The Lost Ancestor (The Forensic Genealogist series Book 2)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Every muscle in Edward’s body was focussed on this moment, channelled by his one-track thought of finding Mary. He bent down, dragged Risler up by the collar and held his bloodied face just inches from his own. Edward could see fear and panic in Risler’s dark eyes. He could feel his beer-laced breath on his face. ‘Where is she?’ Edward demanded.

  ‘Who?’ Risler whimpered. ‘Who?’

  Edward let his right hand go, allowing his left hand to hold Risler’s dead weight, drew his right arm back and smashed it into Risler’s face. Edward’s bloody knuckles met his nose with a horrible crunch. ‘Where is she?’ He could see that Risler’s panic was growing and his resolve was shrinking. Edward drew back his hand again, ready for the next punch.

  ‘Stop, please,’ he begged. ‘It wasn’t my idea.’

  Edward let Risler go and watched as he fell to his feet, like some pathetic beggar. ‘Please.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘The folly,’ Risler spat.

  With a jerking movement, Edward pushed Risler backwards, sending him crashing to the floor. His heart racing wildly, Edward ran at full pelt through the corridor and into the kitchen. From behind him he heard Risler calling, swearing and shouting.

  ‘Hey!’ Bastion screeched as Edward ploughed straight into Joan Leigh, sending an armful of crockery smashing to the stone floor. ‘Eh! Mais, toi, qu’est-ce que tu as? Sorte de ma cuisine—espèce d’imbécile!’

  ‘Edward!’ Joan yelled, stooping down to pick up the fallen crockery, but she was talking to an open door.

  Edward was oblivious to the torrent of rain which saturated him to the skin seconds after leaving the house. In the diffused light from the illuminated windows on the east side of the house, Edward was just about able to make out the contours of the path. The most direct route to Mary would be to head to the edge of the lake then swim across it to the island. But Edward couldn’t swim so he needed to take the boat. When he reached the lake, he was surrounded by a blanket of darkness. If there had been any kind of moonlight, then it was being shielded by the rolling black clouds above him. He was dismayed to have to slow his pace in order to negotiate the narrow path. One wrong foot and he would be in the lake. He was sure that by now Risler had raised the alarm. Maybe I should have knocked him out cold, Edward thought as he ran beside the water. The only sound came from the rain thrashing down on the surface of the lake.

  A low noise came from the direction of the house. Edward turned to see a shadowed figure standing in the light of the kitchen. Time was running out. He pushed his legs harder—he was almost at the boathouse. As he turned back, he noticed too late that the path had taken a minor turn and his left foot fell off the path and onto a slope of wet mud.

  ‘Damn!’ Edward yelled, as he tried to counteract an inevitable slide into the lake. He twisted his body and lurched to the right, reaching out to a thick clump of irises protruding from the bank. Clawing out with both hands, Edward managed to stabilise himself. He pulled himself back upright and winced at the pain shooting up his leg from his foot. The boathouse is so close! Edward slammed himself, as he hurried as best he could, trying to put minimum weight on his injured left foot.

  Finally, he reached the door to the boathouse. Mercifully, it was open. When he hurried from the house and briefly considered his rash plan, he thought he would have to kick the door in, but with the pain searing in his foot, that would have been impossible. Edward shoved the door open and carefully lowered himself into the rowing boat. Taking the pair of oars in his hands, he used one to push off from the side. The boat slowly glided out from the confines of the boathouse into the thick sheets of rain; finally, it emerged fully onto the lake and Edward was able to extend the oars into the water.

  ‘I’m coming, Mary,’ Edward muttered. Just a few more minutes and they would be reunited. That idea spurred him on, made him pull harder and harder on the oars.

  A sudden, deafening clap of thunder made him jump and he dropped one of the oars into the water. ‘Damn it!’ he yelled, reaching over into the freezing water.

  A ferocious snap of lightening shot from the angry skies down into the woodland behind Blackfriars. That one glimmer of powerful light was enough for Edward to catch something awful in his peripheral vision. A figure in the water approaching his boat. The frame suggested that it was Risler. He was gaining on him fast.

  Edward thrust the oars into the water and began to heave and thrust with all his might. It terrified him that his aggressor was protected by the joint wall of total darkness and the resonance of the hard rain.

  Edward was just a few more strokes from reaching the island jetty when the assailant’s wet hand grasped onto the side of the boat. Edward noticed too late and by the time he had raised his right foot to slam down onto the grappling hand, a second hand had gripped the side, hauling Risler’s saturated body up behind it. Risler whipped his hand away and lunged at Edward, who tumbled into the boat from the force of his actions. Risler pulled himself into the boat and leapt onto Edward.

  It took Edward a moment to regain his composure. As he had just demonstrated, Risler was no way a match for him and Edward used this knowledge to bolster himself mentally. He drew in a quick, deep breath and shoved Risler’s heavy body from on top of him. Risler managed a weak punch, which glanced off Edward’s chin.

  Another crack and rumble of overhead thunder masked Risler’s yelp, as Edward’s tensed biceps thrust Risler backwards, banging his head on the boat’s internal ribbing. Edward wasted no time and sent his right fist into Risler’s face. After another punch, Edward stopped to take stock of the situation. Risler was whimpering in the bottom of the boat. Should I just finish him off? Edward wondered, desperate to reach Mary. He had visions of getting to the island only for Risler to follow him into the folly. He needed to finish the job. Edward drew his right hand back, ready for the punch when he suddenly lurched back, tumbling off the side of the boat.

  Someone was pulling on the back of his collar.

  A lightning strike briefly lit up the lake, but it only added to the confusion, as Edward fell backwards, plunging into the cold depths beside the boat. He was momentarily disorientated, reaching and fumbling about under water. His fingers touched something. The boat. He kicked and pushed towards it, feeling for the slated contours. Finally, he surfaced and took in a huge lungful of air. He desperately flung his head around, searching the murky lake for his second attacker. He turned his head towards the folly as a pair of heavy meaty hands lunged at his neck from behind and began to force him under.

  Edward kicked furiously, trying to counteract the pushing action of his attacker, as the water began to nibble at his chin. The grip on his neck was such that Edward couldn’t turn or use his arms to neutralise the force being exerted. His only choice was to keep kicking to stay afloat and try to prise the hands from his neck.

  ‘Mary! Mary!’ Edward shouted in desperation, before the first mouthful of water entered his lungs. He knew then that those would be his dying words and that they would be heard by nobody other than his assailants. He knew they were his dying words. He had no fight left to match the strength of the person shoving him under.

  The water covered his mouth.

  Every muscle in his legs screamed for more oxygen than his lungs could provide.

  There were just moments left.

  Using the final reserves of his energy, Edward clawed at the powerful hands that held him, but it was no use. The hands were locked firm. Whoever it was behind him didn’t want him to die by strangulation, they wanted him to drown. At that moment Edward saw himself as an hourglass, the sand quickly passing from top to bottom; the time remaining in his life had reached the final grains. He thought of Mary and their baby. He saw himself at their impromptu wedding at Winchelsea church. He saw the baby’s christening at the same place a few months later.

  Edward smiled as his lungs filled with water.

  Moments later, Bastion released his grip around Edward’s throat. It was done.
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br />   Chapter Twenty

  Taking no chances this time, Morton parked his Mini directly in front of The Keep entrance. It was a disabled parking bay, but he just didn’t care. Having brought Jenny up to speed with the entirety of the Mercer Case on the journey over, she too didn’t query his parking choices. The pair marched confidently into the archives, placed their coats and other items into the lockers and then made their way into the Reading Room.

  Morton visibly slumped when he spotted his old adversary, Miss Latimer, once again on sentry duty. ‘Oh God,’ he mumbled as their eyes met.

  Jenny turned to him. ‘What’s the matter?’

  Just he went to answer, Jenny turned towards the desk and her eyes lit up. ‘Deidre!’

  Miss Latimer grinned. ‘Jennifer Greenwood!’

  Morton looked on incredulously as the pair bound towards each other, then embraced as if they were best friends who’d been separated for years.

  ‘We haven’t seen you here in a while,’ Miss Latimer said. ‘Still digging?’

  ‘Oh yes! Actually, I’m here with my friend, Morton Farrier to follow some exciting new leads.’ She turned to Morton. ‘Morton, have you met Deidre Latimer—surely you must have done?’

  Morton nodded. ‘Yes, we’re acquainted.’

  ‘Thought you must know each other well—I expect this is a second home for you, Morton!’

  Morton tried to smile but a vague pained look appeared on his face instead.

  ‘It was actually Deidre here who got me into this genealogy lark,’ Jenny continued. ‘We’re old friends from way back and when I told her of my interests, she pointed me in all the right places. I expect she’s been as helpful in your work, Morton?’

  Morton, seemingly paralysed by this most uncomfortable situation, couldn’t find the words which struck the delicate balance between truth and lies. Luckily for him, Deidre stepped in.

  Flashing an incredibly false smile in Morton’s direction, she turned to Jenny. ‘So what’s this exciting new lead, then?’

  Jenny, always on her guard, turned and checked around her then lowered her voice. ‘I’ll see how we get on today and let you know. Let’s just say that my theory about Cecil and Philadelphia isn’t looking so implausible all of a sudden.’ Her volume returned to normal. You know, we really must meet up for dinner sometime.’

  ‘Well, I’m free after work today if you’d like?’

  ‘I can’t today, I’m afraid—I came in Morton’s car.’ She turned to Morton. ‘Unless you’d care to join us?’

  Morton waited for his life to flash before his eyes. This had to be a near-death experience. Dinner with Deidre Latimer would be one of the worst types of tortures imaginable. At the moment, he could not think of a single thing that was a worse idea. He tried to disguise the look of sheer horror on his face. ‘Er… I really can’t,’ Morton stammered. ‘I need to get back…’

  Deidre, replete with her own look of horror, stepped in again. ‘Listen. You don’t want to inconvenience your friend, Jenny. Let’s go out for dinner together and I’ll run you home afterwards. How does that sound?’

  Jenny looked at Morton for approval.

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, ‘go ahead. That suits everyone.’ Anything, anything, anything but him having to spend time with Deidre Latimer.

  Jenny nodded her agreement and laughed. ‘Okay, that would be lovely.’

  ‘Marvellous,’ Deidre said. She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d best let you get on with it, we close in two hours’ time.’

  ‘Could we have a log-in please, Deidre,’ Morton said, unable to help himself.

  ‘Not a problem,’ she said with a strange smile. As she walked away, Morton thought that he heard her crack her old joke of calling him Moron under her breath.

  She turned back to her desk, picked up a small sliver of paper and handed it to Jenny.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jenny said with a smile, and they made their way to the banks of computer terminals in order to call up the necessary documents. ‘She’s such a lovely lady, isn’t she?’

  ‘Very thorough and knowledgeable,’ Morton answered diplomatically.

  A handful of researchers sat at the computers, eagerly transcribing and taking notes from the screens in front of them. Morton headed to the first available computer, offered the chair to Jenny and slid one along for himself from the adjacent computer. He quickly typed in the log-in details provided by Miss Latimer.

  ‘What’s first, then?’ Jenny whispered.

  ‘If I concentrate on Martha, can you see what you can find on George Mansfield? Locate references for his birth, marriage and death certificates and I’ll order them later. See if you can find his baptism and marriage at Winchelsea—shouldn’t be too hard to locate. I’ve already got his burial record,’ Morton said, as he signed into The Keep’s website and ordered the admission records for St Thomas’s School, Winchelsea 1873-1950, as well as the log book covering a similar period. At the back of his mind the whole journey had been Martha Stone’s grave and the extraordinary idea proposed by Jenny. He had already ruled out a DNA test, which left him with the basic, traditional routes.

  ‘Two steps ahead of you on that one,’ Jenny said with a grin. ‘One of the first things Deidre suggested I do, when I first became suspicious about George’s parentage, was to determine what had been presented as facts on his certificates. I’ve got his birth, marriage and death certificates at home.’

  Morton nodded. ‘Could you email a copy of them to me when you get a moment?’

  ‘Of course, I’ll do it tonight.’

  ‘Right, what about a baptism record?’

  ‘Haven’t looked for that, so I’ll make a start now.’

  ‘And is the marriage certificate you have the copy of made from General Register Office, or taken from the original register?’

  ‘GRO copy. Do you want me to look up the original?’

  ‘It wouldn’t hurt,’ Morton said. ‘They should be identical except that the GRO copy has been transcribed. I prefer originals where I can because they have the actual signatures of the bride, groom and witnesses.’

  ‘Very thorough,’ she commented with a chuckle.

  ‘Can I leave you to it?’ he asked.

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll see what else I can dig up, too.’

  ‘Jolly good. See you shortly,’ Morton said, carrying his laptop and notepad over towards the Reference Room. He swiped his card on the silver pillar and the glass door slid open for him.

  He found the room busier than on his previous visit, with researchers diligently and silently beavering away at their own genealogical quests. He often surreptitiously glanced at the documents being pored over, wondering at the nature of the research taking place.

  Having found a seat on the back row, Morton fired up his laptop, set up his notepad and pencil and checked online to see if his documents had been delivered. They were both listed as ‘Available’, so Morton headed over to the help desk.

  ‘Morton, how the devil are you?’ Max Fairbrother asked jovially. Having been the senior archivist for more than thirty years at the old East Sussex Record Office and now The Keep, Max was on familiar terms with Morton.

  ‘Morning, Max. Good, thanks. You?’ Morton said, studying Max’s bizarre choice of attire. He had a shocking Hawaiian shirt on with a pair of bleached ripped jeans. For a man in his late fifties, he looked plainly ridiculous.

  ‘Very good, thank you. What can we do for you, today?’

  ‘I’ve got some documents ready.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Max said, as if it were the best news that he had ever heard. Ever since a previous case that Morton had worked on, where he had overlooked an indiscretion on the senior archivist’s part, Max had gone out of his way to assist Morton. Max and Deidre were polar opposites as far as Morton was concerned. Maybe things will change now that I’ve got Jenny for an ally, Morton thought as he handed over his Reader’s Ticket. Max took his ticket and scanned it. ‘Any preference for which one first?’ he asked.


  ‘Admissions register, please.’

  Max dramatically thrust back his wheeled office chair into the back room.

  Morton rolled his eyes but said nothing. Max’s mid-life crisis was evidently continuing, he thought.

  ‘Here we go,’ Max said, handing over the document. ‘Any probs, give me a shout.’

  ‘Thanks, will do,’ Morton said.

  Back at his seat, Morton eagerly opened the file. It ran in chronological order and listed name of child, number, admission date, date of birth, name of parent/guardian, address, previous school and date of withdrawal. Morton carefully ran his index finger down the names of the children, then back up the names of the parents, to ensure that he covered any discrepancies. When he reached the 1890s, some familiar names appeared. Charles Phillips had started at the school in 1891, Clara Ellingham and Jack Maslow started at the school in 1893 and Eliza Bootle in 1894. Also in 1893 Morton found the entry for Martha Stone, who had started at the school on the 8th November that year. Her leaving date was noted as the 18th February 1902—the day that she had died. He took out his digital camera and took photographs of all relevant pages before continuing his search. In 1896 he found the entry for the Mercer twins. Both entries were identical but for the forename. The girls were admitted to St Thomas’s school on the 1st May 1896 and their address was listed as 3 Friar’s Cottages, Winchelsea. Their parents were listed as Thomas and Katherine Mercer and their date of withdrawal was listed as the 26th April 1906. Morton photographed the page, then continued searching and photographing the subsequent pages in order to build up a clear picture of other children present in the school at the same time as the twins. He would then do as he had done with the staff at Blackfriars, and try and make contact with living descendants. One of them must have known what happened to Mary. From a quick initial assessment of the entries and withdrawals from the school, Morton estimated that there were probably between twelve and twenty children at the school with Mary and Edith. He added previously unknown children to the friends list, then continued to search the register until its conclusion in July 1950.