The Lost Ancestor (9 page)

‘Well, I don’t like her like
that
,’
he said.  ‘But you…’ His voice trailed off into the quiet of the ruins,
then he leant in and kissed her again.

Mary allowed his warm lips to rest on
hers.  Neither of them spoke.  Neither of them moved.

Edward gently lay her down in the grass,
his lips moving from her mouth to her neck, his hands exploring increasingly
intimate areas of her body.

Mary exhaled, closed her eyes and gave
herself to him, as reveries of Cecil and realities of Edward collided in her
mind.

It
took Morton less than thirty seconds to close his front door and arrive at the
Mermaid
Inn
, almost dead opposite his house.  Without a shadow of a doubt, it
was the shortest distance that he had ever had to travel to work on a
case.  In ten minutes’ time he was due to meet with Douglas Catt, son of
Victor Reginald, grandson of Caroline, great-nephew of the illusive Mary Mercer. 
Morton and Douglas had exchanged a small flurry of emails which had resulted in
Douglas and his wife, Susan’s impromptu visit to Rye for a short break. 
Morton bounced up the brick steps past a sign which announced ‘The Mermaid,
rebuilt 1420’ and entered the Virginia-creeper-smothered building.  It was
another big draw for the tourists, coming as it did with the medieval exposed
black beams and white wattle and daub walls, crooked floors and a plethora of
ghost and smuggler stories.  Inside, Morton headed to the lounge bar and
took a cursory glance around.  The occupants—two men, whose outfits
suggested that they were builders, and a young couple with a baby—did not fit
the bill for Douglas and Susan.  He headed to the bar and received a
welcoming smile from a petite brunette with excessive eye make-up.  She
looked like she should either be on stage or on the streets.

‘Hi,’ Morton said.  ‘I’m due to meet
Douglas and Susan Catt; they’re guests here.  Is it okay if I wait for
them to arrive?’

‘By all means, please take a seat,’ she
said.

Morton thanked her, chose a seat by the
window and produced his notepad and pen.  While he waited, he reviewed the
notes that he had made on the case so far.  Starting at the beginning of
the pad at his meeting with Ray Mercer and working his way forward, Morton
familiarised himself with each step of the Mercer case
. 
It was the
printed equivalent of an animated flipbook: each page adding or changing the
story slightly.  He reached the last page with writing on it, where he had
scribbled the response from the National Archives that he had received this
morning, concerning a legal name-change: rather predictably, Mary Mercer had
not
legally changed her name.  It still didn’t rule out an unofficial name
change, however.  Morton had also noted the bones of a phone conversation
with the Blackfriars archivist, Sidney Mersham, who had called yesterday to
discuss Morton’s interest.  He had sounded affable enough and agreed to
allow Morton access to the archives this afternoon.

 Behind him, Morton heard the
mutterings of a conversation between a woman and a man.  He turned to see
a middle-aged couple tentatively looking his way.  They fitted the profile
for the Catts.  Morton stood.  ‘Hi.  Douglas and Susan, by any
chance?’ he ventured with a polite smile.

Douglas marched over and thrust his hand
into Morton’s.  He was of average build but with a rather large pot belly
which pushed and stretched the front of his navy-blue t-shirt.  His hair
was dyed a peculiar shade of brown, swept dramatically over in a
side-parting.  He was definitely a golf-playing, football-watching man’s
man.  ‘Guilty as charged!  This is my better half, Susan.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Susan said, placing
her hand delicately into Morton’s, as though it were made of fine porcelain. 
The hands of a fine artist or a pianist,
Morton thought.  She was a
thin, fragile creature who looked to Morton like she needed a good meal inside
her.

‘Lovely to meet you,’ Morton agreed.

‘Right, drinks.  Is it too early for
a Scotch, dear?’ Douglas asked with a grin, which revealed gleaming white,
cosmetically enhanced, perfect teeth.

‘Doug!’ Susan said in a quiet voice. 
‘It’s barely mid-morning—coffee time.  Honestly.  Sorry, Morton.’

Douglas pulled a mock-incredulous face at
Morton, then smiled at Susan.  ‘Yes, dear.  Whatever you say,
dear.  What about you, Morton?’

‘Just a coffee will be fine.  Latte,
if they have it.’

‘Right-o.’

Douglas turned to the brunette barmaid and
ordered the drinks.

‘Take a seat,’ Morton said to Susan. 
‘How’s the hotel?’

‘Oh, it’s just beautiful.  Our
bedroom is magnificent.  Four-poster bed, beautifully carved
furniture.  Amazing,’ Susan said.  ‘I suppose, since you live nearby,
you’ve never had the need to stay?’

‘No, maybe one day we’ll take a holiday
over here,’ Morton said with a grin.  ‘It would certainly keep the travel
costs down.’

‘It really would,’ Susan agreed.

 Douglas arrived back at the
table.  ‘Three lattes coming right up!  Maybe if the good lady wife
permits it, we can follow it with a Scotch or two later,’ he said, playfully
nudging his elbow at Morton.

‘Bit too early for me, I’m afraid.’ 
Morton smiled and reached down for his notepad and pen.  Pleasantries
over, it was time to start angling the conversation towards the Mercer
Case.  ‘Well, I’m really pleased that you were able to come down this way
and meet up like this; it could help a lot with this case I’m working on.’

‘No problem at all,’ Douglas said. 
‘We don’t need much of an excuse for a weekend away, do we, dear?’

‘Especially not somewhere so beautiful,’
Susan said meekly.

‘To be honest, I’m pretty well retired now
anyway.’

‘Ironmongery still doing well, is it?’
Morton asked, somewhat surprised to hear of a traditional shop doing so well
against the big supermarkets and online retailers.

Douglas laughed.  ‘Oh, not that—my
brother makes a couple of quid from that—I’ve been in stocks and shares since
the early nineties.’

Susan gently tapped Douglas on the
leg.  ‘We haven’t come here to talk about that, Doug.’

‘Sorry, fire away,’ Douglas said, pulling
a mock-reprimanded face.

Morton picked up his pen, then posed his
first direct question: ‘What do you know about Mary Mercer?’

Douglas drew in a long breath. 
‘Well, obviously I’ve not got a
personal
memory of her!  I might
look old but I’m not so ancient that I actually recall her.  Everything
that I know comes from family lore.  I think there was some kind of a
family bust-up so our side down in Bristol haven't really kept in touch with
the rest of the family.’

‘What were you told about what happened to
Mary?’ Morton probed.

‘Basically, from our position outside
looking in, Mary was driven away from Winchelsea.  Either she got into a
row at home or work, I don’t know which, then decided to up sticks and
leave.  She went to Scotland to get some peace and never returned. 
Simple really.’

‘And, as far as you know, she never came
to visit your grandmother, Caroline, or made contact at all?’

‘No,’ Douglas said assuredly. 
‘Never.  Mary was always the odd one out in the family, bit of a
loner.  She didn’t really bond with either of her sisters.  From what
my mum had said to me over the years, it would have been really out of
character for her to have suddenly made contact with our side again after she
left.’

‘That’s a bit strange, wouldn’t you say?’
Morton said.  ‘To just up and leave and never return.  That must have
been some huge argument.’

‘But it’s only unusual because of the type
of people we are, Morton.  I mean, I know my old ball and chain is a bit
of a handful at times, but I couldn’t leave her,’ Douglas said, smiling
playfully at Susan.  ‘But that’s because of the type of person I am. 
I expect you couldn’t leave your girlfriend either.  Mary wasn’t like us,
though.  As I said, she was the odd one out: a loner.’

Morton smiled but wasn’t convinced. 
Every family had its share of trials and tribulations, but, to his mind, it
would take one cataclysmic event for anyone to voluntarily disappear and never
make contact with
anyone
in the family ever again.  ‘Do you know if
anyone on your side ever tried to find her?’ he asked, taking a mouthful of his
latte.

‘I wouldn’t know for certain; I would
imagine so.  My mum spoke of her on and off over the years but I don’t
think
she
was very minded to try and track her down—she’d not ever met
her.  I think they just respected the fact that she didn’t want to be
found.’

‘It would be nice to know what happened to
poor Mary,’ Susan said quietly.

Morton looked at Douglas’s ambivalent
face.  He clearly didn’t share his wife’s interest.  Either Douglas
was helping keep a family secret well concealed, or he actually didn’t care at
all about what happened to Mary Mercer.  The fact that he had so willingly
dropped everything to make the trip to Rye, suggested to Morton that Douglas
might be more interested than he was letting on.  It was a long way to
come, even if you were semi-retired and in need of a short break.

Douglas sipped his drink and cast a look
to Morton.  ‘Look, nothing personal to you, Morton but I’m not quite sure
why Ray’s so hell-bent on finding someone who,
whatever
the
circumstances, is now dead.  What does he think he’ll do if you do find
out what happened to her?  I mean, come on, talk about overkill!’

‘I think…’ Morton began, searching for a
diplomatic answer which didn’t reveal Ray’s terminal illness, ‘that he feels
he’s getting on a bit now and just wants to know where she is.  Lay
flowers at her grave, that kind of closure.  He was close to his
grandmother, Edith, who in turn was close to her twin, Mary.  I think he feels
he owes it to Edith somehow.’ 

‘But he never even knew her!  That’s
what makes me laugh; he’s acting like she was his sister.’  For the first
time, Douglas’s face turned serious.  ‘I tell you what, from what Mum and
Dad said,
that
side of the family know more than they’re letting
on. 
A lot
more.’

Morton set his mug down and looked
up.  ‘What do you mean?’

Douglas received something resembling a
warning look from Susan and seemed to calm visibly.  He smiled.  ‘I
suppose I just mean that over the years for some reason, whether through their
own guilt or what, they’ve played around with the truth of the matter.  I
expect you’ve heard this old fanciful tale that Mary came back for her twin’s
funeral and left a locket on her grave?  It’s all nonsense.  Romantic
poppycock to tie up the story.’

 Morton was unsure of how to take the
new serious tone of the conversation.  Douglas, clearly nettled with red
cheeks and a furrowed brow, received a reassuring look from Susan.

Susan shifted uncomfortably in her seat,
then began to forage in her handbag, which Morton presumed to be her exit
strategy from the sticky conversation.  A slightly uncomfortable silence
lingered in the air between them, which Morton was about to break when he saw
Susan pull something from her handbag and hand it to Douglas.  Addressing
Morton with a polite smile, she said: ‘She clearly didn’t want to be found.’

Douglas took the small white envelope from
Susan and passed it to Morton.  ‘Take a look at that.’

Morton turned the envelope over in his
hands.  It was addressed to Mr and Mrs Mercer, 3 Friar’s Cottages,
Winchelsea, Sussex.  He recognised the writing instantly: it was a letter
from Mary. The pen pressure, the size and stroke all unequivocally matched the
note left on Edith’s grave and the name and address inside the book.  The
envelope, off-white and mottled with light brown patches, had a red penny stamp
in the top right corner and bore a smudged, black postmark, dated 17
^th
April 1911.  The word
Scotland
was smeared but just about legible.

Morton felt a surge of excitement fire
through his veins as he carefully withdrew the letter through the neat incision
made by a sharp letter opener.  As he withdrew the letter under the
watchful eyes of Douglas and Susan, Morton caught the signature. 
Your
loving daughter, Mary.
  The letter existed.  Morton unfolded the
time-stained and creased letter, holding it so gently in his hands that he
could barely feel it.  He began to read. 
Dear Mother and Father
,
It is with great sadness and shame that I write you this letter.  I
have behaved and acted in an unforgivable manner, which, if you were to learn
of the whole matter, would bring embarrassment to the Mercer name.  Please
know that in taking on the role of housemaid at Blackfriars, I only wanted to earn
your love and respect.  In this, I have failed and ask that you respect my
decision to leave Winchelsea.  I hope to start a new life in Scotland,
where I may be disconnected from the life and pains of Mary Mercer.  I
pray that I will one day receive your forgiveness.  Your loving daughter,
Mary.

Morton finished reading and looked
up.  The self-satisfied look on both Douglas and Susan’s face told Morton
that they believed they had just laid down a winning hand.

‘Case closed,’ Douglas said arrogantly.

It was anything but case closed
, Morton thought, becoming slightly riled
by the conceited couple.  Morton rubbed his chin and cast his eyes over
the letter again.  ‘How did you come by this letter?’

Douglas shrugged.  ‘I guess it passed
to my grandmother, Caroline, when her parents died.’

‘And what do you suppose Mary did that was
so unforgivable?’