The Asylum

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  About the Author

  Nathan Dylan Goodwin was born and raised in Hastings, East Sussex. Schooled in the town, he then completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Radio, Film and Television Studies, followed by a Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. A member of the Society of Authors, he has completed a number of successful local history books about Hastings, as well as several works of fiction, including the acclaimed Forensic Genealogist series. His other interests include theatre, reading, photography, running, skiing, travelling and, of course, genealogy. He is a qualified teacher, member of the Guild of One-Name Studies and the Society of Genealogists, as well as being a member of the Sussex Family History Group, the Norfolk Family History Society, the Kent Family History Society and the Hastings and Rother Family History Society. He lives in Kent with his husband, son and dog.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  nonfiction:

  Hastings at War 1939-1945

  Hastings Wartime Memories and Photographs

  Hastings & St Leonards Through Time

  Around Battle Through Time

  fiction:

  (The Forensic Genealogist series)

  The Asylum - A Morton Farrier short story

  Hiding the Past

  The Lost Ancestor

  The Orange Lilies – A Morton Farrier novella

  The America Ground

  The Spyglass File

  The Missing Man – A Morton Farrier novella

  The Suffragette’s Secret – A Morton Farrier short story

  The Wicked Trade

  (The Mrs McDougall Investigation series)

  Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star

  The Asylum

  by

  Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Copyright © Nathan Dylan Goodwin 2018

  Nathan Dylan Goodwin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This story is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where the names of real people have been used, they appear only as the author imagined them to be.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding, cover or other format, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Cover design: Patrick Dengate

  www.patrickdengate.com

  Dedicated to all my wonderful readers. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Prologue – Hiding the Past

  Chapter One – Hiding the Past

  Further Information

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  2011, Eastbourne, East Sussex, England

  Morton Farrier was annoyed. He was walking from his Ford Mondeo with a sharp briskness that only added to his agitation. He reached the house—one in a long line of terraced properties directly bordering the pavement—and pressed the doorbell. With an impatient sigh, he glanced at his watch, then pressed the bell for a second time. He was thirty-seven years old, had a crop of short dark hair, chestnut-brown eyes and today was wearing a pale pair of jeans and a navy t-shirt.

  ‘Oh, you did come back, then,’ came the sullen voice of the short elderly man who had opened the door to him. ‘Didn’t think you’d bother.’

  Morton offered a weak sarcastic smile. ‘Well, you did ask me to.’

  The man, Gerald Peacock, grunted, vaguely gestured for Morton to enter and then slammed the door shut. He barged past him and marched off. Morton, assuming that he should follow, began to head down the hallway, turning his nose up at the heavy stench emanating from what he imagined to be a deep-fat fryer. Just what he wanted: to go home stinking of chip fat.

  As Morton had expected him to, the old man turned left into the open doorway, which led into his lounge, and there, unravelled on the coffee table, was the family tree that Morton had researched and had had drawn up for him.

  ‘So, what was the problem exactly, Mr Peacock?’ Morton questioned, loitering in the doorway.

  ‘Problems,’ he replied, picking up the family tree and tossing it in Morton’s direction.

  It fell to the floor just short of his feet and Morton stooped down to pick it up. ‘Okay, what were the problems.’

  Gerald Peacock tutted. He had a thin narrow face and a sharp aquiline nose, which only added to the severity of his general demeanour. ‘You’d better sit down; I’ve got a list somewhere here.’

  Morton did as he had been instructed, taking a seat on one of the two red sofas, which formed a right-angle around the coffee table. He removed a notepad and pen from his bag and sat poised, watching Gerald muttering to himself, as he searched through a stack of papers perched on the other end of the table.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he said, sounding like a scolding headmaster, who was suddenly reminded of a pupil’s misdemeanour. Gerald held a piece of paper out in front of him and began to read: ‘Number one. You’ve put my date of birth down as the 15th November 1925, when in actual fact it was the 14th of November 1925.’

  ‘Right,’ Morton said, scribbling down the amendment.

  ‘Second. You’ve spelt my grandmother’s place of birth incorrectly. I realise that it’s an unusual name, but…really! You put z-o-o instead of c-e-u-x at the end of Herstmonceux! It’s laughable and, speaking frankly, really rather amateurish.’

  ‘Okay,’ Morton said, drawing in a quick breath.

  ‘Third. You’ve spelt my poor deceased wife’s name in the ornithological, or worse still, the masculine form of Robin with an i instead of a y. She hated it when people did that…’

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Morton apologized, thinking it a little over-the-top that this man was taking quite so much offence on behalf of his deceased wife.

  ‘And finally…’ Gerald declared, making Morton squirm inside in the knowledge that he had definitely saved the worst mistake of all until last, ‘…you’ve attributed an additional marriage—God only knows where from—to my father.’ He laughed, picked up the family tree and scrutinised it momentarily. ‘Yes, apparently my father married one Louisa Pengelly in 1922! How lovely for them! I do hope it was a joyous occasion. Just the tiny and fundamental fact, though, which rather puts the mockers on their nuptials, is that it simply isn’t true. I can’t very well show that’—he waved with disdain towards the discarded family tree—‘to my family. What on earth would they think?’

  Morton frowned. The first errors he fully accepted; it was careless of him, but they were simple, honest mistakes. The final point, however, was a different matter. At the time of researching the Peacock family tree, he had been fairly certain that Gerald’s father had been married twice. ‘On that last point, there, Mr Peacock... I’m pretty sure he did marry Louisa Pengelly before he married your mother,’ Morton tried to defend.

  ‘Pretty sure? You’re supposed to be a genealogist—where’s your proof?’

  ‘But when I came here last time, you asked me specifically not to worry about researching your parents or grandparents, as you knew everything about them,’ Morton said. ‘So, I didn’t use your limited budget on trying to prove it.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Gerald fumed. ‘So, why add something to the tre
e for which you have no evidence?’

  Morton’s cheeks flushed, as he accepted with an obvious degree of embarrassment that he shouldn’t have assumed that the combination of the correct location and the unusual name had inferred an additional marriage onto Gerald Peacock’s father. ‘Sorry about those oversights. I’ll get the family tree changed and a fresh one sent out as soon as possible for you.’

  ‘I should hope so, too,’ Gerald said, a firm implication in his tone from which Morton could only deduce that he had been dismissed.

  ‘Goodbye,’ Morton said with a half-smile. ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  Back home in his studio flat, Morton sat on his sofa in front of the television and switched on his laptop. For most of the journey home he had ruminated on whether or not he had made a mistake in attributing that extra marriage to Gerald’s father. The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that he must have made an error after all. As much as it pained him to admit it, he had messed up this job and now he would need to get the tree reprinted at his own expense, at a time when money was tight and new work wasn’t exactly flooding in.

  He clicked the GED-COM file for Gerald Peacock’s family and it opened on the screen in front of him. It took just a few seconds to make the first necessary changes. Then, he turned to Gerald’s father, Stephen and selected to remove his erroneous first wife, Louisa Pengelly. Are you sure you want to remove this person? The software double-checked with him on the screen before enacting this delete command. It was a good question. The simplest, quickest answer was yes, he did want to remove her. If he answered in the affirmative, then he just needed to save the updated file, then upload it to the printing company, which he used, and the job would be finished; he’d never need to see or speak to Gerald Peacock ever again.

  He hovered the cursor over the word confirm, but the tenacious streak in his personality, which his university lecturer, Dr Baumgartner from the University College of London had always admired, refused to allow him to click it. Instead, he hit the cancel button and sat momentarily staring at the screen. His confidence that Gerald Peacock’s father had indeed married twice resurged. With a sigh of reluctance, he found himself opening an internet browser and, on the General Record Office website, placing an order for both of Stephen Peacock’s supposed marriages. He would just have to foot the bill himself.

  He turned back to the family tree, realising that he had not searched for the death entry of Stephen Peacock’s first wife, Louisa. He found it easily enough in the December quarter of 1924. The exact same quarter as that in which Stephen had possibly married his second wife.

  Morton looked curiously at the laptop screen, considering the possible range of reasons that both events might have occurred in the same quarter of the same year: one, as vehemently declared by Gerald Peacock, was that Morton had been incorrect to connect the two marriages to the same person; two, Stephen Peacock had committed bigamy; or three, that Stephen’s second marriage had occurred very soon after his first wife had died. Morton had researched several family trees, where a person had quickly remarried following the death of their spouse, often out of financial or childcare necessity. It was this option which struck Morton as being the most likely. Still, something, which he couldn’t quite put his finger on, troubled him about the job. But for now, he closed his laptop and settled himself down for another night with a ready meal in front of the television.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Ha!’ Morton declared with an exaggerated sense of triumph. He was standing in his small hallway, wearing only his boxer shorts, clutching the two marriage certificates, which had just been posted through the front door. ‘I knew it!’

  He marched victoriously into the lounge, picked up his mobile phone and dialled Gerald Peacock. As the phone began to ring, Morton drew in a long breath, mentally preparing that which he was about to say. He half-wondered about holding Gerald hostage over the two certificates—if he wanted to see them, then he’d have to pay for them—but reasoned that that was a little churlish.

  The phone rang endlessly. No answer. No answerphone.

  Morton ended the call and, having only taken a cursory glance at the certificates, fired up his laptop, sat down and looked at them in more detail.

  Stephen Peacock had married Louisa Pengelly in Hailsham Parish Church on the 17th June 1922. Morton carefully checked Stephen’s details on the certificate. His age and his father’s name matched exactly with that which he had already researched. Placing the first certificate down, he examined the second. Stephen Peacock, listed as a widower, had married Emma Carey, a nurse, on the 13th December 1924 in Eastbourne Register Office. His age, occupation, father’s name and father’s occupation all corresponded precisely; there was no way that they could not be the same man.

  Morton sat back and emitted a smug sigh. He hadn’t been wrong at all. The question, now, was what was he going to do with this new information? He could pop the two certificates in the post with a brief letter to Gerald, explaining that his research had been correct, and draw a line under the job. Then what? As things currently stood, he had no other work on and had little else to occupy his time and, frankly, he was sick and tired of being cooped up in his flat. It wouldn’t hurt to do a little more digging into Stephen Peacock, even if it did mean working for free.

  Another ulterior motive cemented his otherwise unattractive decision to add to his research workload on the Peacock family: a woman, whom he quite liked, worked in Hailsham Library. With luck, she might be on duty today.

  Having taken a quick shower, Morton had chosen one of his best shirts and his best pair of jeans to wear, and then set off for Hailsham Library. He found a parking space directly outside the building, an unimaginative two-storey structure, which dated from the sixties, and walked towards the entrance.

  As he pulled open the door and stepped into a small glass vestibule, he realised that his breathing was short and shallow, and that a rumbling nervousness prickled in his stomach. All just because he might see her. Entirely pointlessly, he paused beside two leather chairs in order to examine a rack of council advice leaflets, none of which spoke to any of his current life-needs: Contraception; Help the Aged; Adult Education; Citizens’ Advice Bureau… He eventually found himself picking up a leaflet entitled Your Guide to Reducing Food Waste. In his desire to appear cool and casual, he was actually on the verge of looking inane and idiotic. He turned the leaflet over in his hand and pretended briefly to study the back, before promptly returning it to the wire rack.

  He turned around to enter the library and saw her standing behind the counter, staring directly at him. Their eyes locked for a split-second, before she hurriedly looked away. Inside, he was grinning like a fool, as his earlier nervousness dissipated. Externally, his face was impassive, as he moved towards her. He got all the way to the counter before she looked up again.

  ‘Oh, hello there,’ she greeted.

  ‘Hi,’ he replied nonchalantly, placing his elbow on the counter, then instantly regretted how ridiculous he must have looked. He was actually leaning on the counter like some cowboy at a saloon bar.

  ‘Good to see that our leaflets were of interest,’ she remarked.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, praying that she wouldn’t ask which leaflet he had been reading. He racked his brains to try and remember the titles of some of the others—any…

  ‘Did you find it useful?’ she asked.

  Morton flushed crimson. ‘Er, yes, thank you.’ He needed to change the subject. Quickly. ‘I’m working on a genealogical investigation,’ he began, rather pompously, ‘and would like to see parish records for the Hailsham area around the early 1920s.’

  The woman screwed up her face. ‘I don’t know that we have them… Follow me and we’ll take a look.’ As she moved from behind the counter, he took her in fully for the first time. She had a slender build, with long brown hair, hazel eyes and the most beautiful lips. She was wearing tight, stone-washed blue jeans and a white
shirt. Around her neck was a lanyard—presumably a name badge, which was frustratingly pressed against her stomach around the wrong way.

  On the first floor, she led him over to three bookcases in one corner of the room. Two were headed SUSSEX LENDING and the other, in front of which she was standing, was headed SUSSEX REFERENCE.

  ‘Right,’ she said, casting her eyes up and down the shelving. Stooping slightly, she plucked four slim green volumes from the third shelf down and examined their spines. As she did so, Morton noticed that her ring-finger was thankfully devoid of any precious metals. Not that that meant anything these days. She could easily be in a happy long-term relationship with an abundance of kids in tow for all the lack of a wedding band indicated. ‘Hailsham Parish Registers,’ she read, turning to him. ‘What dates was it that you were interested in?’

  He could see for himself that the dates on the books were miles out from those which he wanted. ‘Around 1920.’

  Double-checking the spines, she told him what he already knew: ‘No, these are all we have, and they finish by 1819.’ She took a long breath in and had a final check of the shelves. ‘Your best bet is to go to—’

  ‘East Sussex Record Office,’ he interrupted, with a light groan.

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. Not a fan of the place?’ she asked.

  ‘Depends who’s behind the desk.’

  ‘Oh, like that is it?’

  ‘That and the dire shortage of parking, the artic temperatures, the cramped conditions and the inability to photograph documents… I could go on.’

  The woman laughed. ‘Sorry, can’t help you there.’

  ‘Well, it’s not your fault.’ Morton glanced around the other shelving. ‘What about newspapers for that period in this area?’