The Lost Ancestor (11 page)

My Mary.
  Morton brought the photograph of Mary to mind. 
He supposed she was becoming
his
in some strange way.  It always
happened with an interesting assignment like the Mercer Case; after just a few
hours of research, he was hooked.  Juliette often said his passion for
genealogy was like an addiction and she was right.  Douglas Catt would
have needed to offer him an awful lot more money for him to back out now. 
He was a forensic genealogist, employed to find Mary Mercer, and that’s just
what he was going to do.

‘Right, most of the information on the
domestic servants is in here,’ Sidney said, making his way towards a filing
cabinet near the back of the room.  He took out a silver key from his
pocket and pushed it into the lock, then tugged open both doors.  Inside were
neat rows of books, boxes, ledgers and papers, bundled and wrapped like any
decent archive.

Sidney held the sides of his glasses and
scrunched up his face as he darted his head up and down like a curious
meerkat.  ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said with a grin, as he plucked a small
leather book from the shelves, followed by an A4-sized ledger.  ‘Let’s
have a look.’

Morton followed Sidney back out into the
small office, where he carefully set the documents down onto the desk. 
Morton watched patiently, as Sidney opened up the first book.  It was a
light-brown, calfskin-bound book about the size of a paperback.  Sidney
turned past the marble-effect endpapers until he reached the first handwritten
pages.  Slowly, he ran his index finger down the side of the page. 
‘1909,’ he muttered, turning the page and beginning his search again. 
‘1910.’  On the next page he held his glasses and leant in to take a
closer inspection.  ‘Here we are, wages for the year 1911.’  He
pushed the book over to Morton.  ‘See if you can’t find your Mary.’

Eagerly, Morton grasped the book in both
hands.  He loved the feeling of touching history, making a special
connection with the past, with the person who had held this very document in
their hands more than a century ago.  He scanned down a list of names,
which seemed to be arranged haphazardly.  The name
Mercer
jumped
out at him.  Morton moved his eyes across the line,
Mercer, Edward,
Second Footman
.  Mary’s first cousin.  There then followed a run
of dated, weekly columns, showing Edward’s pay of fourteen pounds.  Then
Morton spotted something curious.  Edward Mercer’s pay ceased on Friday 19
^th
May 1911—alarmingly close to Mary’s disappearance.  Morton skipped forward
to the remainder of the year, into 1912 and then 1913.  No Edward Mercer. 
‘Interesting,’ he said, capturing Sidney’s interest.  ‘Her cousin, Edward
worked here as a footman.  He seems to have stopped work here the month
after she disappeared.  Could be a connection there.’

Sidney nodded emphatically, thrust his
glasses back onto the bridge of his nose and leant in for a closer look. 
Morton took out his pencil and notepad and began to scribble down the
information.  Working backwards, he found that Edward’s first pay at
Blackfriars had been in 1908; there were no breaks in employment until he left
in May 1911.  Finding what happened to Edward was definitely a priority,
but for now he needed to continue his search for Mary.  Morton returned to
1911 and ran his finger further down the page until he found her.  Her
wages, twelve pounds per annum, began in January 1911 and, as Morton had
expected, ended on Friday 14
^th
April 1911.  He quickly checked
if her name appeared elsewhere in the book but found no further trace.

‘Is it okay if I take a quick photograph?’
Morton asked.

‘By all means.  I’ll hold it open for
you,’ Sidney said.

Morton took a photograph of the relevant
page, showing both of the Mercers’ terminated employment.  ‘Thank you,
that’s very helpful.’

Sidney slid the wage book to one side then
picked up the A4 brown brushed-velvet ledger.  ‘Now this…’ he said,
stroking the front of the book as if it were a pet dog, ‘might well have been
your saving grace.  It’s the Blackfriars Day Book, the butler and
housekeeper’s account of daily life in the house.  It’s of varied usefulness,
recording stock levels of wines and spirits, the purchasing of fruit and
vegetables, household repairs and also the comings and goings of staff.’

Morton’s excitement about the promise of
the Day Book was tempered by Sidney’s use of the word ‘might’, clearly meaning
that the book would, in fact, be of no use to him.  Although historically
interesting, the quantity of claret and champagne consumed by a wealthy
Edwardian family in one week was of no use to the Mercer case
. 
‘Go
on,’ Morton urged.

Sidney flicked to the back of the
book.  ‘This one ends in January 1911.’

‘And the next one?’ Morton asked, already
fearing the answer.

‘Still in use in 1939—’ Sidney began to
explain.

‘The fire?’ Morton interjected,
remembering what Milton Mansfield had told him about certain records having
been destroyed.

‘Exactly.  A lot of the burnt records
were kept and catalogued but I’m afraid nothing exists of that Day Book. 
Still, this one might be worth a look,’ Sidney said, pushing it across the
table to Morton.

Morton opened it at the first page, dated
1907 and began to assimilate the type of information on offer.  As
suggested by Sidney, it told of the general life at Blackfriars, signed off
each week by the housekeeper, Mrs Cuff and the butler, Mr Risler.  Morton
turned to the back few pages where 1911 began then skimmed through it until the
first mention of Mary occurred.  Morton felt compelled to read aloud so
that Sidney could share in his discoveries. ‘
Monday 2
^nd
January
1911.  Employed new housemaid, Miss Mary Mercer, little previous
experience—will need a great deal of support.
  Another entry for that
week:
Wednesday 4
^th
January.  Miss Mercer’s limited
experience in
any
domestic area is putting a strain on the other
domestic staff.  Her haberdasher skills leave plenty to be desired.
’

‘Oh dear,’ Sidney said with a grimace.
‘Doesn’t sound like your Mary had a good start here.’

‘Nor a good end…’ Morton said
solemnly.  ‘Is it okay to take a photo?’

‘Go ahead.’

As Morton took out his mobile phone, the
sound of the keypad being pressed was followed by a mechanical release and the
door opening.  In the doorway stood a smiling Daphne Mansfield.  She
was dressed impeccably in high heels, short patterned skirt, blouse and
jacket.  Every garment shouted its origin as Knightsbridge.

‘Mr Farrier,’ she greeted.  ‘Good to
see you again.’ 

‘Hello, Lady Rothborne.  Thank you
for allowing me in here.  I know you must be up to your eyes with the
filming.’

‘Oh, no worries at all,’ she said,
dismissively waving her perfectly manicured fingers at him.  ‘Have you had
any luck in your quest to find this lady of yours?’

Morton considered the question.  He
had certainly become more acquainted with Mary Mercer and the wages ledger had
offered a new lead for her cousin, Edward.  ‘Yes, very profitable, thank
you.’

‘Smashing.  So you’ll have no need to
break in at some ungodly hour, then to raid the archives?’ she said with a wry
smile.

‘No, I don’t think that will be
necessary,’ Morton said, feeling somewhat sheepish at her reference to a
previous case where breaking and entering seemed to have emerged as a natural
and obvious part of his research strategies.  He hoped that the Mercer
Case
would be strictly legal, if only to make his home-life
easier.  Now that Juliette was training to be a police officer, there was
no way she would be undertaking anything remotely illegal.

Daphne smiled.  ‘Sid, I’m sorry to
interrupt, but the producers have just halted filming over some historical
inaccuracy or other in the script.  Is there a chance Mr Farrier could
spare you for five minutes upstairs?’

Sidney looked uncertainly at the open
archive door.  ‘Er, can it wait at all?  Half an hour or so?’

‘I think it needs sorting now, don’t worry
about your precious archives, Mr Farrier will watch them for you.’

Morton smiled as Sidney reluctantly
followed Daphne from the room.  The door closed behind them with a heavy
clunk.

Morton continued to scan the ledger,
disappointed that the one book he really wanted had been consumed by the 1939
fire. 
What were the chances?
he thought.  Then he flicked
back to the start of the book.  It started in 1907 and ended in
1911.  Four years.  Four years in one ledger.  The next one
apparently ran from 1911 until 1939.  Morton considered that there were
three options at play here: one, that record-keeping had changed between those
years and little was recorded each week; two, that Sidney had made a mistake in
believing the ledger destroyed or three, that he was lying.  The first
option seemed flimsy to Morton.  The last two options meant that there was
a real possibility that a Day Book commencing in January 1911 was currently
sitting in the filing cabinet in the adjacent room, the door of which was
open.  He was fairly sure that what he was about to do could not be
considered illegal since all doors were open.  He recalled Juliette once
enlightening him to the fact that you couldn’t be prosecuted for breaking and
entering if a door was already opened.

Morton couldn’t waste this golden
opportunity to take a look for himself.  He stood, listened quietly for a
moment, then darted inside the archive room.  With his heart beating fast,
he pulled open the cabinet doors and began to run his eyes across the archives,
searching for something resembling the other Day Book.  His eyes settled
on a ledger of similar size and colour.  Morton pulled it down and opened
the first pages. 
Bingo! 
It began where the previous had
ended.  As much as he would have dearly loved to have searched every page,
time was not a luxury he had, so he hurriedly flicked through until he reached
the week beginning Monday 10
^th
April 1911—the week of Mary’s
disappearance.  Morton quickly took a digital photograph of the
page. 

A noise close by came from the
office. 

Someone was tapping at the keypad. 

He heard the clunking of the heavy door
opening.

Morton quickly took a photo of the week
prior and following her disappearance, before hastily placing the book back
where he had found it.

Time up.

‘What are you doing in here?’ came the
sound of Sidney Mersham’s agitated voice.

Morton held up the wages book.  ‘Just
being helpful and putting this back.  I didn’t like to keep reading the
Day Book without you there,’ Morton said, amazed at his own composure.

Sidney looked doubtful.  ‘Right, come
on, let’s get this done.  There can only be another few pages left. 
I’ve got work to do now upstairs.  Honestly, you’d think they would have
done their homework
before
filming.’

Morton heaved a sigh of relief and headed
back into the small office.  In doing his best to appear calm and cool,
Morton failed to spot the CCTV camera just above the door, fixed on him and
following his every move. 

Wednesday
8
^th
February 1911

Mary
had been working at Blackfriars for more than one month.  The desperate,
daily ache in her muscles had gradually eased, but the ache in her heart had
not; she still despised and resented every moment of her time as a third
housemaid.  Each day ended the same, with Mary crying herself to sleep,
attempting to stifle her sobs from Clara, who was growing increasingly
irritated by her emotional outpouring.  After the last failed attempt,
Mary had given up using her half days off to go home.  Instead, she spent
as much of her free time as possible with Edward.

Just like today, at precisely one o’clock,
Mary would flee Blackfriars via the kitchen entrance and steal her way up the
back path in the direction of her home.  Part way, when a screen of firs
temporarily eclipsed the house, Mary would sneak through the orchard and into
the abbey ruins, where she would await him.  Sometimes he came, sometimes
he could not get away without being seen and they had to wait another week to
be reunited.

Today, he was late and Mary was beginning
to doubt that he was coming at all.  She had been cowering in the wintry
ruins for more than twenty minutes, sitting on a cold chunk of sandstone that
looked as though it had once been a window lintel, rubbing a shard of flint
back and forth, rhythmically creating a short gully.  She had wrapped up
as much as she could but it was not sufficient to keep out the cold; she longed
for warmer days when intimacy did not mean having every part of her body frozen
to the bone.  Last week, she had been so deeply chilled that it had taken
almost half an hour trembling in front of her bedroom fire for the painful
surge of blood to return to her extremities, which had aroused Clara’s
suspicions.  ‘Have you not got fires at home?’ she had asked, taking pity
on Mary by donating blankets from her own bed to wrap around her
shoulders.  Mary had responded by saying that her father was still out of
work and there the conversation had ended.

Mary recoiled with fright as someone
jumped out from behind the ruins wall.

‘Mary!’ Edward called.

‘Oh, don’t do that!’ Mary said, laying a
hand on her chest, as if to slow down the sudden change in her heart rhythm.

There he was, standing in full black and
white livery, as handsome as ever.  He had, by far, the most pleasing
appearance among the male domestic staff.

Edward grinned.  ‘Did you think I
wasn’t coming?’ he asked, huddling down beside her and placing his arm over her
shoulder.

‘I’m just glad you made it,’ she said,
pushing her body into his warmth.

Edward closed his eyes and pressed his
lips to hers.  Mary kept her eyes open, desiring that each of her senses
absorb and soak him up.  Finally, she opened her mouth and allowed their
shared passion to flow between them.  Grappling exploring hands led, as it
always did, to a fervent union. 

Afterwards, Mary always regretted how
quickly it was over, that no time could be allowed in a normal warm bed for the
closeness to continue.  Maybe in the summer months they could take
themselves off to a secluded woodland where prying eyes and arctic temperatures
could not reach them.

Hurriedly, the pair dressed and returned
to the stone seat, where they sat like a pair of owlets huddled together for
warmth.  Mary picked up the piece of sharp flint and returned to
scratching at the sandstone, carving the letter M.

‘What are you going to write?’ Edward
asked.  ‘Mary loves Edward?’

Mary giggled and nudged him playfully.

Edward held her hand and waited for her to
look up.  He had a serious look on his face.  ‘Do you…’ Edward began,
his gaze falling to the floor.  ‘How do you feel…what do you feel towards
me?’ He kicked at a small pebble.  ‘Because… well…’

Mary laughed.  ‘Well what?’ She knew,
of course, the words which would not come.  She felt it too, that
unmistakable fluttering and desire deep inside her that consumed more and more
of her thoughts.

Edward stood up, his back to her.  He
paced to the edge of the ruin and stared out.  ‘I…’ he stammered. 
‘Oh, God!’

‘Just say it, Edward!’ Mary pleaded.

‘Your sister’s walking down the path!’ he
blurted, ducking behind the stone wall.

‘What?’ Mary said, jumping up and heading
towards him.  ‘What’s Edie doing here?’

‘Get back!’ Edward said in a hushed
whisper.  ‘It’s not Edie; it’s Caroline.’

Mary, body tucked behind the wall, stuck
her head out just enough to see the unmistakable black figure striding down the
path towards the house.  ‘What’s
she
doing here?  She should
be at home in Bristol.’

‘I don’t know, but we’ll be rumbled if she
reaches the kitchens and they find out you haven’t been going home. 
Quick, you need to catch her up and stop her before she gets to the house.’

Mary ran her fingers through her squally
hair, pecked Edward on the cheek and dashed from the ruins.  Once she had
reached the path and was a safe distance from Edward, she called out. 
‘Caroline!  Caroline!’

Caroline stopped, just yards from the
kitchen door and turned, placing her hands on her hips.  Her husband,
William had died a month ago and Caroline was still wearing full black mourning
clothes.  She waited until Mary was within earshot then demanded: ‘Where
have you been?’

Typical Caroline,
thought Mary,
haven’t seen her in
months and she storms down here like she owns the place. 
‘For a
walk,’ she answered.  ‘What does it matter to you?’

Caroline seemed to have aged terribly
since Mary had last seen her.  She had, in Mary’s quiet opinion, had the
misfortune of inheriting their father’s fiery and unpredictable temperament and
their mother’s haggard looks.  ‘It matters to me because
you
haven’t been home in weeks.  Mother’s not well.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’ Mary asked,
taking a furtive glance back at the abbey ruins.  She could just make out
Edward’s red hair poking from behind the wall as he tried to catch their
conversation.

‘Tuberculosis.  The doctor sent her
to the sanatorium last week.  She’s not good, Mary,’ Caroline said. 
‘The house is so cold it’s a wonder she hasn’t died already.’

Through the Victorian black veil covering
her face, Mary could just see into Caroline’s grey eyes; they had always seemed
empty to her but now they appeared entirely devoid of life.  ‘Will she be
okay?’ Mary asked, realising then that she could have made more of an effort to
make amends at home.  She chided herself for her weakness.  Now her
mother, her only ally at home, was unwell.

Caroline snorted.  ‘If you really
cared, you would know the answer to that.’

Mary gritted her teeth, resenting her
sister’s self-righteousness.  ‘So what do you want?’

‘I
want
nothing,’ she said
haughtily.  ‘I
need
money.  Money to keep the household
going.  With mother away and father out of work we have nothing other than
your wages.’

Mary had been saving all of her wages in
the hope of buying something nice for Edward’s birthday.  ‘How much do you
need?’ Mary asked.

‘Everything you have,’ Caroline
retorted.  ‘I don’t think you realise how bad the situation is at
home.  I’m having to use the pittance I get for my widow’s allowance to
pay the rent here.  If the situation continues for much longer, I’ll have
to let my own house in Bristol go.’

Mary nodded; she understood.  If
Caroline having all of her wages meant the family were able to hold onto the
house and put food on the table, then that was what must happen; Edward’s
present would have to wait.  She still had several hours of free time
left—plenty of time to collect the money, spend some time at home and be back
at Blackfriars by nine.  ‘I’ll go and get it now.’

‘See that you do.’  Caroline sighed,
turned around and marched back up the hill.

Mary walked quickly, instantly deep in
thought, back to Blackfriars.  She would have to explain herself to Edward
later. 
How had life become so desperately miserable so quickly?
she wondered.  The final visit to her ailing grandmother in Rye workhouse,
coupled with her mother’s words about her being consumed by domestic service
entered her troubled mind.  ‘I just want to go,’ Mary recalled her
grandmother pleading.  ‘I’ve done my time.  I need to sleep.’ 
Mary now realised that her grandmother saw her time as a housemaid as a prison
sentence, something to be served before the welcome salvation of eternal
sleep.  At the time, Mary had no grasp of what the old woman was feeling,
having a naïve and youthful outlook on life.  But if the rest of her life
had to be spent like this, Mary understood her desperation for it all to come
to an end.

‘
Quoi encore?  Qu’est ce que tu
veux maintenant?  Tu t’crois à l’hôtel
!’ Bastion shouted at Mary,
brandishing a long silver knife in her direction.  The repulsive, rude man
was mid-way through beheading a pig carcass, a job he seemed to relish a little
too much for Mary’s liking.

Mary turned her head and strutted through
the kitchen, having learned quickly to simply ignore the disgusting man. 
She darted up the ninety-six stairs to the female servants’ quarters.  As
expected, she found her bedroom mercifully empty; she didn’t want the hassle of
explaining herself to Clara or the other servants.  It was a very rare
thing for a servant to return from time off a moment before absolutely
necessary.  Mary headed over to her bedside cabinet and pulled open the
drawer.  Carefully wrapped inside an old blouse, she found the Rowntrees
Cocoa tin in which she had been diligently saving her wages.  Tugging open
the tin, Mary tipped the money onto her bed and momentarily stared at it. 
Reluctantly, she took out a handful of the money, leaving a few paltry coins
behind—at least
something
towards a gift for Edward.  Then she
thought of her poor family, struggling to exist, whilst she lived rent-free
with almost as much food and drink each day as she cared to consume.  Taking
every last coin from the bed, Mary set the tin back and was about to slide the
drawer shut when she noticed her locket.  It was sterling silver with a
fake diamond set in the centre.  Mary clasped the locket to her chest for
a moment.  The twins had received the lockets as a birthday present from
their parents last year.  Mary recalled the day fondly.  She and Edie
had woken early and travelled by train to Hastings to have a
carte-de-visite
taken at Pearson’s Photography Studio on the West Hill.  They had
spent the rest of the day on the seafront, enjoying ice cream, a walk along the
crowded promenade and a Punch and Judy
show on the stony beach.

Mary pulled open the locket.  Inside,
was a tiny photograph of Edie looking unduly severe.  The girls, giggling
like mad things, had been chastised by George Pearson and told not to smile for
the pictures.  In Edie’s locket was an identically stern photo of
Mary.  Mary closed the locket and placed it carefully back inside the
drawer.

After
sitting down with Caroline in the chilly kitchen and receiving a tirade of
criticism, Mary had sought a moment’s sanctuary in her old room.  But she
did not find any refuge there; a thorny discomfort bit at her stomach. 
The house was so terribly cold: all of the fire grates were as empty and
redundant as at the height of summer.  Mary looked at her room as though
it belonged to a stranger and felt sure that she was warmer sitting on the
piece of sandstone in the abbey ruins than in her own home.  Yet that was
not the cause of the unsettled feeling which was troubling her.  She felt
stifled.  She shuddered and hurried from the room, trying to work out the
cause of her malaise.  On the landing, she could hear her father gently
snoring in his bedroom.  Caroline had given strict instructions to not
disturb him.  He was suffering from melancholia and hadn’t left his bed in
days.

‘You didn’t disturb him, did you?’
Caroline asked Mary when she returned to the kitchen.

‘No, I did as you asked and let him rest,’
Mary said quietly.  She pulled out a chair to sit down, but quickly
changed her mind.  The sooner that she was gone from this lifeless place
the better.  It pained her even to think this way, but right now she
longed to be back at Blackfriars.  She hurriedly poured all the money onto
the table.  ‘That’s everything.’

Caroline prodded at the heap of money with
a mild sneer.  ‘Not much, is it?  Are you sure you didn’t keep
anything back?’

Wild anger boiled in Mary’s blood but
outwardly she remained calm.  She had to make allowances for her recently
widowed sister’s behaviour.  Meeting Caroline’s eyes, she spoke clearly
and confidently.  ‘That’s everything.  I can assure you.  I have
nothing left for myself.’

Caroline seemed taken aback at her
temerity.  ‘What do
you
need money for anyway?  You have
everything given to you on a silver plate.  The best French chef in the
parish cooks you the finest meats and vegetables, which are then served to you
by another servant.  You sleep in a warm bed with wood burning in the grate
all night.  You’re not a poor widow with ailing parents and two lots of
bills to pay.  If only you’d
earned
such a luxurious life.’