The Lost Ancestor (5 page)

Morton took one final look around the
library before continuing the tour upstairs past various bedrooms, which were
all well-appointed with full Edwardian splendour and many of which he
recognised from
The Friary.

Having completed the tour of the house,
Morton made his way to the tearoom, which was located in an airy, converted
barn a short distance from the house.  Morton ordered a large latte and
took a seat at a round metallic table.  He sat in a warm shard of
sunlight, which cut through the glass front.  But for an elderly couple
queuing at the till, the tearoom was deserted.  Sipping on his drink,
Morton began to read the Blackfriars guidebook.  He quickly learnt that
the Mansfields had resided here since shortly after the Dissolution of the
Monasteries, when they were gifted the property and the title Earl of Rothborne
from Henry VIII.  At the centre of the guidebook was a pull-out
genealogical chart of the Mansfield family.  The current owner and
title-holder was Milton Francis Mansfield, Earl of Rothborne, who had inherited
the property from his father, George Richard Mansfield.  Morton studied
the chart carefully: during Mary Mercer’s time at Blackfriars, the property was
held by Cecil and Philadelphia Mansfield.  Morton flipped to the index
page and searched for further references to Cecil and Lady Philadelphia;
predictably, there were several, as their tenure at Blackfriars neatly
coincided with the period portrayed in
The Friary. 
Morton went to
the first reference and found a photo of the couple alongside a similar modern
image of the actors playing Lord and Lady Asquith in
The Friary. 
The
accompanying information wove a potted history between the Mansfields and the
Asquiths, largely, it seemed to Morton, where interesting contrasts and
comparisons could be drawn. 

Morton tucked the guidebook away in his
bag, intending to finish reading it later, and left the tearoom to get a better
feel for the whole estate.  He followed the gravel footpath and slowly
meandered through a patchwork of tall pines, low rhododendrons and great
swathes of tidy grass upon which a sprinkling of visitors were
picnicking.  The path turned and opened out onto a large lake in the shape
of a pinched oval.  It was filled with lilypads and bordered by a variety
of plants, flowers and trees whose low-slung branches dangled inches from the
water’s surface.  Morton felt compelled to take a seat on one of several
benches slightly set back from the path facing the water.  He sat and
watched as a small flock of Canada geese pushed off from the water and
elegantly flew off into the distance.  Across the water stood a charming,
evocative and slightly dilapidated boathouse.  The gabled, wooden
structure gave Morton the impression of an ancient church, swallowed up by the
murky depths, leaving only the peak still visible.  He guessed that the
boathouse was once used by the Mansfields to access a tall cylindrical stone
building situated on a small island in the centre of the lake.  The
building had no windows, only an arched wooden door.  Curious to know more
about the strange building, Morton opened his guidebook and read that the tower
was a folly, serving no useful purpose.  Inside, a metal staircase rose to
the top, giving an unobstructed view of the formal rose gardens and Koi fish
pond further down the estate.  It had been built in the 1850s and so was
certainly here during Mary’s time as a housemaid.

Morton continued his journey around the
periphery of the lake, sauntering slowly and enjoying the fresh air and warmth
from the hot sun.  The path took him past a Victorian heather-covered
ice-house and into the orchard, which contained an array of traditional English
apple, pear and plum trees.  Close to the path by which he had entered
Blackfriars were the ruins of the oldest part of the abbey.  The guidebook
informed him that it was the ruins of a thirteenth century Franciscan
chapel.  Morton entered the ruins—just two stone walls and two arches were
all that remained.  With little else to see, Morton made his way back to
the main path to leave.  The quickest route back to the car would be the
back path which he had taken to get here, but Morton decided to leave via the
front entrance, just to get a different perspective on the estate.

The main road into Blackfriars was heaving
with cars, coaches and pedestrians, such was the popularity of
The Friary;
Morton,
the only person heading in the opposite direction, was like a determined
salmon, fighting its way upstream.  Finally, he reached the main road,
Monk’s Walk, and turned right towards the church.

Winchelsea church, dedicated to St Thomas
the Martyr, had always seemed out of keeping to Morton, incongruous in the
small town, as it was originally built to cathedral proportions.  Only the
chancel of the original church still existed, following years of ravaging raids
by the French and Spanish.  Like most of the town, the church sat in a
neat square parcel of land.  As Morton entered the churchyard, a cool
breeze rose around the monstrous church buttresses.  He pulled on his
jumper and began to search the churchyard for the Mercer family grave.

Despite knowing the age of the graves for
which he was searching, Morton still conducted a meticulous search, intending
to log any instances where the Mercer name cropped up.  In the event,
there was only one grave with that name.  After fifteen minutes of searching,
he found it on the south-east side of the church.  Weathered grey with
spots of orange lichen, the grave was slightly tilted, but otherwise legible
and in good condition.

Morton took several photographs of the
grave and also jotted down the inscription. 
In loving memory of
Katherine Mercer, born 2
^nd
March 1870, died 8
^th
December
1932.  A wonderful mother and wife.  Also, Thomas Mercer, husband of
the above, born 21
^st
April 1870, died 1
^st
November
1938. 
A small open book made of stone had been added to the grave and
summarised the life of one of their daughters:
Edith Leyden (née Mercer)
1893-1962.

Here they were, a small splinter of their
fractured family, gone to the grave with no knowledge of Mary’s
whereabouts.  Morton’s thoughts turned to what Ray had told him about Mary
returning for her sister’s funeral.  She had stood here, on this very spot
in 1962.  He wondered if that had been her first visit to Winchelsea since
1911. 
What kept you away, Mary?
Morton thought to himself,
wrangling with the seemingly unanswerable question. 
Why did you only
come back when all of your family were dead and buried? 
Morton’s gaze
turned to the enormous church but his mind was firmly on Mary.  She had
disappeared without trace in 1911, never showing up again on official documents.
 
The most obvious and likely scenario was that she had changed her
name.  The chances of her
legally
changing her name and leaving a
paper trail were not likely but still needed investigating.  Morton knew
that it was perfectly legal to change your name without registering the fact,
so long as it was not for illegal purposes.  He knew that the records were
not online or even digitised as yet; it would require a personal visit to the
National Archives at Kew or the use of a paid researcher.

He took one last look at the grave, then
made his way across the diagonal path in the clawed shadow of the church until
he reached his car on Friar’s Road.  Morton opened the Mini, climbed in
but did not fire it up.  Instead, he sat in the peace of the town, allowing
his mind to sew and weave a mental collage of the case.  It had always
helped Morton to visualise his cases, to bring them to life from the bare
boring bones of names and dates.  The tapestry in his mind contained the
sepia picture of Mary and Edith as children, 3 Friar’s Cottage, Blackfriars and
the churchyard.  The answer to the disappearance of Mary Mercer was woven
somewhere into the fabric of this.

Within
an hour, Morton had arrived home and sent a research request to the National
Archives to search among the indexes of J18—name changes 1903-2003.  He
had considered visiting the archives in person but with currently only one
research avenue to pursue there, the twenty pound search fee per fifteen
minutes seemed a better option.  He had poured himself a large glass of
red wine and then set about the task of making his and Juliette’s dinner. 
Although he had officially stopped work for the day, the case was always being
worked on in the back of his mind, as new avenues and ideas were produced.

Juliette arrived home just before six
o’clock.  ‘Wine,’ she said, strolling into the kitchen and kissing Morton
on the lips.

Morton pointed to the glass waiting on the
worktop.  ‘And how was the Initial Police Learning and Development
Programme today?’ he teased.  Juliette was in phase three of a four-phase
training programme to become a police officer and, despite the odd moan and
groan, she was loving it.  She was born to do it.  Juliette kicked
off her boots and perched herself at the kitchen table.

‘After having a few brilliant days of
supervised patrol with the guys from Ashford, today we were back in the
classroom at Maidstone. 
Class-based learning.
  Hence the need
for wine.  I just don’t take it in very well coming from a textbook or the
ancient ex-police wheeled in from retirement to share anecdotes.  I want
to be out on the streets, learning from real life.’

‘It won’t be long,’ Morton reminded her,
as he dished up their dinner and carried it over to the table.

‘Thanks—looks lovely.  How was your
day?’ 

‘Not bad,’ Morton said, relaying the main
highlights of his day.  After more than two years together, Morton could
now gauge the very thin line of giving just the right bullet-pointed amount of
detail about his day before her eyes glazed over and he lost her.  He
almost crossed the line when he told her that he had hired a researcher at the
National Archives to search the records of the Supreme Court of Judicature,
then hastily added ‘Name change records.’  Ever since his last
high-profile case, which involved a great deal of illegal activity on his part,
she had demanded to know his every move.  Now that she was training to
become a police officer, she insisted that he
always
stayed on the right
side of the law.

‘I think we’ve got an episode of
The
Friary
in the Sky planner to watch.  Fancy it after dinner?’ she
asked.

Morton couldn’t tell if she was joking of
not.  ‘Only if we can follow it with an episode of
The Bill
.’

Juliette smirked.  ‘A film it is,
then.’

‘Perfect.  Cheers.’

Under
the focussed light from a desk lamp, a man methodically searched, read and
printed every page on Morton Farrier’s Forensic Genealogist website.  With
a thirsty concentration, he pored over the printed papers, absorbing and
digesting every word.  Then he ran a Google search, pulling up pictures
and quotes from Morton’s past cases.  Opening up a new tab in his browser,
he logged into a family history website and used some of Morton’s own tricks to
find out everything about him, including where he lived and with whom. 
With some difficulty, owing to two bound, broken fingers, the man scooped up
all the papers and pushed them into a manila envelope.  ‘Morton Farrier,
I’m coming for you,’ he breathed.

Tuesday
3
^rd
January 1911

Mary
Mercer’s alarm clock sent its shrill tones into the silent room.  She
switched it off and sat up in bed.  From the other side of their small
shared bedroom, Edie emitted a protracted and irritated sigh.  Mary had
slept very little, the weight of her decision to steal her sister’s coveted job
preventing her mind from succumbing to sleep.  When the two sisters had
reconvened in the Blackfriars kitchen, Mary had been assured by Lady Rothborne
that the housemaid’s job would be hers.  She had waited for Edith with her
eyes fixed to the floor.  Minutes took hours to pass, until she finally
arrived.  Seventeen years without separation had told Mary everything that
she needed to know from her twin’s face: Edie already knew that she had lost
the job to her sister.

‘Edie!  Wait!’ Mary had cried, as she
had bolted through the kitchen door into the blustery Winchelsea snowstorm.

A hand had grabbed Mary by the wrist and
prevented her from following.  Mary had twisted around to see Mrs Cuff, a
polite yet forceful look on her face.  ‘Let her go.  She’ll just need
some time.’

Mary had given her sister time; she had
walked back home so slowly that the freezing air had penetrated through her
coat, deep into her very core so that her skin was pink and prickly. 
Silently, she had headed straight to her room, like a scolded puppy.  She
had lit the fire, tucked herself under layers of woollen blankets and remained
there until bedtime.  Such was the weight of her guilt, she could not even
bring herself to read the pristine copy of
Four Sisters
, given to her by
Lady Rothborne, which she had stared at on her bedside table.  It was the
first time in her life that Mary had really stood in defiance of Edie, having
never previously had the courage.  Her heart was heavy and she was filled with
remorse for the way that it had happened, yet underneath it all, she stood by
her decision. 
Why should Edie always get everything handed to her on a
plate?  It was high time that she learnt to be in someone else’s shadow
for once.

Her father and mother had visited Mary on
separate occasions last night.  Soon after she had arrived home, her
father’s explosive diatribe blasted the air.  ‘What do you think you’re
playing at, my girl?  That job was Edie’s, not yours.  You was only
going to keep her company.  She’s devastated.’  Her father’s
canine-like face had moved closer to hers.  ‘What have you got to say for
yourself, Mary?’

The blankets on Mary’s shoulders had moved
fractionally with her shrug, as she watched bubbles of angry spittle forming at
the corner of her father’s mouth.

‘Answer me!’ he had bellowed, loudly
enough to wake the dead in St Thomas’s churchyard.

‘Lady Rothborne said I would be perfect
for the job, so I took it,’ Mary had said meekly.

‘Perfect on what grounds?’ he had
seethed.  ‘I ask you… those stuck up idiots, they don’t know
nothing.  A housemaid, Mary… you can’t even keep your own room tidy. 
You can’t make beds, sweep room after room and clean fire grates.’

Mary had drawn in a big lungful of air and
risen from the bed, like a caged lion being taunted through the bars.  She
had levelled with her father.  ‘Those things can be taught, Father. 
I’ll learn them in a matter of minutes.  How hard can it be to put some
blankets on a bed or push a broom around?  Have you ever thought that maybe
I got the job on my personality?  That Lady Rothborne thinks of me as the
right calibre for Blackfriars?  Did it ever occur to you that your
precious Edie might not have been right for the job?’

Her father had laughed in mock indignation
then slapped Mary hard across the face, sending her tumbling backwards onto her
bed.  ‘My goodness, girl.  I don’t even recognise my own daughter
stood in front of me.  You’re deluded if you think you’re one of
them. 
Calibre
?  That a word your Lady Rothborne friend taught
you, is it?’

Mary had yelped in pain and clutched at
her face, determined not to cry.  ‘You said I needed to get a job, to pay
my own way…’  Mary’s voice trailed off, having nothing left to add.

‘Not Edith’s job!  That was meant for
her.  It’s a disgraceful way to treat your sister.  What’s she ever
done to you?’ her father had seethed.

Mary could have listed a thousand times
that Edie had taken precedence over her, got her own way and been treated more
favourably, but she chose to say nothing. 

‘Disgusting behaviour,’ were her father’s
parting words before he had slammed the door shut; the roaring fire in the
grate had responded by scattering a fiery burst of orange ash into the room.

Some time later, her mother had quietly
pushed open the bedroom door.  ‘Are you awake, Mary?’ she had asked.

Mary, wide awake but with a blanket pulled
over her head, couldn’t tell from her mother’s expressionless tone how she was
going to act towards her.  In past family quarrels, her mother’s default
position was to sit back in quiet but steadfast support of her husband. 
Very rarely had she opposed him in an argument because, when it happened, the
ill after-effects were felt in the Mercer household for days or even sometimes
weeks on end.

‘Mary,’ her mother had said more loudly.

Mary pulled down the blanket and had
hardened herself in readiness for another scolding.  ‘Come on then, get it
over with.’

Her mother had perched herself down on the
edge of the bed and taken Mary’s left hand in hers.  ‘Look at me, Mary.’

It was a polite request, not an order, so
Mary had looked at her mother and waited for the tirade to begin.

‘No, I mean
really
look at
me.  Look at my face.’  She had paused, allowing time for Mary’s eyes
to study the features.  ‘I’m forty-one, yet when I look in the mirror, an
old haggard woman stares back at me.  I’ve done domestic work all my
life.  The job of a third housemaid is jolly hard.  It’s
relentless.  I watched domestic service slowly kill my own mother and
vowed that my three girls wouldn’t be taken by it.  It’s a poison,
Mary.  They may seem like a lovely lot, but they’re not cut from the same
cloth as us.  They don’t care about the likes of you.  Once you put
that uniform on, you belong to them.  They’ll take everything from you
until you’ve nothing left to give, then they’ll send you to the Rye workhouse
where you’ll wait for humiliation and shame to take you to a pauper’s grave,
just like what happened with your gran.  The same will happen to me if
your father goes first.’

Mary had been staggered by her mother’s
beseeching outpouring.  Stories of the workhouse had always haunted and
terrified her.  ‘If that’s true, then why did you send Edie to work
there?  Why’s it okay for her and not me?’

Her mother’s face had scrunched slightly,
revealing deep-cut wrinkles and lines around her eyes.  She was right;
domestic service
had
worn and jaded her.  ‘It’s what Edie’s always
wanted.  Her whole life, she wanted it and I thought that if that’s what
she wanted, then she can jolly well be the best she can and climb up the ranks
to be a housekeeper—at least they’re treated and paid better.  I’ve
prepared her for that life.’  Her mother’s voice had softened.  ‘But
you, Mary—you’re better than that.  Like Caroline, you could be more than
an old laundry maid like me.  You always talked of travelling and getting
a decent education.  What’s suddenly changed?’

 ‘Maybe I’ve just grown up,’ Mary had
replied.  Then she had considered her words against the truth of taking a job
because she might one day get the chance to run away with Lord Rothborne and in
the meantime she had a library full of books to keep her entertained: she was
anything but grown up.  She was a silly, immature
girl.
 Mary
had suddenly burst into tears.

‘It’s okay,’ her mother had said, pulling
Mary into a comforting embrace.  ‘It’ll work itself out.  Something
else will come along for poor Edie.  Maybe even another job at
Blackfriars.’

Through her watery eyes, Mary had thought
that she noticed a shadow move from outside her bedroom door: someone had been
listening.

The
fire in the tiny bedroom hearth was long since dead: all that remained of it
now was a handful of unburnt wood and a pile of black and white ash.  Mary
pulled a blanket around her shoulders and opened the curtains.  A glimmer
of moonlight peered in through the window, tinting the room with fine white
edges.  The snow had continued to fall overnight: a new spotless carpet of
powder had covered the streets.  She needed to wrap up warm, even for the
short journey to Blackfriars.  She was told by Mrs Cuff to start promptly
today at six-thirty, which meant packing a suitcase and preparing to live
in.  Mary caught her ghostly reflection in the window and remembered what
her mother had told her about life in service and how it would take everything
and leave nothing unless she worked hard and rose through the ranks of the
staff. 
It is time to grow up, Miss Mary Mercer. Stop those silly
fantasies and dreams of grandeur.  You’re a servant now.  Prove that
you can do it.

Mary took a deep breath of cold courage
and began to get dressed.  Once she had pulled on sufficient layers to
stop herself from shivering, she took a battered brown suitcase out from under
her bed and began to fill it.  She tiptoed around the room as quickly and
quietly as possible, but she knew the creaking floorboards and groaning chest
of drawers must have woken Edie a long time ago.  Yet Edie did not
move.  She kept her back to the room, with sheets and blankets held
tightly up to her ears.

Her suitcase filled, Mary made her way out
of the bedroom.  She paused before closing the door and looked at her twin
sister. 
It’s now or never, Mary,
she told herself. 
Say
something to Edie.  Apologise.  Make amends. 
Yet no words
came from either sister.  Indignant, Mary pushed the door closed and crept
downstairs to the front door.  As she slid back the metal bolts on the
front door, the sound of a chair creaking came from the sitting-room. 
Mary turned to see her mother standing in the haunting light of a muted
lamp.  Her eyes were swollen and red.

‘Mary,’ her mother said softly.  She
opened her arms and pulled Mary in tightly.

‘Mother, I’m only going a quarter of a
mile down the road!  I’ll be back next week.’

Her mother released her and smiled as
tears streamed down her cheeks.  ‘Goodbye, love.’

Mary kissed her mother on the cheek. 
‘Bye.’  She turned, tugged open the heavy-set door and stepped out into
the freezing darkness.

Through the upstairs bedroom window, Edith
watched her sister trudge towards Blackfriars, her wild red hair contrasting
with the bright white snow.  Then she was gone.

Mary
arrived at the back entrance to Blackfriars, expecting to be greeted by the
warm smile of Mrs Cuff.  Instead, she came face to face with the ugly
scowl of Monsieur Bastion.  ‘
Quoi
?’ he barked.

Sweeping back her windswept hair, Mary
stepped confidently into the kitchen, pushing past the fat Frenchman.  ‘My
name is Mary Mercer, and I am the new third housemaid at Blackfriars. 
Where will I find Mrs Cuff?’

Monsieur Bastion grunted an
incomprehensible reply and raised his hands in disgust.

‘I’ll take you to her,’ said a diminutive
girl wearing the full black and white uniform of a domestic servant.  She
approached Mary and smiled.  ‘My name’s Clara.  I’m second housemaid
here.  Mrs Cuff said I was to show you the ropes.’

‘Nice to meet you, I’m Mary Mercer.’

Clara smiled.  ‘Follow me and I’ll
take you to our bedroom.’

Mary received a reproving scowl from
Monsieur Bastion as she followed Clara out of the kitchen.  She led Mary
along the narrow dimly-lit corridor until they reached a flight of wooden
stairs.

‘They go on for an eternity,’ Clara said
with a small giggle.  ‘Prepare yourself—there are ninety-six of them—I
counted once.’

Each time the steps levelled out, Mary
tried to get her bearings, but failed before they were off again. 
Finally, when the stairs terminated at a roof pitch so steep that she had to
duck down to enter the corridor, Mary realised that they were in the attic and
had entirely bypassed the main sections of the house.

‘This is where the female staff sleep,’
Clara explained.  ‘This one’s ours,’ she said, pointing to the second door
of eight along the corridor.  Clara led them into a room which reminded
Mary of her own bedroom.  Two single beds, set and perfectly made,
dominated the small room.  Between the two beds were a pair of wooden
bedside tables.  A thin wardrobe next to the door completed the
room.  Clara must have noticed the look on Mary’s face.  ‘It’s a bit
bare but it’s comfortable enough.’

‘It’ll be fine, I’m sure,’ Mary said,
setting down her case.  ‘Which bed’s mine?’

Clara pointed to the bed which Mary had
hoped would not be hers; it was the furthest from the fire and underneath the
window.  Mary lay her suitcase on the bed and popped open the brass
clasps.  ‘Want to help me unpack?’

Clara winced apologetically.  ‘No
time, I’m afraid.  We need to be downstairs to start work at six-thirty
sharp.’