The Lost Ancestor (28 page)

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.

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 8
^th
November that year.  Her
leaving date was noted as the 18
^th
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 1
^st
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 26
^th
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.

Morton carried the register back to the
help desk, returned it to Max and was then issued with the log book for the
school.  It was an A5-sized, leather-bound book that retained the typical
musty smell of such an old document.  He could spend hours poring over
such wonderful embodiments of history, but knew that he needed to prioritise
his searching to the relevant time period.  Sitting back at his work
station, Morton opened the ledger and flipped to 1896.  The book was a
day-by-day account of the comings and goings of school life, recorded by the
headmaster, Mr P. Vaughn.  Morton read the entries with keen historical
interest.  Despite their lack of direct connection to the Mercer Case
,
it painted an interesting and colourful picture of Mary and Edith’s early life.

25
^th
January 1896

No
fewer than 9 children have left the school lately, their parents being obliged
to leave the village in search of employment.  The children, who have
left, were among the best in their various standards.

2
^nd
February 1896

Police
Constable Groves came this morning about some boys using catapults &
damaging the church clock.  They were cautioned and their instruments
taken away.

4
^th
May 1896

Average
lower than last week, owing to the "measles" having broken out
afresh, and amongst the elder children.  It has hitherto been confined to
the outskirts of the village—now it is in the midst of us.

15
^th
October 1896

School
routine resumed as usual though the holidays have been lengthened owing to the
delay in picking, caused by rains, the school was not fully attended.

19
^th
January 1897

No
more than
6
children presented themselves…

30
^th
May 1897

The
attendance is very thin indeed.  The children are employed with their
parents in the hop gardens—knitting discontinued.

25
^th
November 1898

Four boys away "beating" for Lord
Rothborne. Anything seems to be allowed in this village…

23
^rd
January 1901

Gave
a short lesson on the death of our beloved Queen, who peacefully passed away on
Tuesday evening at 6.30 in the year 1901 at Osbourne House, Isle of Wight.