‘Oh. My mother found Loopy Lou’s body… That is a strange coincidence,’ Gerald conceded.
‘Yes,’ Morton confirmed. ‘The trouble I have with this, Mr Peacock, is that I don’t generally believe in coincidences and I also don’t believe that Louisa could have made that distance in under fifteen minutes.’
‘You did,’ he replied, ‘in almost half the time.’
‘Yes, but I was practically running, I didn’t have to open a whole series of closed doors, navigate around doctors and nurses, who would have questioned what I was doing, remove my stockings and find a suitable tree. And, I hadn’t given birth just six days before.’
‘That’s the second fact, is it?’ Gerald asked. ‘You’re telling me that I have a sibling. Goodness gracious, wait until my daughter hears about this. Is he or she still alive?’
Morton withdrew a sheet of paper and passed it across to the old man: ‘This is the second fact, Mr Peacock.’
Gerald screwed his eyes up and then harrumphed: ‘My baptism. I don’t understand?’
‘Look at the edge of the first column,’ Morton said.
‘Born 14th November 1924,’ he read. ‘What?’
‘You were born in 1924, not 1925,’ Morton explained.
Gerald looked again at the baptism entry, which Morton had printed off at Eastbourne Library. ‘But it says my parents are Stephen and Emma Peacock, yet they weren’t married until December 1924. Are you saying that my father had had an affair with Emma whilst still married to Louisa?’
‘No, Mr Peacock. I’m saying that Louisa, possibly having suffered from miscarriages in the past, was confined to the East Sussex County Asylum because of fears for her unborn child. I wrongly assumed that she had lost that baby, too, but nowhere does it say that. In fact, the Medical Superintendent at the asylum stated that she was anxious but lucid in conversation and that her general health was excellent. Nowhere does it say that the child died.’
‘Oh, my goodness me,’ Gerald said, the penny finally dropping. ‘You’re saying that Louisa was my mother?’
‘I believe so, Mr Peacock. Yes,’ Morton answered.
‘And that my mother—well, not my mother—Emma had a hand in her death?’ he stammered.
‘That I can’t say for certain, Mr Peacock. The Medical Superintendent also questioned how her death had been physically achievable but was evidently satisfied that there had been no foul play.’
‘But in your opinion, there was foul play?’
Morton took a moment to answer: ‘Each individual record in this wallet says that no, there was no foul play but, when you put them together, my gut instinct is that it isn’t as black and white as that.’
‘But what on earth reason would Emma have had for killing Louisa?’
‘I’m afraid there’s no historical or genealogical record which can answer that. One theory, supported by this—’ he said, passing over the typed-up record of each of Stephen Peacock’s visits to the asylum, ‘—is that your father fell in love with Emma, and they felt—rightly or wrongly—that, although Louisa wouldn’t have been in the right mental state initially to look after a baby at that point in time, she might well have improved in the future? Her health was good and perhaps, after successfully giving birth, she might have been released from the asylum and could have attempted to reclaim her child. Also, they clearly wanted to marry one another and couldn’t do so whilst Louisa was still alive.’
‘Couldn’t he just have divorced her?’ Gerald asked.
‘Even if they could have afforded it, Stephen wouldn’t have had any grounds to do so,’ Morton explained. ‘From 1923 to 1937, the only option open to him would have been her adultery. From 1938 he could have cited incurable insanity, but he wouldn’t have known then that that would have become an option later on.’
‘Wow…’ Gerald said quietly, gazing down at the pile of papers in his hands. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘No, I don’t expect you were. I’ve done some research into Louisa and her family, should you be interested. It’s all in here,’ Morton said, holding up the wallet. ‘One last thing you might be interested to see is this.’ He removed a black and white photograph of a beautiful young woman with her head turned slightly to one side and with a demure smile on her face. ‘Louisa…’ Morton said, handing the photo to Gerald.
‘My God. Just look at that nose!’ he cried. ‘It’s exactly like mine.’
‘There certainly is more than a passing resemblance, isn’t there?’ Morton agreed.
‘Wow. Where did you get this from?’
‘Louisa had a sister, Joyce Pengelly, and her granddaughter had already helpfully posted it on her Ancestry family tree. She’d like to get in touch with you, if that’s okay?’
Gerald nodded, and Morton could see that tears were welling in his eyes. It was time to leave him to digest this news in private. Morton said goodbye and that he would see himself out.
As he left the house, he wondered if he had done the right thing in making his own interpretation of history known. It was interesting, though, that not once had Gerald protested Emma’s innocence and he recalled that he had described Emma as strict and hard as a mother. If anyone had told Morton that his late mother had killed someone and presented the evidence that he had just given to Gerald, he would never have believed it; it was fundamentally not in her nature and nothing short of a personal confession would be able to change his mind on that.
Morton climbed into his car but didn’t start the engine. He just sat, breathing deeply and thinking for a few minutes. He thought of poor Louisa Peacock and all that she had suffered, and he thought of his own mother, who had died from cancer when Morton had been just sixteen years old. He found that he missed her at the most random of times, such as now. He sighed, as his thoughts slid over to his father. A visit or even a phone-call was long overdue. Owing to the fractious nature of their relationship, it was something that he routinely deferred, and time…well…passed. One thing was certain, he didn’t have the time to visit or phone, now, he needed to get home and showered ready for his second date tonight with Juliette.
He was early, but even so he began to worry that maybe she wouldn’t turn up. He checked his watch: still ten minutes to go. He was standing outside The George in Rye, a large and fancy hotel on the High Street of the quaint little town. He was wearing a pair of smart beige chinos, a navy shirt and a pair of brown brogues.
He checked his watch again.
‘I’m not late, am I?’ It was Juliette, looking stunning…again. Her hair was tied back, and she was wearing a floor-length red dress with a lace neckline.
‘No, you’re not late at all,’ Morton said, pecking her on the cheek. ‘Nice to see you, again. You look amazing.’
‘Yeah, look,’ she said, raising her dress a few inches to reveal a pair of trainers, which really didn’t match the rest of her look. ‘So much more comfortable and practical.’
‘Especially with the cobbled streets of Rye,’ Morton added.
‘Exactly. Shall we go in?’
‘After you, madam,’ Morton said, and followed her inside to the bar. ‘Which do you fancy?’ he asked, pointing at the blackboard situated above the optics. At the top of the board, on a rolling musical stave, was written Gin & Jazz followed by a long list of gin varieties.
‘I think I’ll try the Mayfield Sussex Hop Gin,’ she said.
‘Me, too,’ Morton agreed.
Whilst they waited for their drinks, Morton said, ‘I’ve got something for you: a leaflet from Eastbourne Library.’
‘Tips on food waste?’ she guessed with a laugh.
‘Nope,’ he said, handing it to her.
She read it and smiled: ‘We’re recruiting PCSOs.’
‘Police Community Support Officers,’ Morton said. ‘It’s kind of a step towards the Police. I could see you doing that.’
‘What makes you think I’d be any good at it?’ she asked, reading the fi
ne-print, below.
‘You wanted a challenge, you’ve clearly got the skills and definitely got the confidence to go marching head-first into dark buildings, so I’m guessing not much would phase you.’
‘Eight-week training course… No formal qualifications required … Salary not bad and actually not that far off what I’m on now…’ she looked and smiled. ‘Do you know… I might actually apply.’
‘Great!’ Morton said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, placing the leaflet into her handbag.
The barmaid placed their drinks down and said, ‘Here you go. The jazz will be starting in about ten minutes.’
Morton thanked her and paid for the drinks.
‘So, how’s the genealogy job you’re working on coming along?’ she asked, as they made their way over to the seating area, not far from where a trio of musicians were in the process of erecting music stands and removing instruments from their cases.
‘Hmm,’ Morton answered. ‘It finished today, actually.’
‘And? What happened?’ Juliette asked. ‘It sounds like there’s a story there.’
In the time that it took the musicians to get themselves ready, Morton relayed a summary of the job.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘That is interesting. That poor man, what a thing to learn at his age in life.’
‘Yeah… I’m still not completely certain I should have told him everything. It’s a tough call.’
‘No, I think you were right to tell him—it’s his truth—it must have come as quite a shock, though, I would imagine.’
As the saxophonist played the opening bars to a number, signalling the end of this conversation, Morton made up his mind to give Gerald Peacock a call in the morning. He was a miserable old bugger, but still, the news must have hit him hard. He felt a sense of a sort of ‘duty of care’. And while he was making time for miserable old buggers, he would give his father a call, too.
Two hours later, the final jazz scales were played, receiving an enthusiastic applause from the crowd of thirty or so people.
‘Brilliant!’ Juliette called.
‘Another drink?’ Morton asked.
Juliette thought for a moment. ‘I think four gins is probably enough to be going on with for now. I’d actually like to get some fresh air—it’s gotten pretty stuffy in here. Fancy a wander?’
‘Sure.’
Outside, the cool night air hit Morton hard and he could suddenly feel the effects of the alcohol. He guessed that the same thing was happening to Juliette, for she wobbled slightly on the steps down to the pavement, then reached out and threaded her arm through his.
‘Anywhere in particular?’ he asked.
‘No, I don’t mind. I just love it, here—look at how beautiful it all looks at night.’
He gazed down the High Street at the street lamps casting an amber glow over the road and the various cobbled off-shoots.
‘You know, I think I might have to consider Rye when I move next year,’ Juliette said.
‘Oh, are you moving, then?’ he asked, suddenly realising that if things went well between them and she moved to a new house and changed careers, he might not get to see her as often.
‘The tenancy on my rental will be up and, alongside some inheritance, I’ve been saving for my own place for quite a while now.’
‘I’d love to live in Rye,’ Morton said.
‘That wasn’t an invite,’ she said with a laugh.
‘Oh, damn,’ he replied.
They walked aimlessly, chatting about a range of subjects, until they found themselves on the historic Mermaid Street.
‘Look at these funny little places,’ she whispered on the deserted street, squinting to get a view of the house name of the particular cottage that they were passing. ‘Christmas Cottage. It’s a lovely name…for a couple of months of the year, at least.’ She dragged Morton across the cobbles. ‘What’s this one?’
‘House with the Seat,’ he read.
‘Imagine giving that as your address down the phone,’ Juliette laughed. ‘Nobody would believe you.’
‘I like this one,’ Morton said. ‘The House with Two Front Doors.’
‘Well, that’s just absurd. Why does it need two front doors?’
Morton shrugged. ‘In case you get bored of one, you can use the other. One for coming and one for going…’ They walked on a little further, then stopped outside The Mermaid Inn. ‘One last drink for the road?’ he asked.
‘For the road?’ she repeated. ‘I don’t think either of us is in a fit state to drive, do you?’
‘…said PCSO Juliette…’ Morton quipped.
‘…Meade,’ she said, finishing his sentence. She turned to face him and kissed him on the lips. ‘We could always see if there’s any room at the inn,’ she suggested, nodding to the pub.
Morton smiled, kissed her and led her by the hand into the hotel.
CLICK HERE TO DISCOVER WHAT HAPPENS NEXT IN HIDING THE PAST
Hiding The Past is the first full-length Morton Farrier investigation.
Alternatively, simply turn the page to read the first two chapters, now.
Prologue – Hiding the Past
6th June 1944
When Emily woke, everything was dark and everything was still. The angry, vicious weather from the previous day had subsided and yet something outside wasn’t quite as it should have been. It couldn’t have been an air-raid – they had stopped three months ago. Quietly rolling back her woollen blanket, Emily sat up in bed and listened. She was thirty-one and effortlessly beautiful, even now, after a bad night’s sleep. She gently switched on her bedside lamp, not wanting to disturb her precious baby boy, who slept silently beside her in his cot. The lamp cast a low, amber glow over his face. Whatever it was that had disturbed her, had not stirred her son.
Emily padded over to the window and lifted the heavy blackout curtains. It took a moment for her to process the sensations she suddenly experienced: a charcoal-grey curtain of thick smoke, reeking of a chemical she couldn’t quite place, enveloped the beloved orchard which surrounded her home, as enraged orange flames fought their way towards the house. Emily snapped back to reality, let the curtains fall into place and quickly scooped up her child, still blissfully sleeping. She turned and picked up the small brown suitcase beside her bed, which she had hastily packed last night.
Carrying the boy close to her chest with one hand and the suitcase in the other, she hurried into the kitchen, wearing her white, silk nightie. There was no time to change or search for her shoes. She paused at the front door, momentarily unwilling to loosen the bolts that kept her safe inside. Placing her hand on the first metal bolt, she suddenly placed the chemical stench outside, which was now seeping through the cracks and crevices of the kitchen – petrol: she was being driven out.
Emily pointlessly looked around the room for another means of escape, another plan, but she knew it was hopeless. Insidious tendrils of smoke began to creep from the bedroom ceiling, licking their way towards her.
The baby began to cry, a soft, mournful sound that broke Emily’s heart. It reminded her that nothing was real. This life that she had made was not real. Her home was not real. Even her name was not real.
With a final glance around the room, Emily unbolted the brass fastenings. Maybe there is time to run, to get away from here, she thought. She pulled open the solid oak door and could see only blackness tinged with the muted light from the raging fire at the rear of the house. Despite the darkness, she knew that someone was there; waiting in the shadows for her.
Emily held the baby tightly and ran from the house. She navigated the orchard easily - nobody knew it better than she - and made it to the periphery of the woods. As the baby began to scream and pain spiked her bare feet as she ran, she knew she could never escape, yet she kept running – pushing further and further into the darkness, her nightie catching and snagging on branches. Behind her, the crunching of heavy boots was gai
ning ground, easily homing in on the sound of the screaming child. She pulled him tightly into her bosom, hoping to stifle his cries. From the blackness behind her, an unseen hand reached out and grabbed Emily’s shoulder. It was over.
Chapter One – Hiding the Past
2013
Wednesday
Morton Farrier was perplexed. He was sitting at home running an online birth search and, according to the indexes, the man for whom he searched hadn’t ever been born. It was a rare occurrence for a birth not to have been registered, he had to admit, but it wasn’t that extraordinary. Nothing to get over excited about. In his twelve years of working as a forensic genealogist he had come across it maybe once or twice before. Although, now that he actually thought about it, he could only bring one specific case to mind, a job he had worked on two years ago. It certainly didn’t warrant the unnecessary histrionics that his new client, Peter Coldrick, had displayed when he had visited him for the first time yesterday afternoon.
Morton had found Peter living an austere life in a run-down council estate on the outskirts of Tenterden, a charming Kentish Weald town not far from his own home in Rye. Peter’s house was crammed with an abundance of genealogical books and guides. Years of personal research and three redundant genealogists later, Peter Coldrick had come to the conclusion that any antecedents prior to his father had been wholly obliterated. It was for the birth of Peter’s father, James Coldrick, that Morton had searched in vain. He ran one final check on Ancestry, his favoured website for birth, marriage and death searches, but came to the same answer: there was no James Coldrick. He was pondering the implications of this when his mobile rang. It was Juliette, his girlfriend.
‘What was the name of the guy that you went to see yesterday?’ she asked. Typical Juliette, storming straight in with a random question, Morton thought.
‘What?’
‘The man you’re working for, what’s his name?’ she asked in an impatient whisper.
‘Coldrick, Peter Coldrick. Why?’
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