The Lost Ancestor (14 page)

‘Hiya,’ she said, pecking him on the
lips.  ‘Good day?’

‘Hi.  Yeah, it was good thanks—spent
most of it staring at a computer screen.  How was yours?’

Juliette sighed and downed the
water.  ‘More in the classroom—not bad though.  We spent the day
doing role-play.  The supervisors threw various situations at us and we
had to go through it as though we were on the job, deciding whether an
arrestable offence had been committed, or not.’

‘Fish and chips?’ Morton said with a grin.

‘Yeah, I was driving past the Kettle of
Fish and couldn’t resist.’

‘Good—I’m starving.’  Morton sat up
to the island in the centre of the ultra-modern kitchen.  It was this room
which had sold the house to Juliette, which Morton found ironic since she was
such a dreadful cook.

‘Here you go, sir,’ Juliette said,
thrusting a wrapped parcel towards him.

Morton unwrapped the packet and ravenously
tucked into the cod and chips.  ‘Delicious, thanks.’

Juliette nodded her agreement and
smiled. 

‘This arrived today,’ Morton said, pulling
an envelope from its position, tucked behind a magnet on the side of the
fridge.

Juliette wiped her hands on a piece of
kitchen roll and opened the envelope.  ‘Oh, wow!  They’re getting
married.  How lovely.’

It was an invitation to his adoptive
brother Jeremy’s wedding.  The thought of the wedding brought back a
sensation of mild nausea akin to that felt prior to a job interview.  It
had been just a few months ago that Morton’s adoptive father had finally
revealed the truth about Morton’s past.  Believing himself to be on
death’s door, he had revealed that Morton’s Aunty Margaret was in fact his
birth mother, giving him up when he was just a few hours old.  His
adoptive brother, Jeremy, whom he had previously felt little connection with,
was in fact his cousin.  His own flesh and blood.  Following his
father’s near-death experience, Morton had worked to restart his relationship
with his adoptive brother, not easy with Jeremy being in the army and away for
weeks at a time.  And now here he was getting married.  ‘What do you
get for your brother when he’s marrying a man?’

Juliette smiled.  ‘What would you
have got your brother if he was marrying a woman?’

Morton shrugged.  It was a fair
point.

‘You’re not actually bothered about it,
are you?’ Juliette asked with a quizzical look on her face.

‘Course not,’ Morton said.  It was
kind of the truth.  He actually didn’t care at all about his brother’s
sexuality.  He was still feeling a little miffed that he was the last
person in the family to actually find out.  It reminded him of the
feelings that he had had when he was told that he was adopted, that he was the
family’s extra limb, surplus to requirement.  Most of all, however, he was
dreading seeing his Aunty Margaret for the first time since being told that she
was actually his biological mother.  The thought of seeing her made his
stomach lurch. 
What would he say?  What
could
he
say?  Did she even know that he knew their true relationship?

‘Good.’  Juliette picked up another
chip and muttered under her breath, ‘At least he’s getting married.’

Morton rolled his eyes and pretended not
to have heard.  Since very early on in their relationship, Juliette had
wanted to get married.  She wanted the big fairy-tale, white
wedding.  He, though, wanted none of it.  For years, he knew the
block emanated from his past, that he couldn’t give his betrothed a surname
which did not belong to him.  But since discovering that his surname
actually belonged to his mother at the time of his birth, his feelings on the
matter had begun to thaw.

Juliette, not quite willing to accept
Morton’s silence as reluctance to speak about the subject, draped a chip over
the ring finger on her left hand.  ‘What do you think?’

Morton took her hand and kissed the
chip.  ‘Suits you.’  Then he snatched the chip in his mouth and
swallowed it.  ‘Fancy going for a walk after this?’

‘Sure.  We could walk along the river
past the windmill.’

‘Great.’

Morton
watched Juliette leave the house.  He didn’t take his eyes off her as she
climbed into her car and headed down the uneven cobbles before disappearing out
of sight.  He had asked her to text him as soon as she got to work, which
had immediately aroused her suspicions.  ‘What’s up with you?’ she had
asked.

‘Nothing, just want to make sure you’re
okay,’ he had replied.  She had frowned incredulously at him, but let the
matter rest.  He hadn’t told her that, when they had returned home last
night from a walk along the river, a brown A4 envelope had been waiting on the
doormat with his name handwritten on the front.  Thankfully, Juliette had
been in the toilet when he had opened the envelope or else had she seen the
contents, she would have leapt back on duty and turned into police
constable-in-training, Juliette Meade. 

With Juliette gone for the day, Morton
padded up to his study wearing his night boxer shorts and t-shirt.  He
picked up the envelope, which he had hidden below a stack of Mercer Case papers
and withdrew the contents. On the top was a simple note which read, ‘We can all
dig, Morton.’  Next was an incredibly neat, hand-drawn family tree for his
branch of the Farrier tree.  Morton’s name was at the base of an inverted
pyramid, which then split into two for his parents.  Whoever had compiled
this tree hadn’t done their homework.  The parents listed were his
adoptive parents,
not
his biological ones.  At the bottom of the
stack, and most alarming of all to Morton, was a photograph of Juliette taken
yesterday as she queued at the Kettle of Fish chip shop with the words,
‘Juliette Meade, 1975-?’  The threat was made real.  Only one person
had wanted him to stop researching the Mercer family enough to warrant this:
Douglas Catt.

Morton dialled the
Mermaid Inn
. 
‘Hello, I’d like to speak to a guest of yours please, Douglas Catt,’ Morton
said, trying to suppress the anger in his voice.

‘Okay, one second,’ a polite female voice
on the other said.  The line went quiet and Morton was treated to a few
random bars of an unidentifiable piece of music before the voice spoke
again.  ‘Hello.  I’m sorry, but Mr Catt checked out two days ago.’

‘Two days?  Are you sure?’

‘Yes, absolutely.  Sorry.’

‘I don’t suppose he left anything for
Morton Farrier?  A message of any kind?’

There was a small pause and Morton heard
some computer keys being tapped.  ‘No, nothing.  Sorry.’

‘Okay, thank you for your help.’ 
Morton hung up, reflecting on what he had just heard.  Just because he had
checked out, didn’t actually mean that he had returned home. 
He might
well be staying at another hotel,
Morton thought.  He remembered then
that Douglas’s home phone number was in an email sent to him.  Bringing up
his emails on his iPhone, Morton skimmed through until he reached the exchange
between him and Douglas.  He quickly located the correct email and then
dialled Douglas’s home in Bristol.  The phone rang for several seconds before
being picked up.

‘Hello?’

Morton hung up; in hearing that single
word he’d ascertained for certain that the voice on the other end had belonged
to Douglas Catt.  Morton was perplexed. 
If Douglas hadn’t sent
the packet, then who did?

He tucked the contents back into the
envelope and slid it out of sight from Juliette.  He wasn’t sure how or
even
if
to tell her about it.  He didn’t want to worry her
unduly. 
Was it reckless to
not
tell her?  Especially when
the threat was ostensibly aimed at her?

Morton headed downstairs to his en suite
bathroom.  As he showered and the hot powerful water pelted his nape,
Morton allowed his mind to wander around the Mercer Case
.
  It was
often at relaxed times like these that he had his
Eureka!
moments and an
avenue of research which he had previously overlooked might jump out at
him.  However, no such revelatory moments happened today.  He
couldn’t stop his mind from vaulting between seeing Aunty Margaret at Jeremy’s
upcoming wedding or the haunting words written below the image of Juliette in
the chip shop.  By even referring to a possible date of death for
Juliette, the author of the package had, presumably as intended, slid a cold
knife into Morton’s heart.  Allowing his mind to drift without direction
today was not a wise idea.  He switched off the shower, dried himself and
pulled his towel around his midriff.

           
As Morton crossed the hallway, he spotted something at the foot of the stairs
on the doormat.  His heart began to beat faster as he padded down the
stairs, fearful of the contents.  As he drew closer he could see that it
was a small white envelope.  He bent down to pick it up and was relieved
to see the familiar blue stamp of the Office of National Statistics emblazoned
on the front.  Panic over.

Morton tore into it and pulled out Edward
Mercer’s death certificate. 

When
and where died
: 18
^th
May 1911, Blackfriars estate, Winchelsea RD

Name
and surname:
Edward
Mercer

Sex:
Male

Age:
20 years

Occupation:
Footman

Cause
of death:
Accidentally
drowned certified by J. D. Leyden MRCS

Signature,
description and residence of informant:
John William Mercer, father, Old Post Office, Icklesham

When
registered:
24
^th
May 1911

Edward
had drowned little over one month after Mary had vanished.  Morton
reasoned that his death must have compounded the loss already felt in the
Mercer family by Mary’s absence.  He wondered if Edward had died trying to
find her.  Morton knew only too well how wildly unpredictable and
dangerous the nearby River Rother could be.  He looked back at the death
certificate.  It said that Edward had drowned in Winchelsea,
not
Rye.  Morton considered the geology and landscape around Winchelsea; being
situated on a hill, there were no large tracts of water or flowing
rivers. 
How did Edward accidentally drown in a town with no large
areas of water?
Morton wondered.  His curiosity was aroused: he needed
to know more.  He carried the certificate up to his study, then quickly
changed into fresh clothes and prepared his laptop and a bag for a trip to The
Keep—the repository for archives and records pertaining to parishes within the
county of East Sussex.  When he reached his bedroom he saw his phone
screen light up announcing the receipt of a text message.  It was from
Juliette.  ‘
Got to work, Weirdo.  Do I need to text regular
updates?! x
x’  Morton smiled and replied, ‘
Glad you got there
okay.  No need for updates.  Text when you leave! Off to The Keep. xx
’

Morton
arrived at The Keep, situated just on the outskirts of Brighton, and found the
car park pretty well empty.  The archives had thankfully shifted from the
inaccessible and unsuitable building in Lewes to a brand new, purpose built
repository, opened by Her Majesty the Queen.  They had even upgraded their
archive request system to a digital, computer-based one.  At last. 
Morton parked his Mini in a quiet corner, gathered up his belongings and made
his way into the light and airy building. 

‘Morning,’ a jovial receptionist greeted
from behind her semi-circular desk.

‘Morning,’ Morton replied, marching into
the cloakroom area, placing all prohibited items into one of the large grey
lockers.  Carrying just his laptop, notepad, pencil and Edward’s death
certificate, Morton walked through the lobby area with its round wooden tables
and chairs, through a glass door and into the main body of the
repository.  The archive was principally comprised of two main sections:
the Reading Room and the Reference Room. The Reading Room, in which
genealogists and members of the public could come and go freely, housed rows of
large tables on which were sited digital microfilm readers and large computers
giving access to various online resources.  To the side of the room were
rows of tall shelves containing books and photocopies of parish registers
pertaining to East Sussex.  The Reference Room housed several large map
desks and rows of research desks, allowing work with original documents.

Morton walked into the Reading Room and
took a seat in the front row at one of the digital microfilm readers.  His
first avenue of research would be in the local papers in the hope that Edward
Mercer’s death had been reported.  He set down his laptop and other
belongings, switched on the reader then headed to the bank of short metal
filing cabinets, whose drawers were filled with mile upon mile of microfilm
reels.  Morton searched the drawer-edge labels and found
The Sussex
Express
.  Pulling open the drawer, he was greeted by the sight of
dozens of yellow boxes.  Having selected the box which said ‘Jan-Dec
1911’, Morton returned to his desk and loaded the film onto the reader. 
Gone were the old arm-numbing days of hand-winding a whole roll of film; the
entire process could now be conducted using the large, touch-screen computer in
front of him.  Morton pushed the film through on fast-forward, stopping at
regular intervals to check that he hadn’t overshot the relevant month. 
After just a few short bursts, he was at the beginning of May 1911. 
Advancing slowly through the black and white print, he stopped at the Friday 26
^th
May 1911 edition of
The
Sussex Express.
  In its original
form, the paper would have been a broadsheet, jam-packed with stories, adverts
and snippets of county news.  Morton found the section of the newspaper he
was looking for: the part in which the smaller villages and towns of Sussex
told of their parish news.  As he had hoped, in this edition there was a
bold heading for Winchelsea.  Morton placed his fingers on the screen and
splayed them apart to zoom in on the story.

Found
Drowned

This
was the verdict of the Coroner’s jury which inquired into the circumstances of
the death of Edward Mercer, a footman, 20 years of age.  The deceased was
a well-known inhabitant of the Icklesham parish, but having latterly worked at
Blackfriars House in Winchelsea since 1908.  Deceased was only missed a
few hours before his body was found floating in the lake at the aforementioned
property.  It appeared that the deceased had been depressed lately through
the continued absence of his cousin, Mary Mercer, but he had never been heard
to threaten to commit suicide.  Drowning (according to the police surgeon)
was the cause of death.

Morton
was transfixed by the short story.  Edward, feeling depressed, yet not
suicidal, drowned in the Blackfriars lake. 
Could
he
be the
person that Mary ran to in Scotland the day that she was unceremoniously sacked
from Blackfriars? 
Morton pulled out his phone and took a picture of
the screen, recalling his visit to the still waters of the Blackfriars
lake. 
Was it really deep enough to kill a man?
he wondered with
incredulity.  He supposed that any amount of water could drown a man if he
couldn’t swim.  To ensure that there was no further mention of Edward’s
drowning, Morton searched the rest of the newspaper and the adjacent weeks, but
found nothing more.  He rewound the film, put it back into its yellow box
and returned it to the filing cabinet.  Collecting his things, Morton went
to the small help desk.  Unfortunately for Morton, not all the outdated
relics had been left at the old repository: behind the desk sat his arch enemy,
Miss Deirdre Latimer.  Morton had hoped that when The Keep opened, Miss
Latimer would have taken the opportunity to retire.  When he had eagerly
arrived for his very first visit to the new building he was dismayed to see,
among the huge display boards dotted around to celebrate the opening, a picture
of Miss Latimer standing chatting to the Queen.  The worst part for Morton
was that both the Queen
and
Miss Latimer were laughing in the picture,
something in her that he had never witnessed in all his time visiting the
archives.

‘Could I have a username and password for
the computers, please?’ Morton said, dispensing with any attempt at
pleasantries.

Miss Latimer reciprocated their mutual
dislike and didn’t even bother to open her mouth.  She picked up a pre-cut
strip of paper and handed it to him with a surly thrust.

Morton mumbled his inaudible gratitude,
then headed to a computer.  He typed in the username and password, and
then pulled up The Keep search page.  In it, he typed
Blackfriars
,
Winchelsea
. 
Just sixteen original documents were open to the public to do with the
property, owing to the large collection which remained at the house
itself.  Morton slowly moved the mouse down the page, reading the synopsis
for each document.  He passed over land tax documents, sixteenth century
manorial records, aerial photographs of the abbey ruins, a collection of
charcoal drawings and various land registration documents: nothing piqued his
interest.  On the final page, he spotted a document that made him sit
up.  It was for a draft contract of a seven-year lease, rent-free to
Joshua David Leyden in 1911.  Morton clicked the entry. 
Was this
the same Dr Leyden who had signed Edward Mercer’s death certificate? 
Didn’t Edith Mercer marry a man called Leyden? 
It might mean nothing,
but since it was the only document in the right time period, it needed
checking.  Morton clicked ‘Order Now’, grateful that the old systems for
document retrieval had been left behind at the old building and a new, digital
system had been created.  Returning to the main screen, Morton ran a
search for the parish registers of Winchelsea and Icklesham, hoping to find the
location of Edward’s burial.  He ordered two sets of burial registers for
Winchelsea January 1813—October 1934 and November 1934—July 2009.  He also
ordered the Icklesham burial register, December 1874—December 1975.