The Lost Ancestor (26 page)

‘That image—of the poor girl’s red hair
splayed out on the lake at Blackfriars haunted me,’ Jenny said.  ‘Whenever
I see the lake now, I see her hair.’  She paused for a moment.  ‘I
don’t know why, but something about Florence captivated me.  The more I
thought about how Cecil and Philadelphia couldn’t have had a child, the more
obvious it seemed that they would have found someone close by with some
physical characteristics that would throw off suspicion that the child might
not have been theirs.  Anyway, I couldn’t persuade Sidney Mersham to let
me look in the archives, so it was on the back-burner when I received your
letter.’

Morton nodded.  ‘Do you think that
Florence and Mary were
willing
participants?’ he asked, already fearing
the answer.

Jenny screwed up her face.  ‘It
doesn’t seem like it to me.’

‘But if Mary had unwillingly had her child
taken from her and survived—why didn’t she return for him or just not give him
up?’

‘The answer to that might forever be
consigned to the vaults of history, Morton.’

Time passed with neither of them speaking,
both absorbed in their own thoughts.

Morton thought about the Scotland
connection. 
Maybe she went there in order to give birth.  But
then where did she go?  Evidently not the same way of Florence McDougall
and Edward Mercer, since she turned up in Winchelsea in 1962.
  He
considered the letter that Mary had written from Scotland about having done
something which caused sadness, shame and embarrassment. 
Could this be
it?
  It was certainly more substantial than trying on an employer’s
clothes.  Then he considered that he had waltzed into the Mansfield
archives with very few questions.  ‘But why, then, did the current
Mansfields allow me unprecedented access to their archives, when they wouldn’t
even allow their own employee?’ he said.

Jenny smiled.  ‘Have you never heard
of the saying ‘keep your friends close but keep your enemies closer’?’

She had a point.  Then Morton
remembered that Sidney had
not
willingly let him see the Day Book for
the time of Mary’s disappearance—he had only learnt of what had happened that
day through deception.

‘But…’ Morton had too many questions to
know even where to begin.  The theory had more holes in it than a
colander.  ‘Okay.  So, let’s say you’re correct.  How on earth
would we set about proving it?  What we have on paper—concrete
evidence—amounts to nothing at all.  We’d look like a laughing
stock.  I’m taking it you’ve got your eye on a pretty sizeable court
case?’

‘Perhaps.  But that’s a long way down
the line.  You tell me how we proceed from here.’

There was a question.  Morton held
Jenny’s gaze, as he thought about all that he had just been told.  He
hated the fact that there was so little evidence—it went directly against his
whole genealogical ethos.  Yet, despite this, his instincts told him that
Jenny
could
be onto something.  If she were correct, then they
would have one hell of a job proving it.  DNA would be the simplest answer
if he were following a direct male lineage, but the switching between sexes
from Ray Mercer’s generation to Edith and Mary’s parents left only one type of
DNA test available: the autosomal test, which looks at the twenty-two pairs of
non-sex chromosomes.  From what he knew about the test, it was shaky at
best.  As the generations increase, the odds of sharing autosomal DNA
decrease.  Not to mention the fact that no member of the Mansfield family
would willingly agree to a test.  For the moment, Morton ruled out the use
of DNA to prove or disprove the theory, which left him with very few options
for the time being.

‘I think,’ Morton began.  ‘If your
theory is right, then the answer will come when I find out what happened to
Mary.  Speaking of which...’  He glanced at his watch.  He had
arranged to meet with the vicar of Winchelsea in fifteen minutes’ time. 
Whilst most documents pertaining to the church had long ago been transferred to
East Sussex Archives, the vicar had told Morton that a small bundle—mainly comprised
of letters—was still held at the vicarage.  ‘I’ve got an appointment with
the vicar of St Thomas’s church in a moment, so I need to dash.’

Jenny’s eyes lit up.  ‘Bit
presumptuous, but can I come?’ she asked.

Morton was slightly taken aback at the
question.  He usually liked to work alone, although an extra pair of hands
might just be useful on this occasion.  ‘Yeah, sure.  Okay.’

Jenny smiled.  ‘Drink up then.’ 
She finished the last dregs of her tea and stood to pay.

‘Let me get these,’ Morton said, fumbling
for his wallet.

‘Nope.  My treat.  You’re the
only person beside my husband who thinks I’m not totally bonkers.’

‘Okay,’ Morton said, packing up his
belongings.  He held onto the Next carrier bag until Jenny had finished
paying.  ‘Thanks for that.  Here’s your bag.’

‘Keep it—it’s a photocopy of all my
research which is relevant to Mary.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling open the
door and stepping out into the quiet streets.  The bright day had turned
slightly overcast, with thick clouds shielding the sun.

‘I wonder what on earth went on there?’
Jenny said, as she and Morton looked into the churchyard.  The entrances
at each corner were still sealed off with police tape.  It looked as
though the forensic tents were being taken down and the operations scaled
back.  Just one police car and three policemen remained.

Morton grinned.  ‘I might tell you
later.  Come on, let’s go.’  Morton turned to leave when something
caught his eyes.  It was a name on a headstone.  His eyes darted back
to the name carved into the simple grey memorial. 

‘What’s the matter?’ Jenny asked,
realising that Morton was transfixed by the grave.

‘This grave.  It can’t be.’

Jenny leant over and looked.  ‘Martha
Stone, 1890 to 1902.’  Jenny switched her attention to Morton.  ‘Do
you know her?’

Morton nodded.  He knew her
alright.  She was alive and well, living in Canada in the 1920s.  He
needed to think.  Fast.  He quickly took a picture of the grave, then
addressed Jenny.  ‘Let’s go—I might need your help this afternoon. 
I’ll explain later.  For now, we need to go and see this vicar.’

‘Okay,’ Jenny said, sounding slightly
confused.

Morton led Jenny across the street to a
rather grand peg-tile-covered house.  It was detached and had an
immaculate garden filled with bright red roses.  A pink climbing rose with
a thick trunk splayed out across the front of the house.  ‘This is it,’
Morton said, checking the address with what he had scribbled on his
notepad.  He rang the bell and waited.

A moment later, a squat man with white
hair, wearing a cassock and dog collar, opened the door.  ‘Morning,’ he
said cheerfully.  ‘Mr Farrier?’

Morton nodded and shook the vicar’s
hand.  ‘Yes, thank you for seeing me.  This is my friend, Jenny.’

‘Nice to meet you, Jenny,’ he said,
shaking her hand.  ‘Come in.’  The vicar stepped to one side to allow
them in.  ‘I might have to cut this short if I get a visit from our
friends over there.’  He nodded his head over to the church and
sighed.  ‘First time I’ve ever been barred from my own church. 
Terrible business.’  He showed them into a small room at the front of the
house.  It was a simply furnished one, which Morton guessed was used for
parish business rather than personal use.  It had three fabric chairs,
which had seen better days, and a small table.  On the walls was an
assortment of watercolours of scenic views around Sussex.

‘What happened?’ Jenny asked.

‘Murder,’ the vicar said, taking a long
breath.  ‘I don’t know the full extent yet.  A man was shot
dead.  You can’t imagine anyone in this town with a
gun
.’

‘Have they caught the murderer?’ Morton
asked.

The vicar shook his head, making his jowls
shake like a boxer dog.  ‘Not that I know of, no.  It’s terrified my
poor parishioners, I can tell you.’

‘I bet it has,’ Jenny commented.

‘Well,’ the vicar replied, facing Morton,
‘as I said on the phone, we’ve only got a few parish chest bits and pieces but
pretty well everything of importance, official church records, etcetera were
handed over years ago.  It’s mainly letters to and from the diocese. 
Don’t get your hopes up.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Morton said.  ‘Just
checking every avenue.’

‘I won’t be a moment.  Take a
seat.’  The vicar strode from the room, leaving Morton and Jenny to sit at
the table.

‘So, is Martha Stone something to do with
this case you’re working on, then?’ Jenny asked.

‘Possibly.  I need to get to The Keep
pretty quickly after this.  Fancy coming along?’

‘Oh, yes please!’ Jenny said
enthusiastically.

Morton smiled.  ‘I’ll bring you up to
date on our way over.’

The vicar pushed open the door with an
apologetic look on his face.  In his hand was a bundle of papers bound by
a red ribbon.  ‘It really isn’t much,’ he said, setting the bundle down on
the table and proceeding to unpeel the binding.  ‘I’m afraid, for security
reasons, I’m going to have to stay in the room while you look at them.’

‘That’s fine,’ Morton said, leaning over
to inspect the bundle.  He felt like a child in a sweet shop when
presented with historical artefacts, desperate to delve in.  He took the
first document and Jenny took the second.  He could see instantly that the
piece of paper was of no use.  It was simply a letter written from the
diocese to the church about a village event commemoration in 1978.  Morton
set the paper down and took the next, a bundle of papers which he
skim-read.  They were a series of letters about the erection of a tablet
commemorating the life and distinguished service of one of their organists, who
had died in 1948.  Jenny set down her document and took another.

‘I did warn you,’ the vicar said with a
look of slight embarrassment.

‘It’s fine,’ Morton said.  ‘We’re
just very meticulous.’

After ten minutes of fruitless searching,
the end of the pile drew closer when Jenny suddenly sat up straight. 
‘Morton,’ she said, a hint of excitement in her voice.  ‘Look at this.’
She handed over a letter.

‘Dear Rev. Knowles, I am writing to you to
request that you prepare a marriage licence so that I can be married at your
earliest convenience.  I enclose the sum of 7s 6d, which I believe to be
the cost.  I am currently in Scotland with the Mansfield family, but I
would like to marry my fiancée, Mary Mercer as soon after my return to
Winchelsea as possible.  I hope this is all as it should be.  Yours
sincerely, Edward Mercer.’

‘He somebody of interest?’ the vicar
asked, sitting up with curiosity.

‘Very much so,’ Morton replied.  The
letter proved that he and Mary were an item.  They were engaged. 
Marrying by licence often, but not always, implied a rushed marriage. 
Was
Mary pregnant and they were marrying quickly to avoid the scandal of having a
child out of wedlock?
  Morton studied the letter again.  It was
dated Monday 10
^th
April 1911.  It disproved one of Morton’s
initial theories: that Mary had taken herself off to Scotland to be with
Edward.  He can only have learned of her disappearance upon his return
with the rest of the household.  And then he was dead just over a month
later, drowned in the Blackfriars lake, just like Florence McDougall. 
‘Mind if I take a photo of it on my phone?’

‘By all means,’ the vicar answered.

‘Would a copy of the licence exist
somewhere?’ Jenny asked hopefully.

‘I’m guessing that the reason this letter
is still here is because the licence wasn’t granted.  Vicars couldn’t, and
indeed still can’t, issue marriage licences.  This Edward chap of yours
was in such a hurry that he wrote to the wrong place.  The Bishop of
Canterbury would have been the person to issue the licence.  If it had
been granted, then the marriage would likely have taken place soon after. 
Your best bet is to see if they actually married.  The marriage
certificate will tell you if it was after banns had been called or by licence.’

‘They didn’t marry,’ Morton said.

‘Oh, I see.  He seemed keen
enough.  Maybe young Mary wasn’t quite so keen.’

‘Maybe,’ Morton said, not wishing to waste
time conveying the details of the case.

Jenny carefully held the letter whilst
Morton took the picture.

‘Right, let’s finish the bundle and then
we’ll let you get on,’ Jenny said to the vicar.

Morton and Jenny continued looking through
the remaining papers, both working in silence as they considered the
implications of chancing upon Edward’s letter.  They reached the end of
the pile, with no further trace of the Mercers or Mansfields.

Morton thanked the vicar and handed him a
ten-pound note.  ‘For your trouble.’

‘It was no trouble, but thank you,’ the
vicar said, holding the front door open for them.

‘Well—that sure was a discovery!’ Jenny beamed
once they were out of earshot.  ‘That proves that they were a
couple.  And we know they looked alike.’