The Spyglass File (The Forensic Genealogist Book 5)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Elsie sipped her drink, enjoying the warmth of the alcohol and the glorious sound of the distant church bells. She closed her eyes. The war might be over, but the conflict within her own mind was ravaging. For months, she had prepared herself for the day when Laurie walked through the door. She was going to give him time to settle, to readjust back to life as a civilian before asking him for a divorce. She had been fully prepared to confess everything. But how could she, now? She couldn’t ask it of the broken man in the other room who had suffered five cruel winters in captivity. Yet, she also knew that war, and the decisions made by them and others, had exacerbated and worsened a marriage that had been finished before it had even begun.

  Elsie finished her rum and placed the glass in the sink.

  Without another word to her husband, she checked herself in the hallway mirror and left the house. She closed the front door, climbed on her old faithful postman’s bicycle and cycled down into the main village.

  She heard the clamour of celebration long before she saw it and smiled. A brass band was in competition with the church bells. Children’s voices could be heard singing. The sound of laughter…Elsie wondered when she had last heard mass laughter like that. She had no idea.

  She arrived in the village and dismounted to survey the spectacle.

  Beneath long stretches of red, white and blue bunting, people danced to the gay tunes of the brass band. The children of the village sat at several long tables filled with food and that ran down the centre of the street. The shops were closed but the pub was open, the sounds of merriment spilling out.

  This was what she had worked so hard for in those long nights, listening to the enemy.

  ‘Do you want a drink, Elsie?’ Mrs McKay called over.

  ‘No, thank you—you enjoy it!’ she replied.

  She purposefully absorbed the sights, sounds and smells of freedom for a little longer before climbing back onto her bicycle and continuing through to the other side of the village. In the rows of cottages that she passed, flags were displayed in the windows, but all here was quiet.

  She stopped outside Lime Tree Cottage and leant her bicycle against the low stone wall. Walking up the short front path, she checked her hair in the reflection of the front window and knocked at the door.

  Moments later, the door was opened and there stood Woody, tilted slightly over on his crutch. He smiled. ‘You look amazing, Elsie. Come on in.’

  Elsie stepped inside and pecked him on the lips. ‘Happy VE Day, Englebert.’

  He tapped her arm playfully. ‘Happy VE Day, Elsie.’

  They kissed again, fervently, passionately.

  Epilogue

  13th August 2016, Rye, East Sussex

  The resplendent building of Rye Town Hall was quiet. Suddenly, from the Doric doorway burst a suited man carrying a camera. He scuttled across the street and began sliding and rotating his camera lens.

  Moments later, out stepped the town crier, Rex Swain. Dressed in the full regalia of his office, he clutched at a shiny brass hand-bell. He walked through the central archway of the five that adorned the front of the building and waited solemnly.

  Behind him came the sound of multiple footsteps and excited babble.

  Then, came the bride and groom. She, in a white, mermaid sleeveless dress and he in a smart fifties-style blue suit.

  More people—friends and family—poured from the ancient building and gathered themselves around the grinning couple.

  The town crier silenced the assembled crowd by ringing his bell and loudly shouting, ‘Oyez! Oyez! Be it known that Morton and Juliette have been married in Rye Town Hall. His worship the Mayor, his wise council and the citizens of Rye wish them a long and happy life together. May God bless this marriage and may God bless old England and the ancient town of Rye. I give you the new Mr. and Mrs. Farrier.’

  The group cheered and confetti was thrown.

  Morton—flanked by his best man, Jeremy—squeezed Juliette’s hand and kissed her.

  ‘God, I hope that photographer is good at Photoshopping,’ Juliette whispered, staring at Morton’s bruised face.

  Morton grinned and kissed her again.

  A gentle meep-meep sounded, as a burgundy Austin Seven, adorned with white balloons, pulled up outside the Town Hall.

  ‘Your carriage awaits, Madam,’ Morton said, leading Juliette down the steps to the awaiting vehicle.

  The chauffeur opened the door and they climbed in under yet another shower of confetti.

  ‘Heathrow airport, please,’ Morton said. He turned to face Juliette and grinned. ‘Welcome to the Farrier family.’

  Juliette smiled. ‘God help me.’

  Historical Information

  Much of this book’s content is based on real facts and events. Some characters who appear in the book are also real. I have attempted to make the historical aspects as accurate as possible.

  The fledging Y-Service was based at Maypole Cottage in Hawkinge, being staffed mainly by WAAF women with fluency in German. The descriptions of the aerodrome, its function as a forward airbase and the squadrons operating from it, are largely accurate. In mid-late August 1940, after severe attacks on the aerodrome, Flight Lieutenant Budge moved the Y-Service operations to higher and safer ground in West Kingsdown, initially taking over a converted toy factory. It was from here and other such intercept stations around the country that the WAAF women of the Y-Service undertook invaluable work for the war effort; the intelligence they gathered had an immediate operational value to the Royal Navy and the RAF, before being passed on for deeper analysis by the cryptographers at Bletchley Park. The descriptions of the use of the X-Gerät beam and the subsequent raid that unfolded on Coventry are correct. RAF Bentley Priory—now a museum dedicated to its role as the Headquarters of Fighter Command during the war—housed several WAAF women who, from there, helped shape key events such as the Battle of Britain and the D-Day landings. Churchill was a frequent visitor there. Several WAAF officers were also posted abroad, among them was Aileen “Mike” Clayton, who was sent out to advise on improvements to the Y-Service in Malta. Aileen, along with Flight Lieutenant Budge, Jean “Billy” Conan Doyle and Flight Officer Scott-Farnie are all real people and the descriptions of their wartime roles are broadly based in fact.

  The writing of this book was inspired (but not based upon) by a real event within my family. On the 24th March 1943, my paternal grandmother gave birth to an illegitimate daughter. My paternal grandfather, serving with the Royal Army Service Corps, was posted to Singapore in January 1942. One month later, following the disastrous Fall of Singapore, he was reported missing in Malaya. My grandmother was notified that he was missing on 14th March 1942. Around the end of June, she met someone—reportedly at a dance—and the result of the liaison was that my grandmother found herself to be pregnant with this man’s baby. She was promptly shipped off by her father to a different county, where she gave birth on the 24th March 1943. Five days later she learnt that my grandfather was alive and in Japanese hands as a prisoner-of-war. Having no choice in the matter, she placed the baby up for adoption, although owing to a mistake on the baby’s birth certificate (my grandmother had declared my then-absent grandfather to be the baby’s father), it took a further eight months for the adoption to go through. My grandfather returned home in 1945 and, as far as anyone in the family is aware, my grandmother never mentioned the baby again, not ever. I discovered that my new aunt existed on the 10th July 2015. Fifteen days later we met for the first time.

  The research for this book has been extensive, with visits to various repositories, archives, museums, memorials and cemeteries. Some of the most useful that I visited were: Bletchley Park, RAF Bentley Priory, The Kent Battle of Britain Museum, The National Memorial to the Few, The Keep and Folkestone Library.

  All of the public-domain records that Morton accesses are real, but with fictitious content and a sometimes speedier service than might be experienced by regular genealogists!

  Among the books
that I found useful in the research and writing of this book were the following:

  Bevan-Jones, M., Pieces of Cake (University of Wales, 2005)

  Clayton, A., The Enemy is Listening (Crécy Books, 1993)

  Escott, B. E., The WAAF (Shire Publications, 2011)

  Humphreys, R. S., Hawkinge 1912-1961 (Meresborough Books, 1981)

  Humphreys, R. S., RAF Hawkinge in Old Photographs (Alan Sutton, 1991)

  Longden, S., Dunkirk, the Men they left behind (Constable, 2008)

  Longmate, N., How we lived then (Arrow Books, 1973)

  McKay, S., The Secret Life of Bletchley Park (Aurum, 2010)

  McKay, S., The Lost World of Bletchley Park (Aurum, 2013)

  Probert, R., Divorced, Bigamist, Bereaved? (Takeaway, 2015)

  Ramsey, W. G., The Battle of Britain Then and Now (Battle of Britain Prints, 1996)

  Ramsey, W. G., The Blitz Then and Now (Battle of Britain Prints, 1987)

  Summers, J., Stranger in the House (Simon and Schuster, 2008)

  Wellum, G., First Light (Penguin, 2009)

  Wyn, K. G., Men of the Battle of Britain (Gliddon, 2015)

  Younghusband, E., One Woman’s War (Candy Jar, 2011)

  Acknowledgments

  As usual, the research, writing and preparation of this book requires the knowledge and expertise of several kind and helpful people.

  My first thanks must go to my newly-discovered and warmly familiar aunt, Pauline Daniels for graciously allowing me to rummage through her paperwork and to share aspects of her story, but mainly for being such a welcoming and lovely lady.

  For their assistance with the WAAF and RAF research aspects of this book, I am indebted to the following people: Dr Ray Solly, Helen Likierman and Julian Hale, Kate Griffiths, Bryan Legate and Geoff Simpson. For putting up with a flurry of badgering questions regarding police procedure and trying not to laugh at my more outlandish scenarios, I am very grateful to Helen Woolven. For their help with the creation of the book cover, I would like to thank Sarah McCalden, Melanie Martin, Jane and Podge Gaskin, Vera and Tony Orsbourne and to Patrick Dengate for bringing everything together in his as-ever superb cover design. For her invaluable proof-reading services and advice, I thank Julia Gibbs. Thank you to the Rye Town Crier, Rex Swain, for agreeing to appear as himself in the book. As always, my thanks go to Robert Bristow for his encouragement and keenness to take part in each of Morton’s adventures.

  Finally, I would like to extend my sincere gratitude to my readers. Your support and enthusiasm for the series has been truly amazing: thank you.

  Although The Forensic Genealogist series can be read in any order, turn the page for Morton Farrier’s next adventure – The Missing Man…

  The Missing Man - Prologue

  24th December 1976, Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, USA

  Velda was numb. The blanket over her shoulders, now heavy from the falling snow, did nothing to stop the acute quivering that rattled through her body. The police tape barricade, vibrating in the icy wind against her hands, had confined her to the street. The swelling congregation behind her—a motley mixture of prying and anxious neighbours and the whole gamut of emergency service personnel—were rendered faceless by the darkness of the night.

  Velda’s eyes followed the thick snakes of white hose that crossed her lawn from the hydrant, into the hands of the firefighters, who were battling the great rasping flames that projected from every window of the house. Her house.

  One of the firefighters—the chief, she assumed—approached her. He was sweating and his face was marked with black blotches. ‘Ma’am—are you sure your husband and daughter are still inside?’

  ‘Yes,’ she heard herself say.

  ‘They couldn’t have slipped out to get something from the grocery store or…?’

  ‘No,’ Velda sobbed. ‘They’re inside. Please find them.’

  The fire chief nodded and turned back towards the house.

  A moment later, without fanfare or warning, the house collapsed. The shocked gasps of her neighbours and the stricken cries of the firefighters on the lawn were lost to the appalling cacophony of metal, brick, wood and glass crumbling together, crescendo-ing into the night sky. A funnel of dense black smoke, peppered with flecks of bright red and orange, clashed in mid-air with the flurrying of falling snow.

  Then, an odd stillness.

  That her house—her home—could be reduced to this pile of indescribable burning debris in front of her shocked her anew.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

  The hermetic seal that had neatly separated past and present had just ruptured spectacularly.

  And now it was all over.

  Somebody touched her shoulder and said something. She turned. It was her son, Jack. Either Velda’s ears were still ringing with the sound of the house disintegrating, or Jack was speaking soundlessly. There was an urgency to his voice.

  Velda tried to reply but a sagging sensation in her heart emanated out under her skin and down into her quivering limbs. Her legs buckled from beneath her and she crumpled helplessly into the snow.

  The Missing Man - Chapter One

  14th August 2016, Boston, Massachusetts, USA

  Morton Farrier was shattered. He looked at his watch: just gone ten in the morning. He and his new wife, Juliette, had arrived at Logan International Airport late last night, following their marriage yesterday in their home town of Rye, England. He yawned. He’d had very little sleep and yet here he was sitting at a digital microfilm reader in Boston Public Library. He stretched and glanced around him. Having managed to navigate his way through busy and noisy corridors, courtyards and vast swathes of uninterrupted bookshelves, Morton now found himself in the genealogy section, tucked behind a partition at the rear of a palatial hall, where only fragmented whispers from the researchers working under green-shaded desk lamps reached the high ceiling above.

  An almost tangible restlessness burrowed into Morton’s insides, rendering him tense and apprehensive. He and Juliette were here on a three-week honeymoon, during which time he had the challenging task of locating his biological father. ‘Come on, hurry up…’ he muttered, looking behind him to the help desk where he had just requested a microfilm copy of the Cape Cod Times for December 1976. The year that was pivotal to his quest. The year that his paternal grandfather had died in a fire. The year that Morton’s father had disappeared, aged twenty, from the face of the earth.

  His notepad was open to a blank page, poised ready. Beneath it were the three letters that had spun his already complicated family tree onto a whole other level. His biological father, having no knowledge that his brief holiday romance in England in January 1974 had resulted in a child, had written to Morton’s biological mother, telling her that he had discovered something from his own father’s past. Something bad. Morton had found the three letters just as they had been when they had left the shores of Massachusetts in 1976; unopened and unread.

  ‘Here you go.’ Morton turned to see the young man from the help desk standing beside him. He placed a boxed microfilm down on the desk. ‘Used one of these before?’

  ‘Yes—a few times.’

  ‘Okay, cool. Well, good luck—come find me if you need any further help.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He pulled the film from the box, threaded it through the machine, then buzzed on until the first edition of the newspaper appeared onscreen. He briefly took in the front page and established that the Cape Cod Times was published daily. He wound the film on until he reached the edition for the December 26th, 1976. And there it was, the headline story. Devastating House Fire. Below it was a large black and white photograph of a burning building. Morton zoomed into the story.

  HYANNIS PORT-Holiday tragedy struck Velda Jacklin’s family when a fire, apparently begun in a Christmas tree, killed her husband and injured her daughter. “She’ll never smile again,” said a close friend who watched the ambulance take the surviving family members to the hospital. The fire broke out at ab
out 7pm on Christmas Eve in the property at the Jacklin family home of 2239 Iyanough Avenue, causing the death of well-known local businessman, Roscoe Jacklin. Firefighters from Hyannis FD and Yarmouth FD were still trying to smother the flames at 10.30am yesterday. When fire units arrived at the Jacklins’ home, they found the three-story wood-frame house ablaze. “Flames were shooting out from all sides of the house,” said Fire Chief Francis J. Boinski. Mrs. Jacklin’s daughter, Alice, remains hospitalized in a satisfactory condition with first-degree burns, lacerations and possible fractures. Four investigators from the state fire marshal’s office have been sifting through the remains of the home to determine the cause of the blaze. “We’re sure it had something to do with the Christmas tree,” Boinski said. “It had been in the home for two weeks and we believe the baseboard heating had dried it to flash-point.” Mrs. Jacklin is being taken care of by a neighbour.

  Morton stared at the screen. Something didn’t add up. He pulled out the third and final letter that his father had written and scanned through the text. They blame me, so I’m staying with a friend from college. He’s lending me everything—I have nothing left. The truth is out, it’s all over. I don’t know what to do. ‘They blame me…’ Morton muttered. He re-read the newspaper story. There had been no mention of his father, Jack, at all. Had he even been home on the night of the fire?

  Morton printed out the entry, then wound slowly through the rest of the newspaper, not expecting to find further mention of his family. Just four pages from the end, he stopped. There, next to his name in the obituaries section, was a photograph of his grandfather. Morton stifled a gasp. Whatever bad thing Morton’s father had discovered from the past, it couldn’t soften the innate satisfaction of seeing his grandfather for the very first time. Roscoe Joseph Jacklin. Morton’s biological grandfather. He adjusted the photo into a close-up and pushed his face nearer to the screen. It was a formal headshot where his grandfather was looking out past the camera with a fixed pose. Unsmiling and serious. He had a strong jawline and short dark hair. Morton placed both hands over the screen, creating a balaclava over his grandfather’s face; the eyes staring back at him were his own. He printed the photograph then read the accompanying description.