The Lost Ancestor (4 page)

Morton began to assimilate his
surroundings, picturing himself here more than one hundred years ago,
consciously removing all traces of modern life.

It was very easy to imagine Friar’s Road
in 1911; but for the addition of a scattering of cars and a couple of
television aerials and satellite dishes, the village was delightfully devoid of
the usual modern street furniture; it even lacked street lighting.  He
turned his attention to the run of attractive stone and brick cottages. 
Number three Friar’s Cottage was the penultimate house in a run of charming
rose-covered properties.  Having only one small window downstairs and one
upstairs, it was among the smallest houses on the street, which Morton knew meant
that the girls would very likely have shared a room prior to Mary’s departure
for service at Blackfriars.  It was little wonder then that Edith was
devastated at her sister’s disappearance.

Morton removed his Nikon camera from his
bag and took several shots of the house, all the while hoping that the owner
wouldn’t spot him and burst out to ask him what he was doing.  It had not
yet happened in his career, but he never really had a clear answer ready as to
what he would say.  He always thought the truth sounded too convoluted or
complicated.  He tucked his camera back into his bag and strolled down the
quiet road.  Traffic visitors to Blackfriars were directed along the main
A259 road to the front entrance, but Morton knew that just past the village primary
school was an unpublicised footpath into the estate.  He was sure that
this was the way which Mary Mercer would have walked to and from work on her
days off.  It had struck Morton as curious when he had first noticed on
the census that she was living at the property, despite only living metres
away.  It was only after he had reflected on the nature of her job as a
housemaid that he understood that her duties would have required her to spend
almost every waking hour in service with only half a day’s leave per week.

He reached a pair of stone pillars just
wide enough to accommodate a standard horse and carriage, then crossed into
Blackfriars.  He walked slowly down the concrete path which bisected a
perfectly manicured lawn.  As the path drew closer to the house, a teasing
glimpse of a purple wisteria-engulfed wing appeared.  He continued as the
house appeared inch by inch in front of him.  When the full magnificence
of Blackfriars came into view, Morton stopped and stared in awe.  Despite
the few members of the public milling about near to the building, he was able
to see the estate through the Edwardian eyes of Mary Mercer.  She too must
have been locked in sheer admiration the first time that she walked this
path.  As he neared the building, he turned back on himself and stared at
the winding path that he had just taken.  Somewhere on that route back to
Friar’s Cottage on Wednesday 12
^th
April 1911, Mary Mercer had
vanished for more than fifty years. 
Where did you go?
Morton
wondered, as he photographed the pathway. 
And why?

Morton slung his camera around his neck
and became absorbed in a growing crowd, steadily moving towards the makeshift
ticket office outside the Blackfriars front door.

Every snippet of conversation emanating
from the queue to enter Blackfriars centred on the television show,
The
Friary,
a popular Sunday night drama about the ‘upstairs downstairs’ lives
of an Edwardian aristocratic family.  Blackfriars was used for the
external shots and some of the ‘upstairs’ filming.  Juliette loved the
programme but Morton took great offence at the historical liberties taken in
the name of entertainment; it was exactly the same for Juliette and police
dramas.  Except now that she was training to be a fully-paid up member of
the police, rather than a PCSO, she was even more sceptical and deriding.

The gap shrank between Morton and the lone
ticket-seller sitting behind a wooden trestle table with an open
cash-box. 
Not the most sophisticated ticket office in the world,
Morton thought, but he knew that a modern day ticket office would look slightly
anachronistic in an Edwardian television drama.

Finally, he reached the front of the queue
and was greeted with a sharp frown from a plump lady with a ruddy complexion
and white curly hair.  Her name badge announced her as ‘Mrs Greenwood’.

‘Welcome to the Blackfriars estate,’ she
said in a voice which told Morton that she had said it a million times before.

‘Morning.’

‘Have you been here before?’ she asked
monotonously.

‘No, first time,’ Morton said.

‘I expect you’re a fan of the show.’

‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Morton said vaguely,
wondering why, yet again, lying was much simpler than telling the truth.

The dreary lady informed him that his
sixteen pounds entrance fee bought him a ticket which was valid for a year, and
a map of the estate.  He additionally purchased a five pounds guide book,
which, from having a quick flick through whilst he handed over his money,
appeared to blend trivia from the show with factual historical
information.  Morton spotted an extract which seemed to be an Edwardian
estate accounts list.  Underneath it was a modern photo of a smartly
dressed, spectacled man in his fifties.  The caption to the photo labelled
him as the Blackfriars archivist, Sidney Mersham.

‘Do you happen to know if Sidney Mersham
is in at all today?’ Morton asked, snatching the opportunity.

The lady frowned.  ‘I don’t know,’
she said, without giving the question a moment’s consideration, before adding,
‘I come in, hang my coat up downstairs, then I’m stuck here for the rest of the
day.’

Morton smiled, hoping that it might
enliven the jaded cashier.  ‘I’m a forensic genealogist and I’m trying to
find out if any staff records exist for the Edwardian period here.  Do you
think there’s anyone I could speak to today?’

The lady sighed.  ‘They’re not keen
on opening up their records to the public,’ she warned, handing him his change.

‘Any chance you could ask for me?’ Morton
pleaded.

She rolled back her sleeve and looked at
her watch.  ‘I’m off on my break shortly.  I’ll see who’s around to
ask.’

‘That would be great, thank you. 
I’ll be in the main house.’  Morton flashed his best smile and made his
way into the grand entrance hall, joining the tail-end of a snaking queue,
penned in by narrow maroon ropes, which separated the public from the ornate
furnishings.  Strategically placed around the room were enlarged stills
taken from
The Friary
, showing the approximate location the actors had
stood in a particular episode of the programme.  Morton would have liked
to get some photographs of the house to help him build an impression of what
life was like here for Mary in 1911, but numerous large signs explicitly banned
it in every language possible.

The line of babbling, excited visitors
wound their way past an officious custodian, who directed them into the grand
saloon.  The two women directly in front of Morton stopped dead.

‘Oh my golly!’ one them said in a thick
southern American accent.  ‘Did you ever seen such a thing?’

‘It’s like I’m in
The Friary
!’ her
friend replied.  ‘Good afternoon, Your Ladyship,’ she added in her best
attempt at an aristocratic British accent.

The first woman turned to Morton. 
‘Would you look at that?  Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?’

He had, but he didn’t like to put a
dampener on their visit.  ‘No, it’s amazing,’ Morton said, trying to sound
more excited than he felt.  He had to agree, though, that the saloon
was
fairly impressive.  The room was long and rectangular with a high, vaulted
ceiling.  Stone gothic arches gave Morton a glimpse of the stream of
visitors being herded through the first floor.

The line continued to move through the
wooden-panelled room with its enormous stone fireplace, where the coats of arms
of five generations of Mansfields were intricately carved.

The saloon opened out onto a large hallway
dominated by a sparkling chandelier and several imposing oil paintings of
long-deceased members of the Mansfield family.  Morton took out his guide
book and took a cursory glance at the information given about some of the
paintings.  The vast majority had been hanging since pre-Edwardian times.

Morton continued through the hallway, past
several out-of-bounds doors until he reached the extensive library.  When
he entered the vast room, he understood why it was described in the guide book
as ‘the jewel in the Blackfriars crown’.  It was one of the largest
private collections of books that Morton had ever seen.  Visitors were
funnelled through the library in a one-way system, giving little time to stop
and take in the splendour of the room.  He looked longingly at the dusty
books, tantalisingly close, yet imprisoned by lines of wire, never to be
touched or read again.  It seemed a tragic waste to Morton that such an
impressive collection of tomes should have been reduced to a mere back-drop for
a Sunday night television drama.

From his peripheral vision, Morton was
aware that he was being pointed at.  He turned to see the lady from the
visitors’ desk smiling and directing a well-groomed man and lady towards him.

‘Morning, I’m Milton Mansfield; this is my
wife, Daphne,’ the man said, in a perfect Etonian voice, as he shook Morton’s
hand.  He looked to be in his late sixties, wearing an expensive-looking
suit and a red bow-tie.

‘Morton Farrier, pleased to meet you,’ he
said, a little dumbfounded that his request to speak to someone about the
family archives had reached the upper echelons of the house.

Daphne Mansfield stepped forward and
offered her hand.  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ she said with a smile.  She
was a good twenty years Milton’s junior with perfect make-up and a short blonde
bob.  ‘You look familiar.  Mr Farrier, did you say?’

‘Yes, that’s right.  I’m a forensic
genealogist…’ Morton was interrupted by a raucous laugh coming from the other
side of the library.  He turned to see one of the Americans taking photos
of the other draped over a life-size cut-out of
The Friary’s
leading
man.

‘Excuse me a moment,’ Daphne said, about
to intercept a pink-lipstick kiss being planted on the cut-out.

‘They love the show over there,’ Milton
said.  ‘So, how can we help you, Mr Farrier?’

‘Well, I’m really after looking at any
staff or household accounts and records which you might have here pertaining to
the period around 1911.  I’m assuming they’re here as there is very little
for Blackfriars at East Sussex Archives,’ Morton said.  To his right, he
noticed that Daphne, mid-way through a polite chastising, was looking at
him.  She cast a doubtful smile in his direction then returned her
attention to the Americans.

Milton nodded enthusiastically. 
‘Yes, all of our records are still kept in-house.  A small fire in 1939
did some damage, but pretty well we’ve got a good collection down there. 
We’ve got an archivist, Sidney Mersham, who oversees it all.  I don’t know
off-hand exactly what we’ve got for the period you’re interested in.  I’m
afraid Sidney is rather busy today, the poor chap’s being hounded by the
writers of
The Friary. 
I’m sure he wouldn’t object to a quick
discussion at another time.’

‘That would be great,’ Morton
replied.  He fished in his jacket pocket and handed over a business
card.  ‘Perhaps Sidney could give me a call?’

‘I’ll pass it on to him right away.’

Daphne, having subdued the Americans,
returned to her husband’s side.  ‘I’ve realised from where I recognise
you.  You’re the one who brought down the Windsor-Sackville family, aren’t
you.’  Her smile had faded, leaving her disapproval etched on her face.

‘That old bunch of crooks!’ Milton said
with an exaggerated guffaw.  ‘That needed doing centuries ago!’

Morton noticed Daphne firmly squeeze her
husband’s arm.  ‘May I ask what it is you’re looking for at Blackfriars,
Mr Farrier?’ she asked.

‘Not
what
I’m looking for—
whom,
’
Morton said, before briefly explaining about the outline of the Mercer Case
.

‘I see,’ Daphne said.  ‘And what is
it that you hope to find among our records?’

‘Anything which might give a clue to her
daily routine here, particularly people she worked with.  I’m working on
the premise that somebody at the time knew what happened to her.’

‘Well, we’ve nothing to hide, unlike the
Windsor-Sackville rogues,’ Milton laughed.  ‘Have a good rummage, you’ve
got your work cut out trying to conduct a missing person’s enquiry more than a
century later.’

Morton smiled.  ‘I’ll find her,’ he
said confidently.  ‘I look forward to hearing from Sidney in due course.’

‘Yes, we’ll let you get back to your
tour.  Enjoy,’ Milton said.

Daphne nodded with a cautious smile and
then threaded her arm through Milton’s and led him from the room.  As soon
as they were out of his earshot, she turned to him and instigated what looked
to Morton like a very animated conversation.  He had a gut feeling that
had Daphne remained in the conversation, he would not have received the
invitation to meet with Sidney and possibly search among their archives; he
hoped that her influence would not now jeopardise his access.