The Lost Ancestor (25 page)

‘Okay,’ Morton found himself saying. 
He knew that he needed to do it, but without Juliette pushing him forward, it
would have become another conversation that the Farrier household swept under
the carpet, as they always had done with other contentious topics.  ‘I’ll
go over in the next couple of days and talk to him.’

Juliette
smiled reassuringly.  ‘Are you coming to the shops to look for a gift?’

‘I’ll
stay, if you don’t mind.’

Juliette rolled her eyes playfully and
pecked him on the lips.  ‘Don’t do anything silly.  In fact, don’t
leave the house.’

Morton
saluted her.  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

Taking a mouthful of coffee, Morton
studied each of the pieces of coloured wool that fed from Mary’s picture. 
He had pursued many research avenues but now it was time to go back to the
beginning.  Morton picked up his notepad and flicked back to the first
pages of notes.  He carefully re-read each page, paying attention for any
potential oversights.  When he was convinced that nothing had been missed
so far, he returned to the page with the people surrounding Mary at the time of
her disappearance.  He was still waiting on responses from living
relatives of her family and her work colleagues; the only people to respond so
far had been Jenny Greenwood and Bartholomew Maslow.  Morton remembered
then that he hadn’t yet replied to the genuine email from Bartholomew, so set
about a quick reply accepting his offer of the photos of his grandfather, Jack.

Morton considered what to do next. 
He remembered what Juliette had said about staying put for the day.  She
had said it half-jokingly but the plain reality was that a murder investigation
was currently ongoing which involved him.  And, if his theory was correct,
then somebody out there wanted him dead.  No, he was definitely happy to
stay home today.

He looked up at the timeline they had
created together and focussed in on 1925. 
Could Juliette have been
right about something going on that year? 
Although he had just asked
Ray Mercer about Edith's divorce date, he set about finding the answer for
himself.  He knew that some divorce records were open to the public but
were not yet available online.  Morton accessed the National Archives
website and quickly found that divorce case files were available for
1858-1937.  He completed the relevant search request documents and clicked
‘send’.

The
man was sure that he had found a new career in espionage or covert
operations.  He could now be hired out for good money.  As he
caressed the Sig Sauer handgun on the desk in front of him, he replayed last
night’s events and the ease with which he had put a bullet through Morton
Farrier’s skull.  It had been exactly like playing
Grand Theft Auto
on the computer.  Hold the gun, pull the trigger.  Dead.  Simple
as that.  He felt no remorse.  Why should he care about some dumbass
genealogist who was snooping in places he had no business snooping?
 
It
was the end of this particular job and his employers had told him to return to
his normal duties.  He looked at his name badge.  Mark Drury,
security guard.  Well, that was all about to change.  Now he was Mark
Drury, hit-man.  Mark Drury, spy.
 
He grinned as he held the
gun up and pretended to shoot random objects around the room.  Now that
Morton Farrier was dead, Mark had been told to destroy
everything.
 
Every last bit of evidence, the phone tap—everything. 

‘Here we go,’ Mark said, opening up the
cardboard wallet containing all his reconnaissance that he had presented to his
boss before being given the green light to take out Farrier.  He had
borrowed a shredder and proceeded to feed it the contents of the file. 
Piece by piece was chewed and devoured by the machine so that all that was left
was the cardboard wallet itself.

Mark turned to his laptop and brought up
the online console.  Navigating to the administration panel, Mark moved
his cursor to the ‘Format All Data’ icon.  Then he spotted that something
wasn’t quite right. 

Morton Farrier’s mobile was currently
active.

Morton
was sitting in a quiet corner of the Winchelsea Farm Kitchen—a traditional shop
specialising in local meats, cheeses, jams and produce, with one half of the
premises functioning as a charming tearoom.  He was slightly early for his
appointment with Jenny Greenwood and was growing more and more intrigued by
whatever it was that she had to tell him.  He checked his emails whilst he
waited but there were no new messages.  He re-read the email he had
received earlier this morning from Bartholomew Maslow containing three
attachments related to his grandfather, Jack’s, time at Blackfriars.  One
was a close-up image of Jack with a nondescript background.  The second
was of much greater interest to Morton.  It was another close-up of Jack
with another man.  Bartholomew had been good enough to also scan and email
the back which revealed old-fashioned script:
Me and my best chum, Edward.
 
Morton was looking at a sepia photograph of Jack Maslow with Edward
Mercer.  Curiously, at some point since the photograph had been developed,
somebody had crudely hand-tinted three basic colours: red, green and
blue.  Interestingly, whoever had undertaken the paint job had given
Edward red hair.  The post this morning had also brought a written
response from a descendant of Walter Risler.  The letter was rude and to
the point. 
Dear Mr Farrier, Indeed I do object to your writing. 
My grandfather’s business is none of yours.  I have never heard of Mary
Mercer.  Roy Risler.
  He could smile about it now, but its
arrival this morning had incensed him.  In his fourteen years as a
genealogist, Morton had never received such a discourteous response.

‘Morton?  Hello?’

The voice made Morton sit up with a jerk,
spilling some of his latte.  Jenny Greenwood was standing in front of
him.  ‘Jenny—hi.  So sorry.  I was drifting away.’

‘So I see!  I was waving and talking
to you but you were on another planet.’  She looked at her watch. 
‘Sorry I’m a bit late.  I expect you’ve seen all what’s going on out
there.  It’s like a flippin’ circus.’

‘Yeah, I had noticed,’ Morton said. 
The scene of the crime had certainly calmed down from yesterday but the church
was still cordoned off with a small police presence and requisite group of
interested locals.  Later he might tell her about his involvement in the
murder but right now he just wanted to hear what Jenny had to say.  ‘Would
you like a drink at all?’

‘I’ll get it, don’t worry.  Would you
like anything?’

‘No, I’m fine with this for now, thank
you.’

As Jenny caught the attention of a passing
waiter, Morton tried to shake his lethargy.

‘Right,’ Jenny said, seeming also to want
to get straight down to business.  ‘So you found out that the wayward
Frederick Mansfield is actually my grandfather.’

Morton smiled and nodded.  He
really
hoped this meeting wasn’t just about her connection to the
Mansfields.  He didn’t interrupt.

‘As I’m sure your detailed research has discovered,
he died penniless in 1922, leaving my poor grandmother with a baby to raise
alone.  He had frittered
everything
.  Family heirlooms,
paintings, a valuable Egyptian ceramics collection, jewellery—he either sold
it, swapped it or hocked it.  But when he died, my grandmother took some
consolation from the fact they at least lived in a comfortable house which she
could sell to buy something smaller and more practical.  Then she
discovered that he’d squandered that too.  Had he not died, they would
have been forced to up and leave within a few weeks anyway to pay his mountain
of debts.’

Jenny’s story, much of which Morton
already knew and didn’t feel the need to transcribe as yet, was interrupted
when the waiter brought over her Earl Grey.

She thanked him, then continued. 
‘That Frederick was not a great husband or father can’t be contested, and I
think my grandmother and mother were probably better off without him, as awful
as that sounds.’  Jenny paused to pour her tea into the bone-china
cup.  ‘The problem lies in the fact that my mother probably was—no
certainly
was owed a sizeable fortune in inheritance.’

‘Right,’ Morton said, unsure of where this
conversation was going.  ‘But you said Frederick died with debts and no
money.  Did your mother acquire some money after he died?’

Jenny shook her head.  ‘No, the
inheritance should have come my mother’s way in 1959.’  Jenny stared at
Morton, waiting for him to make the connection that she evidently thought he
should be able to make.

Morton racked his brains.  The date
did ring a bell, but his brain was swimming with names and dates.  It was
obviously a Mansfield-related date, so Morton pushed himself to think through
the relevant people alive around that time.  Then he got it.  ‘Was
that when Cecil Mansfield died?’ he asked uncertainly.

‘You got it!’ Jenny said, seemingly
impressed.

‘Okay,’ Morton said, trying to connect the
dots.  ‘So he died in 1959 and the estate passed to his son, George
Mansfield.’

‘Exactly.’  She sounded as though her
answer were sufficient.

‘And it shouldn’t have?’ Morton
ventured.  ‘It should have passed to your mum?’

Jenny looked suspiciously around the
tearoom, then nodded.

‘Why?’

Jenny took a moment to answer, suddenly
appearing nervous.  ‘You’re going to probably find it a bit of a fanciful
tale—wishful thinking on my part—but…’ Another pause.  ‘Take a look at
this.’  Jenny placed a Next carrier bag on the table and carefully
withdrew a stapled A4 document, which she handed to him.

Morton took the pages from her and began
to read.  It was an official document of the British Military—labelled
E.504, Militia Attestation for Cecil Mansfield.  The first page was a
standard admission file for the 3
^rd
Royal Sussex Regiment, noting
Cecil’s residence at Blackfriars, his age of seventeen years and the answers to
various closed questions concerning eligibility to join the military.  The
foot of the first page was signed by him and a witness and dated 2
^nd
February 1897.  Morton flipped to the second page, already having an
inkling as to why Cecil had joined the military at this moment in
history.  The next page was a description of Cecil upon enlistment:

Apparent
age
: 17 years and 3
months

Height
: 5 feet 3 inches

Weight
: 108lbs

Chest
measurement
: 32 inches

Complexion
: Dark

Eyes
: Hazel

Hair
: Ginger red

Religious
denomination
: Church of England

Distinctive
marks and marks indicating congenital peculiarities or previous disease
: None

At
the foot of the second page, Cecil was signed as medically fit by a medical
officer.  Morton remained silent, trying not to make a judgement as to
what this form had to do with Mary Mercer, but rather to digest and understand
the historical information that it contained.  He flipped over to the
third page, which was entitled ‘A Statement of Services of No.7355 Name: C.
Mansfield.’  The sheet noted Cecil’s attestation, embodiment, and finally
his discharge on the 21
^st
October 1902 for being medically
unfit.  The final page in the document concerned his military
history.  As Morton had suspected, Cecil had seen service in South Africa
in 1901 and St Helena from the 15
^th
June 1901 until 11
^th
September 1902, for which had had been awarded the ‘South Africa Medal &
Clasp.’  Under the heading ‘Wounded’, Cecil’s reason for discharge became
clear: ‘Severe G.S. wound to groin.’

‘Initial thoughts?’ Jenny asked when he
finally looked up from the papers.

She really was making him work hard. 
Morton took a mouthful of drink before answering.  ‘Cecil volunteered for
the 3
^rd
Royal Sussex regiment to serve against the South Africans in
the Boer Wars.  He was discharged as medically unfit after a gunshot wound
to the groin,’ he surmised.

Jenny seemed disappointed.  ‘Come on,
you can do better than that,’ she said with a smile.  ‘You’re a forensic
genealogist.’

Morton smiled.  ‘Okay.  I think
you’re implying that a gunshot wound to the groin would preclude him from
having children and since his son, George, was born in 1911, I think you’re
suggesting that he cannot biologically be his.  If that were the case,
then the Mansfield fortunes should have, according to inheritance laws, passed
to your grandmother or mother in 1959.’  Morton suddenly felt on a
roll.  ‘I think you’re working at Blackfriars in the hope of finding proof
of this amongst their archives.’

Jenny smiled.  ‘Pretty well spot on,
yes.’

Morton was still confused.  ‘Right,
so…?’  He let his question hang in the air, allowing Jenny to continue her
story.

‘I’ve done some fairly extensive research
at the National Archives, ferreting around various private papers, unit diaries
and what have you and, although Cecil is never mentioned by name, one
particular battalion commander comes pretty close to a graphic description of
injuries which fit with Cecil.  The injuries he describes would have left
the man in question unable to father a child.’

‘So who do you think is George Mansfield’s
father, then?’

‘That’s one question, but not the one you
need to be asking.  The question you need to ask is, who is George’s mother?’

Morton was taken aback. 
Surely
she isn’t suggesting…
‘Really?’ he said, a little too incredulously.

Jenny shuffled uncomfortably in her seat
and took another glance over her shoulder.  ‘Really.  You might find
it an outlandish theory, but I don’t believe that either Cecil or Philadelphia
were George’s parents.’

‘But he looks so much like them—the hair…’
Morton stopped himself when he realised what he had just said.  Mary
Mercer’s physical description, with her red hair, dark complexion and hazel eyes
matched Cecil’s appearance almost exactly; she would have been perfect to have
been chosen to bear a child with Mansfield features. 
But what about
the father?  His genes could surely have overridden hers? 
He
recalled the photo of Edward Mercer that he had just looked at.  A flash
of feeling, like swallowing a cup of freezing ice-water, fired through Morton’s
insides. 
It couldn’t be…

‘You’re getting it, aren’t you?’ Jenny
said, sipping her tea, but still maintaining eye contact.

‘Jenny, this is one hell of a huge leap
from Cecil
possibly
being unable to have children to Mary Mercer being
George’s biological mother. 
Huge.
  Why was Philadelphia at
least not the mother?’

Jenny shrugged, as if this were an
unimportant point to raise.  ‘I think you know the answer to that because
you suspect who the father might have been.’

‘I think, but have absolutely no evidence
of this, that Mary Mercer was romantically linked with her cousin, Edward
Mercer,’ Morton revealed.

‘Did he look like her?’

Morton withdrew his mobile phone, opened
up the email from Bartholomew Maslow and showed Jenny the hand-tinted photo of
Jack and Edward.  ‘Guess which one’s Edward,’ he said sarcastically.

Jenny grinned.  ‘There you have it,
then.  You’ve answered it for yourself.  Philadelphia wouldn’t have
degraded herself with another man when two people under her own roof and with a
passing resemblance could give them the child they needed to continue the
Mansfield line—keeping it firmly away from my philandering grandfather.’

Something bothered Morton.  ‘How did
you suspect, though, that Mary Mercer was the mother of George?’ Morton asked.

‘I didn’t, until your letter arrived last
week,’ Jenny said, taking another sip of tea.  She rummaged again in her
Next bag, like it was a bag of magic tricks that she could only access if
Morton asked the right questions.  She removed some more sheets of paper
but held on to them while she spoke.  ‘Whilst conducting my own research,
I happened upon this article from 1908—three years after Cecil and Philadelphia
married.’

Morton took the piece of paper.  It
was a photocopy of an extract from the
Sussex Express
and, rather
alarmingly, read strikingly similarly to a mixture of the reports of Edward’s
drowning and Mary’s disappearance.

Suicide
by Drowning

Miss
Florence McDougall, seventeen years of age, was found drowned in the lake of
the Blackfriars estate on Tuesday of last week.  Miss McDougall had been
an employee there for two years but had, according to her employers, been
suffering from depression.  In the days prior, Miss McDougall had
privately threatened to take her own life.  Her lifeless body was spotted
by the head gardener, Mr Charles Phillips, who noticed her distinct red hair on
the water surface.  The Coroner’s jury found that the deceased had
committed suicide whilst of unsound mind.