The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Without having consciously gone there, Mary found herself sitting in the ruins of the ancient abbey. There was now little to see of the former complex, razed to the ground by the Reformation in 1558. One solitary three-arched wall and another perpendicular flint wall were all that remained, having defied history and the elements for hundreds of years. It was to here that Mary and Edith would sneak as children, providing them as it did with cover from the house, before scrumping for apples and pears in the nearby orchards. Mary sank down with her back to the wall and, knowing that she was protected from view from prying eyes from the house, allowed herself to cry and cry. Since starting work at Blackfriars, Mary had never cried as much in her entire life. Each and every night when she went to bed, the woes and anxieties from the day manifested themselves as tears. Most recently, she wept for the fanciful relationship that she now knew that she would never have with Lord Rothborne. Four days ago, her childish fantasies had been dropped like a delicate glass vase onto a marble floor, smashing into a thousand pieces. Mary had been working in Cecil’s bedroom, as she had managed to do each day since starting. She had always wangled it so that it was she who prepared his room. She had diligently cleaned the fire grate and restocked it with the best seasoned wood that she could find, swept his floor and dusted his furniture before saving the best part for last: Cecil’s bed. She had carefully washed her hands prior to touching the soft sheets, then pulled them back ready to be turned down. As she had done on each occasion, Mary had laid her head on his pillow, closed her eyes and imagined that he had invited her into his bed. In her mind, he was asleep next to her, tenderly breathing on the nape of her neck. Mary had then dared to pull her legs up into the bed and, even through her coarse uniform, she could feel the softness of the sheets, which Clara had told her were made from the finest Egyptian cotton. All of her childhood dreams had come rushing back into her mind, as though a dam had suddenly burst. All things for which Edie had mocked her. Now look at me, Edith Mercer! Mary had thought. You’re moping at home with Father and here I’m in Lord Rothborne’s bed!

  With a gloating smile, Mary had opened her eyes. In the doorway stood Lord Rothborne, Mrs Cuff, Clara and Eliza. Horrified, Mary fell out of the bed onto the floor, gasping at various words to try and formulate a sentence which might justify what she had been doing.

  ‘Out. Now,’ Mrs Cuff had barked.

  Mary, still unable to speak, had regained her exterior composure, while the inside of her mind raced and jerked manically, unable to hold a single thread of thought. As her heart pounded inside her chest, she had walked calmly towards the door, her eyes following the contours of a lavish Turkish rug on the floor. Despite all that had happened, a small part of her had still believed that Cecil would smile, reach out and take her in his arms, dismissing the other servants.

  At the last second, Mary had thrown her head up to look him square in the face. He was stood in a core of light, as if illuminated by God Himself. She saw his beautiful boyish face and striking dark red hair up close for the first time since 1902. She had locked onto his pale blue eyes. A tiny gasp of breath had escaped when what she saw shocked her, like a knife to the heart. There was nothing there. Not even simple affection. His eyes had reflected repugnance and repulsion, as he had looked her up and down as though she were a dirty street vagrant.

  Mary’s eyes had fallen to the floor as she left the room in disgrace. A wave of nausea had rippled through her body, biting at her stomach as the realisation that they would never be together came crashing down upon her.

  A faint shadow passed across the ground in front of Mary, jolting her back to the present. She turned and stared towards the sunlit silhouette of a male figure. Despite all that had happened, a small part of Mary wondered if, at last, Cecil had come for her. Come to make amends. Come to take her away. Come to make her his. Yet, she knew it was not true. She recognised the shadowed form.

  ‘Mary, what’s the matter? What are you doing here?’ It was Edward’s voice.

  Mary wiped her eyes on her sleeve. ‘Nothing. Resting.’

  Edward stepped out of the sunlight and crouched down beside her, placing his hand on her wild red hair. ‘Why didn’t you go home? It’s your afternoon off.’

  The softness of his touch and the sentiment in his voice sent a fresh torrent of emotion flooding out. She fell, like a weak child, into his arms.

  Edward carefully placed his hands under her elbows and pulled her towards him.

  Mary allowed Edward’s gentle hands to guide her up. As she stood, any pretences of grandeur fell away and she returned to being Mary Mercer, a bashful seventeen-year-old girl. She looked into Edward’s dark eyes and saw a fragment of what she knew he could see emanating from hers. She stood, frozen to the spot by a burgeoning feeling inside which set her heart beating faster, his eyes exerting total control over her.

  Edward leant in and kissed Mary lightly on the lips. The spell was broken.

  ‘Don’t,’ Mary said, taking a step backwards. ‘We can’t.’

  Edward’s brow furrowed and his grip on her arms tightened. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Mary turned, freeing herself from his hold. ‘It’s Edie.’

  ‘What about Edie?’ A few seconds of silence passed between them before Edward repositioned himself in front of her. ‘What about Edie?’ he repeated.

  Mary’s eyes returned to his. ‘She likes you and she thinks you like her back.’

  ‘What? Where has that come from?’

  Mary shrugged.

  ‘Well, I don’t like her like that,’ he said. ‘But you…’ His voice trailed off into the quiet of the ruins, then he leant in and kissed her again.

  Mary allowed his warm lips to rest on hers. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.

  Edward gently lay her down in the grass, his lips moving from her mouth to her neck, his hands exploring increasingly intimate areas of her body.

  Mary exhaled, closed her eyes and gave herself to him, as reveries of Cecil and realities of Edward collided in her mind.

  Chapter Six

  It took Morton less than thirty seconds to close his front door and arrive at the Mermaid Inn, almost dead opposite his house. Without a shadow of a doubt, it was the shortest distance that he had ever had to travel to work on a case. In ten minutes’ time he was due to meet with Douglas Catt, son of Victor Reginald, grandson of Caroline, great-nephew of the illusive Mary Mercer. Morton and Douglas had exchanged a small flurry of emails which had resulted in Douglas and his wife, Susan’s impromptu visit to Rye for a short break. Morton bounced up the brick steps past a sign which announced ‘The Mermaid, rebuilt 1420’ and entered the Virginia-creeper-smothered building. It was another big draw for the tourists, coming as it did with the medieval exposed black beams and white wattle and daub walls, crooked floors and a plethora of ghost and smuggler stories. Inside, Morton headed to the lounge bar and took a cursory glance around. The occupants—two men, whose outfits suggested that they were builders, and a young couple with a baby—did not fit the bill for Douglas and Susan. He headed to the bar and received a welcoming smile from a petite brunette with excessive eye make-up. She looked like she should either be on stage or on the streets.

  ‘Hi,’ Morton said. ‘I’m due to meet Douglas and Susan Catt; they’re guests here. Is it okay if I wait for them to arrive?’

  ‘By all means, please take a seat,’ she said.

  Morton thanked her, chose a seat by the window and produced his notepad and pen. While he waited, he reviewed the notes that he had made on the case so far. Starting at the beginning of the pad at his meeting with Ray Mercer and working his way forward, Morton familiarised himself with each step of the Mercer case. It was the printed equivalent of an animated flipbook: each page adding or changing the story slightly. He reached the last page with writing on it, where he had scribbled the response from the National Archives that he had received this morning, concerning a legal name-change: rather predictably, Mary Mercer had not legally cha
nged her name. It still didn’t rule out an unofficial name change, however. Morton had also noted the bones of a phone conversation with the Blackfriars archivist, Sidney Mersham, who had called yesterday to discuss Morton’s interest. He had sounded affable enough and agreed to allow Morton access to the archives this afternoon.

  Behind him, Morton heard the mutterings of a conversation between a woman and a man. He turned to see a middle-aged couple tentatively looking his way. They fitted the profile for the Catts. Morton stood. ‘Hi. Douglas and Susan, by any chance?’ he ventured with a polite smile.

  Douglas marched over and thrust his hand into Morton’s. He was of average build but with a rather large pot belly which pushed and stretched the front of his navy-blue t-shirt. His hair was dyed a peculiar shade of brown, swept dramatically over in a side-parting. He was definitely a golf-playing, football-watching man’s man. ‘Guilty as charged! This is my better half, Susan.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Susan said, placing her hand delicately into Morton’s, as though it were made of fine porcelain. The hands of a fine artist or a pianist, Morton thought. She was a thin, fragile creature who looked to Morton like she needed a good meal inside her.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Morton agreed.

  ‘Right, drinks. Is it too early for a Scotch, dear?’ Douglas asked with a grin, which revealed gleaming white, cosmetically enhanced, perfect teeth.

  ‘Doug!’ Susan said in a quiet voice. ‘It’s barely mid-morning—coffee time. Honestly. Sorry, Morton.’

  Douglas pulled a mock-incredulous face at Morton, then smiled at Susan. ‘Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear. What about you, Morton?’

  ‘Just a coffee will be fine. Latte, if they have it.’

  ‘Right-o.’

  Douglas turned to the brunette barmaid and ordered the drinks.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Morton said to Susan. ‘How’s the hotel?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just beautiful. Our bedroom is magnificent. Four-poster bed, beautifully carved furniture. Amazing,’ Susan said. ‘I suppose, since you live nearby, you’ve never had the need to stay?’

  ‘No, maybe one day we’ll take a holiday over here,’ Morton said with a grin. ‘It would certainly keep the travel costs down.’

  ‘It really would,’ Susan agreed.

  Douglas arrived back at the table. ‘Three lattes coming right up! Maybe if the good lady wife permits it, we can follow it with a Scotch or two later,’ he said, playfully nudging his elbow at Morton.

  ‘Bit too early for me, I’m afraid.’ Morton smiled and reached down for his notepad and pen. Pleasantries over, it was time to start angling the conversation towards the Mercer Case. ‘Well, I’m really pleased that you were able to come down this way and meet up like this; it could help a lot with this case I’m working on.’

  ‘No problem at all,’ Douglas said. ‘We don’t need much of an excuse for a weekend away, do we, dear?’

  ‘Especially not somewhere so beautiful,’ Susan said meekly.

  ‘To be honest, I’m pretty well retired now anyway.’

  ‘Ironmongery still doing well, is it?’ Morton asked, somewhat surprised to hear of a traditional shop doing so well against the big supermarkets and online retailers.

  Douglas laughed. ‘Oh, not that—my brother makes a couple of quid from that—I’ve been in stocks and shares since the early nineties.’

  Susan gently tapped Douglas on the leg. ‘We haven’t come here to talk about that, Doug.’

  ‘Sorry, fire away,’ Douglas said, pulling a mock-reprimanded face.

  Morton picked up his pen, then posed his first direct question: ‘What do you know about Mary Mercer?’

  Douglas drew in a long breath. ‘Well, obviously I’ve not got a personal memory of her! I might look old but I’m not so ancient that I actually recall her. Everything that I know comes from family lore. I think there was some kind of a family bust-up so our side down in Bristol haven't really kept in touch with the rest of the family.’

  ‘What were you told about what happened to Mary?’ Morton probed.

  ‘Basically, from our position outside looking in, Mary was driven away from Winchelsea. Either she got into a row at home or work, I don’t know which, then decided to up sticks and leave. She went to Scotland to get some peace and never returned. Simple really.’

  ‘And, as far as you know, she never came to visit your grandmother, Caroline, or made contact at all?’

  ‘No,’ Douglas said assuredly. ‘Never. Mary was always the odd one out in the family, bit of a loner. She didn’t really bond with either of her sisters. From what my mum had said to me over the years, it would have been really out of character for her to have suddenly made contact with our side again after she left.’

  ‘That’s a bit strange, wouldn’t you say?’ Morton said. ‘To just up and leave and never return. That must have been some huge argument.’

  ‘But it’s only unusual because of the type of people we are, Morton. I mean, I know my old ball and chain is a bit of a handful at times, but I couldn’t leave her,’ Douglas said, smiling playfully at Susan. ‘But that’s because of the type of person I am. I expect you couldn’t leave your girlfriend either. Mary wasn’t like us, though. As I said, she was the odd one out: a loner.’

  Morton smiled but wasn’t convinced. Every family had its share of trials and tribulations, but, to his mind, it would take one cataclysmic event for anyone to voluntarily disappear and never make contact with anyone in the family ever again. ‘Do you know if anyone on your side ever tried to find her?’ he asked, taking a mouthful of his latte.

  ‘I wouldn’t know for certain; I would imagine so. My mum spoke of her on and off over the years but I don’t think she was very minded to try and track her down—she’d not ever met her. I think they just respected the fact that she didn’t want to be found.’

  ‘It would be nice to know what happened to poor Mary,’ Susan said quietly.

  Morton looked at Douglas’s ambivalent face. He clearly didn’t share his wife’s interest. Either Douglas was helping keep a family secret well concealed, or he actually didn’t care at all about what happened to Mary Mercer. The fact that he had so willingly dropped everything to make the trip to Rye, suggested to Morton that Douglas might be more interested than he was letting on. It was a long way to come, even if you were semi-retired and in need of a short break.

  Douglas sipped his drink and cast a look to Morton. ‘Look, nothing personal to you, Morton but I’m not quite sure why Ray’s so hell-bent on finding someone who, whatever the circumstances, is now dead. What does he think he’ll do if you do find out what happened to her? I mean, come on, talk about overkill!’

  ‘I think…’ Morton began, searching for a diplomatic answer which didn’t reveal Ray’s terminal illness, ‘that he feels he’s getting on a bit now and just wants to know where she is. Lay flowers at her grave, that kind of closure. He was close to his grandmother, Edith, who in turn was close to her twin, Mary. I think he feels he owes it to Edith somehow.’

  ‘But he never even knew her! That’s what makes me laugh; he’s acting like she was his sister.’ For the first time, Douglas’s face turned serious. ‘I tell you what, from what Mum and Dad said, that side of the family know more than they’re letting on. A lot more.’

  Morton set his mug down and looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  Douglas received something resembling a warning look from Susan and seemed to calm visibly. He smiled. ‘I suppose I just mean that over the years for some reason, whether through their own guilt or what, they’ve played around with the truth of the matter. I expect you’ve heard this old fanciful tale that Mary came back for her twin’s funeral and left a locket on her grave? It’s all nonsense. Romantic poppycock to tie up the story.’

  Morton was unsure of how to take the new serious tone of the conversation. Douglas, clearly nettled with red cheeks and a furrowed brow, received a reassuring look from Susan.

  Susan shifted uncomfortably i
n her seat, then began to forage in her handbag, which Morton presumed to be her exit strategy from the sticky conversation. A slightly uncomfortable silence lingered in the air between them, which Morton was about to break when he saw Susan pull something from her handbag and hand it to Douglas. Addressing Morton with a polite smile, she said: ‘She clearly didn’t want to be found.’

  Douglas took the small white envelope from Susan and passed it to Morton. ‘Take a look at that.’

  Morton turned the envelope over in his hands. It was addressed to Mr and Mrs Mercer, 3 Friar’s Cottages, Winchelsea, Sussex. He recognised the writing instantly: it was a letter from Mary. The pen pressure, the size and stroke all unequivocally matched the note left on Edith’s grave and the name and address inside the book. The envelope, off-white and mottled with light brown patches, had a red penny stamp in the top right corner and bore a smudged, black postmark, dated 17th April 1911. The word Scotland was smeared but just about legible.

  Morton felt a surge of excitement fire through his veins as he carefully withdrew the letter through the neat incision made by a sharp letter opener. As he withdrew the letter under the watchful eyes of Douglas and Susan, Morton caught the signature. Your loving daughter, Mary. The letter existed. Morton unfolded the time-stained and creased letter, holding it so gently in his hands that he could barely feel it. He began to read. Dear Mother and Father, It is with great sadness and shame that I write you this letter. I have behaved and acted in an unforgivable manner, which, if you were to learn of the whole matter, would bring embarrassment to the Mercer name. Please know that in taking on the role of housemaid at Blackfriars, I only wanted to earn your love and respect. In this, I have failed and ask that you respect my decision to leave Winchelsea. I hope to start a new life in Scotland, where I may be disconnected from the life and pains of Mary Mercer. I pray that I will one day receive your forgiveness. Your loving daughter, Mary.