The Lost Ancestor (21 page)

Morton scanned the warehouse and located
Juliette.  She was happily chatting to two women behind a table on the far
side of the room.  He slowly cast his eyes over the rest of the place—no
sign of Douglas Catt, thankfully.

Morton pondered the Mercer Case.  The
Scottish connection still bothered him.  Mary had, it seemed, been sacked
from Blackfriars at a time when most of the household was in Scotland, then
written a letter from there saying that she wouldn’t be coming back.  Yet
she failed to turn up ever again in the country.  Morton opened up the
Scotland’s People website and again began a series of searches for Mary, but no
credible leads were forthcoming.  Unless Mary lived her whole life under a
pseudonym, her time in Scotland must have been very brief.

After more than two hours at the wedding
fayre, Juliette wandered over to Morton and said the magic words: ‘Right, let’s
go.’

Through bleary eyes, Morton looked
incredulously at the accumulation of gift bags that she had acquired during one
afternoon in a chilly dilapidated warehouse.  He still couldn’t quite
fathom how this could be enjoyable for anyone.

Morton stepped outside and raised his
umbrella to shield against the incessant, driving rain. 

‘Well, I’ve got loads of ideas for our big
day,’ Juliette said, as she slipped her arm through his.

‘Go on then, enlighten me.’

‘I’ll need to be asked the question
first,’ she said with a smile.

Morton leant over and kissed her. 
‘Okay.  Will you, Juliette Meade, please tell me about your ideas for our
big day?’

Juliette squeezed his arm and smiled.

The pair hurried through the saturated
streets, navigating ever-expanding puddles until they reached home.

Having unlocked the front door, Morton
hastened inside and was relieved not to see another envelope waiting for him on
the doormat.  He looked at his watch.  He had another three hours
until his meeting at the church with Bartholomew Maslow.  Plenty of time
to shower and freshen up.

In
a tiny box-room that he had self-proclaimed as his office, the man
grinned.  The room only contained a desk and a laptop, but it was
enough.  He had just compiled a detailed report of all the activity on
Morton Farrier’s mobile phone.  Everything.  He had logged his exact
movements, his incoming and outgoing text messages and phone calls, his emails
and internet browsing.  The file was growing impressively and the man
began to feel like a real spy.  He laughed at how easily he had
intercepted the email to Bartholomew Maslow, then created a false Gmail account
from which to reply to Morton.  He glanced at his watch.  Two hours
until his scheduled meeting in St Thomas’s Church.  Then it would be case
closed for Morton Farrier and all activity on his phone would end.  The
man laughed raucously as he picked up his latest acquisition—a Sig Sauer
p232-22 handgun.  Aiming the weapon at Morton’s communications file, the
man pretended to fire.

‘Goodbye, Mr Farrier.’

Morton
was running late.  He had seriously misjudged the time that it would take
him to prepare the fish pie that he had cooked for him and Juliette.  He
zoomed, far too fast, up Strand Hill, almost colliding with an oncoming car
when the road narrowed to a single lane in order to pass through the
fourteenth-century Strand Gate.

‘Shit,’ Morton yelled, slamming on his
brakes and allowing the other car through.  It didn’t help that his
visibility was severely reduced owing to the incredible quantity of rain
thrashing down. 

Morton raced around the corner and parked
in a similar spot to the one used on his last visit here, just outside the
former Mercer house on Friar’s Road.  He killed the engine and leapt from
the car, pulling his waterproof coat collar up to try and get some protection
from the dismal weather.  The exterior of the church was up-lit by the
burnt amber glow from several huge floodlights dotted around the
churchyard.  Even in the driving rain, Morton thought that the grand
church looked majestic and impressive.  Apart from the lights beaming onto
the church, Winchelsea had very little street lighting and Morton struggled to
see where he was going.

‘Damn it!’ he cursed again, having stepped
into a deep puddle that lapped up over his left shoe.  He remembered then
that his iPhone had a torch function and rummaged around in his pockets for
it.  He stopped still on the path, fumbling infuriatedly.  He’d left
his phone in the car.

Douglas
Catt, wearing a dark wax jacket and matching hat, was cowering behind a tilted
gravestone to the south of the church entrance.  He had chosen a grave just
behind one of the huge floodlights to conceal himself better.  He had
tailed Morton from his home in Rye, almost rear-ending him at the Strand
Gate.  He had no idea what Morton was doing here, but Douglas was certain
that it somehow involved the church and Morton’s ridiculous quest to find out
what happened to Mary Mercer—a quest Douglas was determined to end. 
Douglas quickly pulled out his camera, checked that the flash was not on and
took a grainy, blurred photo of Morton.  It wasn’t a great image by any
means, but it would be enough to spook Morton.  Douglas watched as Morton
stopped on his way towards the church.  He had evidently forgotten
something.  Morton turned around, hurrying back towards his car.  Now
was his chance to get into the church ahead of Morton and find somewhere to
hide.  Using the powerful shaft of light to shield him, Douglas moved from
grave to grave, always keeping Morton in view, until he reached the chunky
outer wooden door.  He pulled it open, wincing at the amount of noise
emanating from the ancient hinges.

‘Bloody thing,’ Douglas muttered to
himself, hoping that the sound of the wind and rain was enough to mask the
sound.

Pushing the door tightly shut, Douglas
moved through the vestibule, opened another creaky door and turned into the
gloom of the church.  The only light was that which filtered in through
the stained-glass windows, producing an unnatural, eerie glow around the church
ceiling.  He quickly cast his eyes around the room for somewhere to
conceal himself and decided that a large, gothic pillar might be a good place
in which to hide, since it offered him the ability to manoeuvre around it,
should the need arise.  He crept over to the pillar and ducked down, his
eyes set firmly on the door.

From the other side of the church, Douglas
heard the unmistakable sound of a stifled cough. 

Someone was already here.  Whoever it
was started to approach him.

Morton
reached his car, climbed in and instinctively locked the doors.  Groping around
by his feet, he found his mobile.  He picked it up and saw that he had a
missed call with an answerphone message.  He checked the time.  It
was eight twenty.  Even though he was twenty minutes late, Morton decided
it would be wise to listen to the message since it might be Bartholomew Maslow.
 Hopefully he’s running late, too
, Morton thought.  Accessing
his voicemails, he listened carefully.  It wasn’t from Bartholomew, it was
from a descendant of Sarah Herriot who had been phoning to say that she knew
nothing at all of her grandmother’s time at Blackfriars; that she worked there
at all had been a fascinating revelation to her.  Morton saved the
message, switched on the torch function and stepped out of the car.

The torch provided sufficient light to guide
Morton back into the churchyard towards the door.  He was half expecting
Bartholomew to be stood in the vestibule ready to greet him and share whatever
information he had.  Morton very much hoped that whatever it was he wanted
to show him was
inside
the church.  He pulled open the inner church
door and began to feel slightly unnerved.  It hadn’t really occurred to
him just how creepy the church might be when unoccupied after eight at night.

Morton stood in the chancel and allowed
his eyes to adjust to the low light levels.  He scanned around the vast
edifice, expecting to see Bartholomew sitting in the pews, but there was nobody
in sight.

His heart began to beat a little faster as
he crept along the chancel towards the altar, turning his head nervously as he
went.  Something didn’t quite feel right. 

Suddenly Morton’s phone beeped loudly with
an email alert.

‘Bloody hell!’ he said, annoyed for having
made himself jump.  He pulled his phone out to switch it onto silent when
he noticed that the email was from Bartholomew Maslow.  The first line
made no sense and stopped Morton in his tracks in order to read it fully. 
Dear Mr Farrier.  Many thanks for your email.  Yes, you have
correctly identified me!  Although, I’m not sure what help I can be. 
I have pictures of my grandfather (Jack) during his time at Blackfriars, which
I’m happy to scan and email you.  Never heard of Mary Mercer though,
unfortunately.  Get back to me if the photos are of use.  Regards,
Bart Maslow.
  Morton was baffled.  This email was a direct reply
to Morton’s, with his original message below.

A sudden wash of panic hit Morton when he
realised that he had been set up, lured to the church by someone other than
Bartholomew Maslow.  His heart rate shot through the roof and his
breathing became restricted.  He needed to get out.  Right now.

Morton turned, ready to run from the
building.  As he did so, something caught his eye.  Something on the
floor beside the altar.  Not something, someone.  Someone lying
splayed out not moving.  Dead.

Morton gasped and froze as he stared at
the person on the floor.  From the limited light cascading from the
stained glass windows, Morton could see a bullet hole in the person’s
forehead.  It was then that he recognised the body: Douglas Catt.  As
his mind began to try and fathom what on earth Douglas Catt was doing dead in
Winchelsea church, he suddenly realised that the killer might still be inside
here.  Without another second’s thought, Morton ran for the door, tugged
it open, momentarily praying that the vestibule would be empty.  It
was.  He pulled open the outer door and rushed into the rain.  The
previously innocuous shadows that bordered the graveyard were suddenly
frightening harbours of potential evil.

He took a deep breath and ran for his
car.  His single focus was on getting in the car and getting away. 
Then he would phone the police.  As he neared his car, the thought entered
his head that maybe Douglas had slashed his tyres again, but thankfully that
was not the case.  Morton climbed into the Mini, started the engine and
sped from Friar’s Road as fast as he could. 

Only once he had descended Strand Hill,
did he dare to pull over and make the 999 call.

Saturday
15
^th
April 1911

Edward
Mercer could barely contain himself.  He and the rest of the Blackfriars
household were on the final leg of their journey home from Scotland.  He
was grateful that Lord Rothborne had decided to return slightly earlier than
planned to be with his wife following the illness that had sent her home
prematurely.  The family and all the domestic staff had stayed overnight
in London, ready to take the first train back to Rye.  A convoy of six
shiny black horse-drawn carriages were cutting their way through the glorious
Sussex countryside towards Winchelsea.  Edward gazed through the coach
window at the patchwork quilt of yellow and green fields that ran endlessly
into the horizon.  He wasn’t really taking in what his eyes were seeing;
his thoughts were preoccupied with Mary.  His feelings for her had seemed
to spring unexpectedly from nowhere, but were now so powerful that they were
driving his every thought and action.  The time when they could be
together, properly and seriously, couldn’t come soon enough.  The painful
absence from her had sown the seed of the idea of getting married as quickly as
possible.  When he had proposed, they had only discussed the marriage in
very general terms, which revolved around their family being informed. 
But now, Edward didn’t care what their family thought about it; he loved Mary
and she loved him.  Throughout the time in Scotland, the idea burgeoned to
the point that Edward had written a letter to the vicar of Winchelsea,
requesting a special marriage licence so that they could be married quickly and
without the need for banns to be called.  They could even marry in secret
and
then
tell their family.  He couldn’t wait to tell Mary—he knew
that she would be as thrilled as he was at the prospect.  Edward had made
up his mind that the two of them would go and speak to the vicar this very
afternoon.  Lord Rothborne had kindly given
all
domestic staff the
rest of the day off, including those who hadn’t been included in the trip,
meaning that he and Mary could have an entire day off together.  It was
probably too ambitious, but he wondered if he could take her to Hastings after
they had seen the vicar, or somewhere further afield.  Although, thinking
about it more, he knew that Mary would much prefer to take a picnic and head
out into the countryside where they could be alone together.  Whatever
they did, it didn’t really matter.  The weather, too was perfect for
them—bright blue skies with only the merest smudge of cloud.

‘What you grinning at, Mercer?’ Jack
Maslow asked, as the coach bumbled along an unmade section of the road.

‘Nothing,’ Edward said, unable to stop
smiling.  He had told Jack everything about his courtship with Mary, but
now wasn’t the place to open up about the marriage, since James Daniels and
Thomas Redfern were also sharing the coach with them.  The gossip had
inevitably spread but the last thing Edward wanted was to add fuel to the fire.

‘Mary, Mary—my darling, Mary!’ James
teased.  ‘How I long to hold you in my arms!’

Edward smiled and ignored the
goading.  His stomach began to churn as the grand front entrance to
Blackfriars came into view.  Usually, the servants would have been brought
in via the back entrance along Friar’s Road, but the grand spectacle of six
horse-drawn carriages was an opportunity to remind the village of the
prominence of the Mansfield family.

Upon entering the estate, the procession
split: the coaches containing the family went to the front of the house and the
carriages containing staff and luggage drew up at the kitchen door.  As
much as Edward wanted to run into the house to find Mary, he still had work to
do yet.  They could only be dismissed once all the trunks and cases had
been safely taken to the correct areas of the house.  The mammoth
operation of unpacking and life returning to normal was to begin tomorrow.

Edward was disappointed when he first
entered the gloomy kitchen to be greeted by Bastion’s wretched face and a
disgusting smell.  He had hoped that wherever Mary was in the house, she
would have seen their return and come and welcomed him. 
She must be
busy somewhere at the back of the house and not know we’re home,
Edward
thought. 
What a surprise she’ll have! 
He grinned and left
the kitchen to help carry the suitcases inside.

‘Come on, lads, let’s get this done,’
Edward said, heading to a coach containing the cases and trunks.

‘Yeah, we know why you’re in a hurry,
Mercer,’ Jack Maslow said with a laugh.

Edward responded with a smile, rolled his
sleeves up and reached up for the first trunk.

It
was almost ten o’clock in the morning by the time all of the luggage had been
carefully transported inside.  The horses had been led away to the stables
and the coaches stowed in the old cart lodge.  For Edward, the time had
passed agonisingly slowly and there was still no sign of Mary. 
It’s
just like her to keep me waiting,
he thought with an inward laugh.

He headed through the kitchen, which was
still filled with the unpleasant aroma of offal being sliced and diced, towards
the servants’ hall, whistling a made-up tune.  As he walked along the
corridor, the door to the housekeeper’s room opened and Mrs Cuff and Miss
Herriot stepped out.  ‘Good morning,’ Edward said cheerfully.  ‘We’re
back!’  He stepped back to allow the ladies to pass.

‘Good morning,’ the ladies answered as
they wandered smartly past.

‘Have either of you seen Mary at all?’
Edward called after them.  He watched, somewhat alarmed, as both the women
stopped and glanced at each other before turning back towards him.

‘Has nobody told you?’ Mrs Cuff asked.

‘Told me what?’ Edward said, beginning to
panic.  ‘Is she okay?’

Mrs Cuff nodded.  ‘She’s fine.’ 
She looked again at Miss Herriot.  ‘You go on, I’ll be along in a
moment.’  Then she faced Edward.  ‘Come into my room for a moment.’

At Mrs Cuff’s request, Edward sat down at
her oak writing desk.  She took a seat opposite him and sat with a solemn
face.  He was really worrying about whatever he was about to be told and a
thin bead of sweat broke out on his forehead.  ‘What is it, Mrs
Cuff?  Please, tell me.’

‘I’m afraid that Miss Mercer has left the
employ of Blackfriars,’ she began.

‘What do you mean?’ Edward asked.

‘I mean that Miss Mercer no longer works
here.’

‘Why?  What did she do?’ Edward
demanded, straightening defensively in his chair.

Mrs Cuff paused for a moment.  ‘It’s
a delicate matter, the details of which should probably be left to the
discretion of Miss Mercer.  Suffice it to say, something occurred last
Wednesday which could not be tolerated at Blackfriars.’

‘Where did she go?’

‘Home, I would have thought.’

Edward stood, mumbled his thanks and
dashed from the room.  He bolted along the corridor, through the kitchen
and out the door.  ‘What have you done, Mary?’ he said to himself as he
ran at full pelt up the back path.  He briefly left the path at the
orchard and stuck his head in the old abbey ruins, but she was not there.

When he reached his aunt and uncle’s
house, Edward kept pounding on the door until somebody answered it.  ‘Come
on, come on!’ he yelled breathlessly.  ‘Mary!’

Finally, the door was unbolted and
Caroline’s face snarled through the narrow gap that she had allowed. 
‘Edward,’ she said, her voice finely laced with disgust.

‘Caroline, open the door.  I need to
see Mary,’ Edward said, taking a step closer to the house.

Caroline held the door firm.  ‘You’ve
got a nerve showing up here after what you and Mary did to Edith.  Judas.’

Edward began to lose his temper and raised
his voice.  ‘It’s none of your business, just open the door.  I need
to see Mary.’

Caroline frowned but said nothing for
several seconds.  ‘Why would Mary be here on a
Saturday
?’ 
When she saw Edward’s confusion she widened the gap in the door.  ‘Where
is she?’ she demanded.  ‘She owes us her wages from last week.’

‘Who is it?’ a voice called from behind Caroline. 

Edward recognised it as his aunt’s voice.
‘It’s me, Edward.  Can you come to the door, please?’

Caroline sneered and stepped back to allow
her mother to come forward.

‘Oh hello, Edward.  Do you want to
come in?’

Edward nodded and followed his aunt inside
and through to the kitchen.

‘Sit down.  I’ve just made a pot of
tea.  What are you doing up here on a Saturday, then?’ his aunt
asked.  ‘Oh, have you just got back from Scotland?  How was it?’’

‘It was okay, thanks.  Listen, I’ve
come looking for Mary.  Have you seen her since Wednesday?’

His aunt laughed, as she poured two cups
of tea.  ‘What, do you mean she’s disappeared?  She should be at
work.  It is Saturday, isn’t it?’ she said, sounding slightly confused.

Caroline had followed them into the
kitchen and stood with her arms folded in the doorway.  Edward glanced at
her then back to his aunt.  ‘I don’t really know what’s happened, but they
let her go on Wednesday last week.  They’ve not seen her at Blackfriars since.’

His aunt frowned at him and set down the
teapot.  ‘Well where the devil is she, then?’ She turned to
Caroline.  ‘Do you know where she is?’

Caroline shrugged.  ‘Don’t ask me
where she’s gone.  Probably somewhere of ill-repute, knowing Mary.’

‘Caroline!’ her mother snapped. 
‘That’s enough.  I really don’t know why you’ve got it in for her.’ 
She turned back to Edward with an apologetic look on her face.

Edward ignored the nasty comment from
Caroline and addressed his aunt.  ‘We need to find her.  All the
other servants are off today so I could get some help searching for her.’

‘Isn’t that all a bit dramatic and over
the top?’ Caroline asked.

Edward stared at her cold, uncaring
face.  ‘Is it?  Your sister has been missing since Wednesday—aren’t
you a little bit bothered.’

‘She’s old enough to look after
herself.  What did she do at work to get sacked anyway?’

‘I don’t know,’ Edward said quietly. 
‘It doesn’t really matter to me.  The point is that she’s nowhere to be
found.’

‘Where are you going to look for her?’
Caroline asked derisively.

Edward hadn’t thought that far ahead
yet.  He just knew that he needed to look for her.  ‘I don’t know… we
could ask around the village.  Search around the Blackfriars estate. 
Maybe she slipped and banged her head or hurt herself somehow.’

With trembling hands, his aunt picked up
her cup and saucer and took a sip of tea to steady her nerves.  ‘Edward’s
right.  This is out of character for Mary.  She does do some silly
things but she’s never run off like this.  When’s Edie home?  Maybe
she’s heard from her.’

‘I think if Edie had heard from her we’d
soon know about it,’ Caroline said.  ‘She’s livid with her. 
Understandably, she feels totally betrayed.’

‘Caroline, just stop with your harsh words,’
her mother instructed in a soft but direct tone.  ‘Why don’t you go and
get yourself ready to help look for Mary?’

Caroline exhaled, then silently left the
room.

‘Just ignore her, she’s still very
emotional following William’s death.  She’s taken it hard, poor girl,’ she
said, taking a seat opposite Edward.

Edward looked into his aunt’s eyes and a
desperate biting feeling overtook him and he began to sob.  Something had
happened to Mary.  He knew that it was something bad.  His aunt
reached across the table and took his hand.

‘We’ll find her, don’t you worry. 
You know what she’s like—always getting herself into mischief.’

Edward wiped his eyes with the back of his
hand.  ‘But where can she be?  This is so not like her.  She
wouldn’t have just left like this, not without telling me.’

His aunt breathed in and out heavily for
several seconds.  ‘I must admit, when she didn’t come with Edie to collect
me from the sanatorium last week I was a bit worried, but then Edie said Mary
hardly ever comes home now on her half day’s leave, so I didn’t think any more
of it.’

‘Can you think of anyone she might have
gone to?’ Edward asked.

She thought for a time, then shook her
head.  ‘Nobody that comes to mind.  You probably should get someone
to check with your mum and dad—make sure she’s not waiting for you there.’

Edward hadn’t thought of that and the
notion that she was simply with his parents, waiting for him to get back,
filled him with a little hope that she was okay. 
But how would she
think I would find out where she was?
Edward wondered. 
Maybe she’s
left a note for me somewhere.
  He chastised himself for not having
searched his
own
room for any letter or note that she might have left
him—exactly as he had done for her.  The sinking feeling that he had been
experiencing was suddenly lifted to one of hope. 
That will be it—she’s
left me a note telling me where to find her. 
‘I’m going to make one
final check of Blackfriars.  If I don’t find anything, I’ll return with
help and we’ll begin searching for her.’