly cold: all of the fire grates were as empty and redundant as at the height of summer. Mary looked at her room as though it belonged to a stranger and felt sure that she was warmer sitting on the piece of sandstone in the abbey ruins than in her own home. Yet that was not the cause of the unsettled feeling which was troubling her. She felt stifled. She shuddered and hurried from the room, trying to work out the cause of her malaise. On the landing, she could hear her father gently snoring in his bedroom. Caroline had given strict instructions to not disturb him. He was suffering from melancholia and hadn’t left his bed in days.

  ‘You didn’t disturb him, did you?’ Caroline asked Mary when she returned to the kitchen.

  ‘No, I did as you asked and let him rest,’ Mary said quietly. She pulled out a chair to sit down, but quickly changed her mind. The sooner that she was gone from this lifeless place the better. It pained her even to think this way, but right now she longed to be back at Blackfriars. She hurriedly poured all the money onto the table. ‘That’s everything.’

  Caroline prodded at the heap of money with a mild sneer. ‘Not much, is it? Are you sure you didn’t keep anything back?’

  Wild anger boiled in Mary’s blood but outwardly she remained calm. She had to make allowances for her recently widowed sister’s behaviour. Meeting Caroline’s eyes, she spoke clearly and confidently. ‘That’s everything. I can assure you. I have nothing left for myself.’

  Caroline seemed taken aback at her temerity. ‘What do you need money for anyway? You have everything given to you on a silver plate. The best French chef in the parish cooks you the finest meats and vegetables, which are then served to you by another servant. You sleep in a warm bed with wood burning in the grate all night. You’re not a poor widow with ailing parents and two lots of bills to pay. If only you’d earned such a luxurious life.’