The Lost Ancestor

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  He picked up his laptop case and rummaged among the collection of Mercer Case documents that he had brought with him. He found the guidebook to Blackfriars, flicked to the index and found just one mention of Frederick Mansfield. He turned to the relevant page and found a family portrait taken on Empire Day, 1911. The grainy, sepia image showed Cecil, Philadelphia, Lady Rothborne and Frederick Mansfield standing haughtily outside the front entrance to the main house. Below it was a photograph of the domestic staff taken on the same day, but this one was taken outside the servants’ kitchen door. Just underneath the photo was a list of some of those present, although the addition of several question marks indicated that not all of the servants had been identified. Morton kicked himself for having missed that the photographs had been taken in such a key year. A quick Google search revealed that Empire Day in 1911 was on Wednesday 24th May. It was an annual event from 1902, celebrating the British Empire, which tactfully transformed into Commonwealth Day in subsequent years. These pictures had been taken the month following Mary’s disappearance and just six days after Edward Mercer had drowned in the Blackfriars lake—just a few yards from where the picture had been taken. Morton held the picture up close. It had not reproduced very well in the guidebook, leaving the faces of the servants small and indistinguishable.

  Morton pulled out his mobile and dialled Sidney Mersham’s extension at Blackfriars. He was in luck—Sidney was sitting at his desk in the basement archives and picked up straight away. After initial pleasantries had been exchanged, Morton asked Sidney if a larger copy of the Empire Day photographs could be emailed to him. Sidney agreed to do it right away. Morton thanked him and ended the call. He would check his emails as soon as his current research thread had ended.

  The phone tap had worked. The man listening to the conversation that had just taken place between Morton Farrier and Sidney Mersham smiled. It was much easier to intercept a phone conversation than he had ever realised. When given the task, he had asked some of his more nefarious friends about how to obtain the necessary equipment. However, he easily found what he needed on a legitimate website for a hundred and forty-nine pounds. Getting the necessary software onto Morton’s phone had been the hardest part and required him to enter Morton’s house at night to place the software onto his phone. It wasn’t the first time in his life that he had made a trip to an ironmongers for the requisite breaking and entering equipment and he doubted that it would be the last, despite a deliberate attempt to try and legitimise himself of late. With the software in place, he had access through an online console to all of Morton’s key information: SMS activity, voice calls, emails, GPS location, internet browser history, call recording and the ability to listen and record background noise around the mobile phone. He was going to monitor Morton Farrier’s every move.

  The young waitress tottered over to Morton’s window-seat table and placed a mug down in front of him. ‘Decaf latte,’ she said. ‘Will there be anything else?’

  ‘Not for now, thank you,’ he answered. He would likely end up having lunch here, but it was all down to how much he achieved on his list of research areas.

  Morton returned his attention back to Frederick Mansfield. His only mention in the guidebook was in the Empire Day photograph and on the genealogical pull-out chart at the centre of the book. Morton double-checked the burial register entries for Winchelsea and confirmed that he had not been buried in the family vault.

  Running a marriage and death search for Frederick revealed that he had died young, shortly after marrying in 1922. A further, generalised search brought Frederick up in the Andrews Newspaper Index Cards 1790-1976. Morton clicked to view the original image, which was for a newspaper clipping, stating that Frederick Mansfield had been killed in an automobile accident. Little more of the incident was mentioned, so Morton switched to the Findmypast website and searched their British newspaper collection 1710-1953. He quickly found that The Times had a more detailed report on the accident. It stated in no uncertain terms that Frederick, excessively intoxicated with liquor, had driven his Rolls Royce Silver Ghost over the cliff-top at Beachy Head in Eastbourne, following a late-night gambling and soliciting foray in Soho. He left his wife, Emmeline and young daughter, Vivien Mansfield. The Mansfield family had declined to make a statement to the newspaper, but Morton guessed that they were mortified by such scandalous revelations.

  Morton saved the entry to print out later, then ran a living descendant search to Vivien Mansfield: one daughter, Jennifer Margaret, born 1923, who later married a Jonathan Greenwood. Jennifer Greenwood. The name rang a bell, though he couldn’t fathom why. Google didn’t help matters either. It was somebody that he had encountered recently. Somebody to do with the Mercer Case. Was it a servant at Blackfriars? No, he was fairly sure not. Then it came to him—Mrs Greenwood was the grumpy woman working on the ticket desk at Blackfriars. He was sure that he had heard Sidney Mersham call her Jenny. Could she be the same person as he was now writing to? Did it matter? For some reason, it did matter to Morton. It struck him as odd that a member of the Mansfield family should be working, clearly unhappily, as the modern-day equivalent of a domestic servant. From her interactions with Sidney, she was certainly not treated as anything more than that. And her grandfather was present around the time of Mary’s disappearance. He drafted and saved a similar request-for-help letter to her, making no mention of the fact that they may already have been acquainted.

  Morton took a couple of mouthfuls of coffee then opened up his emails. One unread message—from Sidney Mersham. The email said simply: Here you go, Morton. Regards, Sid.

  Morton grinned when he saw the paperclip icon showing that the email contained an attachment. Being quite a large file size, it took a moment to load. Eventually the image appeared onscreen and Morton was able to zoom in close to see the features on each of their faces. He planned to save the image and later on, maybe tonight whilst watching television, to digitally annotate who was who. He looked at each person in turn—they all held the same po-faced, serious expressions common to portraits of the period. However, there was something else in their eyes, which Morton guessed to be sorrow at one of their friends and fellow servant’s deaths just six days hitherto. Edward had worked at Blackfriars for three years, so his death must have come as quite a shock to them. He noticed that the man, whom the guidebook had identified as Walter Risler, had a battered nose and a bruised eye. Morton could only speculate as to what had caused his injuries.

  Zooming out and taking the staff in as one group of people, Morton could see that they were all standing in hierarchical order. Except for one. Mrs Cuff, whom Morton knew to be the housekeeper and, therefore, the highest-ranking female member of staff, was standing at the end of the line of the servants. When taken with the fact that she no longer signed the Day Book following Mary’s disappearance, Morton became curious. Had she put herself at the end of the line, or had she been put there? Interesting, Morton thought. Her continuing wages at the level of a housekeeper suggested that she had not been demoted, yet something was amiss.

  Whilst he had his emails open, Morton composed a lengthy message to Ray Mercer, outlining the details of the case so far. He also asked Ray if he knew anything of his grandmother’s visit to Canada in 1925. He held back from mentioning the encounter with Douglas Catt, but did say that he garnered a copy of the letter Mary had apparently written from Scotland. Morton clicked ‘send’ on the email, then turned his attention to seeing what he could find about Edith Mercer’s visit to Canada.

  He opened up a new web-browser and ran a search in the 1921 Canadian census for 4 West Street, Halifax. It was four years prior to when he wanted, but he reasoned that whomever Edith was visiting in 1925 may have been residing there in 1921. Within seconds, Morton had the original census onscreen. Unlike many of the older census returns, the 1921 Canadian one was a goldmine for genealogists, asking as it did thirty-five detailed questions about each individual recorded.

  Morton felt a buzz of excitement
as he zoomed in for an up-close inspection of the entry. Just one person resided at the house, a lady by the name of Martha Stone. He felt a rush of anticipation as he considered that Martha Stone could be a pseudonym for Mary Mercer. Slowly, he moved the cursor along the entry, carefully deciphering the handwriting as he went. It said that Martha Stone rented her house, that it was wooden in structure with four rooms. She was the head of household, aged thirty-one and her birthplace was given as England—the same place as her mother and father. The year of emigration was given as 1911 and she was able to read and write. Her occupation was listed as teacher.

  Morton sat up with eagerness. Could Martha Stone be Mary Mercer? he pondered, as he stared out of the window. A solitary figure in a long rain coat, black Panama hat and a temperamental umbrella battled with the rain, which seemed to have grown in ferocity, buffeted by a strong wind.

  Morton considered the facts. Martha Stone was listed as being three years older than Mary would have been in 1921, but she could easily have lied to the enumerator. The rest of the facts, in particular her year of emigration, tied with Mary Mercer perfectly. At the moment, though, he couldn’t be certain that Martha was still resident there in 1925. He added to his list the need to find out whether or not electoral registers existed for Nova Scotia in 1925.

  Outside, the man’s umbrella flipped inside out. He gave up battling the elements and entered The Apothecary.

  Morton returned his focus to his laptop screen. He wanted to find out whether Martha Stone’s census entry was backed up with a paper trail in England; if his hunch was correct then there would be none. She had stated that she was born in England in 1890. Therefore, she should show up on the 1891 and 1901 censuses and possibly even the 1911 census. First, he tried the 1891 census: three results for Martha Stone born 1890. The first was born in Birmingham, the second in Derbyshire. To his disappointment, the third was born in Winchelsea. Morton clicked to view the original image. The entry was for the Stone family: James Stone, head, gardener lived with his wife, Flora, no occupation and their one year old daughter, Martha Stone. Morton moved the cursor to the left of the screen and noticed the address: Peace Cottage, Friar’s Road.

  It took Morton a moment to digest what he had just read and to place it in the jigsaw of the Mercer Case. Edith Mercer, under her married name of Leyden, had simply visited a neighbour, Martha Stone. Morton’s initial excitement that perhaps Mary was living under a pseudonym had not borne out. Just to shore up his findings, however, Morton wanted to conclude Martha’s story. And, just as predicted, Martha showed up alongside the Mercer girls on the 1901 census, then promptly vanished by 1911. Martha Stone existed in her own right. She could not be Mary Mercer.

  Morton was momentarily distracted by the coffee shop door opening again, as the man with the broken umbrella left carrying a take-out drink. A sudden gust of wind pushed through the open door, scattering some of Morton’s papers to the floor.

  As Morton bent down to pick up the fallen papers, the waitress who had served him earlier placed something on his table. ‘Here you go,’ she said with a smile. ‘A gift.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Morton replied. He looked down and saw a brown A4 envelope with his name on it—exactly the same handwriting as the previous threatening packages that had been posted through his door. The waitress was heading back behind the counter. ‘Excuse me,’ Morton called after her. ‘Where did you get this?’ He held up the envelope.

  ‘Oh, a customer just gave it to me to give to you,’ she said with a smile. She evidently thought she had done him a favour.

  ‘Who was it?’ Morton asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘The guy who just left—with the umbrella.’

  ‘Watch my stuff,’ Morton called, dashing out the door into the thick sheets of vertical rain. He tried to recall which way the man had gone. He was sure he went right, so Morton ran, already soaked to the skin, along the high street, his eyes flicking feverishly left and right into shop windows and passing streets, but there was no sign of him. He stopped and spun around, considering if he could have missed him, when he heard the sound of a car engine starting up. A little way further down the street, a red Mazda was beginning to pull out from a parking spot. Without a moment’s thought, Morton ran as fast as he could towards the car. He was in luck—another car had just parked illegally in front of the Mazda, meaning that the driver could not make a quick escape.

  Morton, utterly drenched, raced to the passenger side window as the car finally became free from its space. He banged on the side of the door and the driver flicked his head towards Morton.

  ‘What do you want?’ Morton yelled.

  He recognised the driver.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After what had happened yesterday, Morton was happy to spend today close by Juliette’s side. When she had got home last night Morton had, as promised, relayed everything of his day to her. They sat in the kitchen with the lights dimmed and a candle burning on the windowsill, as the rain and wind continued to batter the house. They were eating a wild mushroom and spinach lasagne that Morton had cooked when he had returned from his drenching on the high street. He hadn’t waited to be asked about his day, but blundered straight in by telling her that something had occurred that she needed to know about.

  ‘You can skip all these bits,’ Juliette had said playfully, when Morton began to detail the minutiae of each individual search and his reasons for doing it.

  ‘Skip the boring bits you mean,’ he said, feigning offence.

  ‘No, I just know that you’ve got something in there that I’m probably not going to like.’

  Damn, she was good. Skipping over the finer points of his research, Morton had told her about the waitress delivering the envelope and him rushing out into the rain to find the perpetrator. ‘And I stared him right in the eyes,’ Morton had said.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Douglas Catt. The one and only.’

  Juliette had looked puzzled for a moment. ‘But I thought you said you phoned him and he was at home.’

  ‘He must have had the phone on a redirect to his mobile.’

  ‘What’s he got against you?’

  Morton had shrugged. ‘You’re the police officer, you tell me.’ Morton had no idea why he was so hell bent on stopping Morton from researching the Mercer Case. Morton had been wracking his brains for any semblance of a reason Douglas would have, but the only thing that had come to mind was that he knew more about Mary’s disappearance than he was letting on.

  Juliette had run her fingers through her hair, her eyes searching his face. ‘What was inside the envelope?’

  Morton had handed it to her, allowing her to sift through it at her own speed and to make her deductions about the contents. And she had taken her time, setting about the contents like a diligent police officer. First, she looked at the handwritten note with the simple words ‘Final warning’. Then she examined another photograph of her getting into the car. ‘Jesus, I really need to start wearing make-up.’

  ‘You really don’t,’ Morton had replied.

  ‘The thing is, apart from taking awful photos, he hasn’t actually committed a crime by taking photos.’

  ‘What about harassment?’

  ‘The trouble with harassment is you need to show a course of conduct—in other words, it needs to be persistent and you have to have formally told them to stop.’

  ‘Legalities aside, are you really okay with someone photographing you like this?’ Morton had asked, more worried about her than the finer points of the law Douglas Catt might or might not be breaking. ‘Can’t you put a trace on his car or something?’

  ‘Not without good cause and not as a trainee, no, but I will take it to my boss. No arguments this time, Morton.’

  He wasn’t about to argue, he agreed with her: Douglas Catt needed stopping right away. ‘Do it. Until then, you’re spending your day off tomorrow, with me.’

  Juliette had laughed and pecked Morton on the lips. ‘Oh, thank you. We�
��ll have a brilliant time.’

  Morton’s face had suddenly fallen. ‘Why? What were you planning on doing tomorrow then?’

  ‘Not were planning, am planning. Rye Wedding Fayre.’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ He had slumped with some exaggeration into his chair, but actually dreaded the very idea.

  ‘You’ll have to come now—you said you would. Besides, I need a bodyguard to save me from being photographed,’ Juliette had mocked. She held up the most recent photograph of herself. ‘Especially if I look like that.’

  The wedding fayre was held in an old warehouse on the periphery of the town. The cold uninspiring building was filled with a plethora of stalls selling every conceivable aspect of marriage, all equally abhorrent to Morton. He trudged around the building like a sullen teenager, trailing a few steps behind Juliette who was having the time of her life, delighting at the wares on display at each stall. The rain, which had started yesterday, had continued without stopping and was now drumming noisily on the corrugated tin roof. He wasn’t sure if she had dressed for the occasion, or whether Douglas Catt’s recent attempts at taking her photo had done it, but today she wore an unusual amount of make-up and had even straightened her hair—very un-Juliette. They had only been there an hour and she had amassed an impressive collection of free gifts, which Morton lugged around like a pack-horse.

  ‘This is brilliant,’ Juliette muttered about the whole event, before making her way to the fifth table showcasing the talents of yet another photographer.

  Morton sighed. It quite easily ranked amongst the worst possible days of his life. It wasn’t that bad, really, he just couldn’t stand the commercial aspect of marriage. With a slight groan, he realised then that he was turning into his adoptive father, a man who refused to take part in any special occasion, apart from birthdays, because of commercialisation. Even when Morton and Jeremy were small boys, he never bought Mother’s Day cards or gifts on their behalf; it was only when they went to Sunday school and primary school that their mother began to receive anything. The two boys learnt early on not to bother with Father’s Day when their efforts at homemade cards were met with the derisory glimmer of a glance before being tossed to one side. He never bought Valentine gifts for his wife and only really took part in Christmas celebrations begrudgingly and under duress from the rest of the family. Ever since Morton’s mother had died of cancer, his father had celebrated Christmas alone, despite numerous offers from friends and family. Every year was the same for him: a quiet walk around the park, a meal of shop-bought fish and chips at home and strictly no television. Since 1990, Christmas had officially been banned from the Farrier household. Morton was determined not to turn into him.