The Lost Ancestor (31 page)

‘How’s work?’
his father asked.

‘Great, thank
you.  I’m working on a really interesting case at the moment,’ Morton
began.  Ever since his last high-profile case, his father had suddenly sat
up with interest.  He had even told the neighbours with a hint of pride
that his son was the forensic genealogist who had brought down the
Windsor-Sackville family.  Up until then he had regarded Morton’s career
with derision and open scorn.

‘Go on,’ his
father encouraged.

Morton recounted
the highlights of the case, carefully choosing the parts which sounded the most
exciting.

His father
looked impressed.  ‘Very enthralling.’

With his story
over, a slight pause hung in the air, as both men sipped their drinks. 
Morton used the gap in conversation to broach the subject of Aunty
Margaret. 
Here’s where it all goes horribly wrong,
Morton
thought.  But he had to do it.  The past would forever have a grip on
him until he began to resolve the issue.  Forever delaying meeting Aunty
Margaret was not an option.  Neither was discussing at his brother’s
wedding, her rape at the age of sixteen.  Even worse would be to pretend
that nothing had changed.  ‘I wanted to ask you something about the
wedding,’ Morton ventured carefully.  ‘I…I’m not sure about what I can say
to Aunty Margaret…’  Suddenly, his mouth had dried and he struggled to
swallow.

‘She very much
doubts she’ll be coming to the wedding,’ his father said flatly.

‘Oh?’ Morton
said.

‘She’s got lady
troubles,’ he said, with an indistinct gesture towards his waist.  ‘She’s
due to have a big operation in a few weeks to… sort it all out.  She’s
been told she can’t do much for about six weeks, so unless the operation gets
moved, the wedding’s sadly out of the question.’

Morton wasn’t
sure how to process the news that his Aunty Margaret wouldn’t be at the
wedding.  On the one hand, he was greatly relieved that there would be no
awkwardness between them and he could just relax and enjoy the occasion. 
On the other hand, it was delaying the inevitable.  He would have to see
her again one day…

A short silence
began to draw out, gradually emphasising the elephant in the room to which
Morton had just referred.  He felt as though someone was slowly strangling
him from behind, pressing and squashing his vocal chords. 
Say
it! 
But no words would come.  He looked over at his father and
waited for him to swallow his mouthful of tea.  Finally, their eyes
locked. 
Say it!

‘I expect you’re
dithering around asking me what she knows,’ his father said, unexpectedly.

Morton nodded,
still unable to speak.

His father set
down his tea and cleared his throat.  ‘I told her about the situation when
I got out of hospital last year; she knows everything,’ he said.

Morton waited
for more to follow, but, true to form, his father felt that no further explanation
was required.  It struck him as interesting that he had heard nothing from
her since being told—just the usual Christmas card with the annual syrupy
round-robin letter to tell everyone how their family had fared during the past
year.  It definitely didn’t include the lines ‘Discovered that my nephew,
who is actually my biological son, now knows the truth!’ 
Did that mean
she had taken the news badly? 
He had to ask, as painful and
uncomfortable as it might be for his father.  ‘How did she take it?’ he
asked quietly. 

  ‘She was
a bit upset at first,’ he said.  ‘She needed time—I think she still
does.  Her main worry is that you understand her reasons.  I assured
her that you understood.’  He looked seriously at Morton.  ‘You do
understand, don’t you, Morton?’

Morton nodded
that he understood, although deep down he didn’t know
how
he felt about
it.  The bottom line, despite all the reasons offered, was that his own
biological mother had abandoned him at birth and, as far as she was concerned,
wanted nothing maternally to do with him.  She had then gone on to have
her own two daughters.  As a forensic genealogist, he couldn’t ignore the
facts.

His father
smiled.  ‘Then that’s it—everything’s fine.  Back to normal.’

But it wasn’t
fine.  And it wasn’t back to normal.  Before he could ask any more
questions, his father swiftly changed the subject.

‘How’s
Juliette?’

And that was it,
subject changed.  Morton knew better than to steer his father back to the
previous conversation, so he accepted it.  ‘She’s fine, getting on well
with her police training.’

‘Oh right. 
Tell me about it.’

An hour later, just as dusk began to
stretch and pull at the shadows, Morton stepped into his front door. 
‘Hi,’ he called out, kicking off his shoes.  There was no answer and the
house was quiet. 
She’s probably asleep on the sofa.  Or gone out
for a jog or to get something for dinner.
  With his laptop under his
arm, Morton stuck his head into the lounge.  The room was empty, so he
pulled out his mobile and tapped out a quick text. 
Home.  Where
are you? xx
  He clicked ‘send’ and began to make his way up to the
study.  He probably had a few minutes to get a bit more done on the Mercer
Case before she returned.  He was quite looking forward to adding all the
new details to his study wall.  Just then, he heard Juliette’s phone beep
upstairs.  She was in the study.

Morton padded up to the top
of the stairs.  The study door was slightly ajar.  He pushed it
open.  ‘Hi…’ he said, then stopped quickly.  Juliette was sitting in
his office chair, bound with blue rope, her mouth gagged with tape. 
Standing over her, with a vulgar grin on his face, was a man he recognised but
couldn’t immediately place.  He held a gun to Juliette’s temple.  She
was trying to appear threatening and defiant but Morton could see the terror in
her eyes.

Wednesday 1
^st
November 1911

It was working.  Her astute plan was
working.  The future of the Mansfield family was being secured, their
tenure on Blackfriars and their centuries-long high standing in society would
continue for generations to come.  A Mansfield baby—God-willing, a boy—was
due imminently.  Lady Rothborne was alone in her room, perched nervously
at the edge of her bed, waiting.  She had eaten nothing all day and her
stomach was starting to cramp. 
When will there be news?
Dr
Leyden was called to Philadelphia’s room more than an hour ago.  There
must surely be something to report,
she thought.  She had personally
requested that Dr Leyden himself keep her updated with news of the
arrival.  As time passed, she began to fear the worst. 
What if
there were complications?
  She strengthened herself and sat up
straight.  She needed to exercise patience.

And, sure
enough, her patience paid off when, forty minutes later, there was a light
tapping at the door.  Lady Rothborne smiled a small, faint smile. 
‘Come in.’ 

An incensed
snarl beset her face when she was not greeted by Dr Leyden, but by Mr
Risler.  ‘I specifically asked not to be disturbed,’ she growled.

Mr Risler
lowered his head deferentially.  ‘I do apologise, Lady Rothborne.  I
thought it prudent to keep you informed of some developments.’

Lady Rothborne
stood, her body rigid and commanding, despite her aging years. 
‘Developments?’

‘Your nephew,
Frederick Mansfield, has arrived unexpectedly.  He seems under the
influence of alcohol and is most insistent at being present at the birth.’

Lady Rothborne
felt her pulse quicken and her throat tighten.  ‘That’s the most absurd,
disgusting idea that I have ever heard.  Disgraceful man.  Alert Lord
Rothborne and request that he get rid of him at once.’

‘Yes, Your
Ladyship,’ Mr Risler said.

Turning her back
to the door, Lady Rothborne began to make her way to the window.  When her
bedroom door did not shut, she turned to see Mr Risler still standing there
with an apologetic look on his face.  ‘What is it?’ she demanded.

‘There’s
something else,’ Mr Risler began.  ‘Mrs Caroline Ransom is in the kitchen
demanding to see a member of the family.’

Lady Rothborne
scowled.  ‘Tell her to go away.  Who is she?  Demanding to see
one of the family.  Why did you even entertain such a person,
Risler?  And on such a day as today.’

‘She’s the
sister of Miss Mercer,’ Mr Risler said, shifting uncomfortably.  ‘She’s
under the impression that Miss Mercer is here and is expecting a child at any
moment.’

Lady Rothborne’s
perfect poise faltered and she stumbled.

‘Your ladyship,’
Mr Risler called, hurrying to her aid.

‘Get off,’ she
scolded, sitting herself down on the bed.  ‘Who knows that she’s here?’

‘Just myself and
Monsieur Bastion at the moment.’

‘Take her to the
library and see to it that nobody is made aware of her visit.  I will
speak with her presently.  I trust that is all the
developments
?’

‘Yes, Lady
Rothborne.’ Mr Risler bowed his head and backed from the room.

Clenching her fists to control a slight
tremble that had wracked her whole body, Lady Rothborne stood stoically. 
She knew that in the next few minutes, the fate of her family’s future would be
sealed: history was about to be written.

Elegantly and gracefully,
Lady Rothborne left her room.  From the disturbance emanating from the
floor below, she surmised that Cecil had been unable to prevent her dreadful
nephew from reaching Philadelphia’s chamber.  She prayed that she was not
too late.

Standing outside
Philadelphia’s bedroom, her disapproving eyes fell upon Frederick with his open
shirt, dishevelled hair and a general stench of fetid alcohol.  He was
grinning from ear to ear, as if he had just been told the greatest joke on
earth.  Behind him, forcing one arm bent back between his shoulder blades,
stood his angry cousin, Cecil.

‘Hello dearest Aunt,’
Frederick slurred.  ‘I’ve come to pay my respects.’  With a wriggle
and a fierce wrench, Frederick released himself from Cecil’s grip.

With the force of an angry
bull, Lady Rothborne strode to Philadelphia’s door.  ‘You will
not
be permitted entry into a lady’s boudoir in this house at any time,’ she
hissed.  ‘You most certainly will
never
be permitted entry when
such an intimate event is taking place.  Your father would be disgusted.’
Lady Rothborne stood tall and firm in front of Philadelphia’s bedroom door.

‘Ouch!’ Frederick moaned,
turning back towards Cecil.  ‘No need to be so brutal, Cousin
dearest.  I just wanted to wish my dear Philly well.’

‘It is uncouth, it is vulgar
and it is
not
going to happen,’ Lady Rothborne ranted.  ‘Kindly
take to your room with a glass of water for a few hours.’

The distinct burst of a
new-born baby’s cry resounded from the bedroom, cutting through the
commotion.  Everyone stopped and stared as a happy sweat-covered Dr Leyden
pulled open the door.  ‘A boy,’ he said breathlessly.  ‘Come and meet
him.’ 

A subtle nod of the head by
Dr Leyden at Lady Rothborne told her that she could permit Frederick’s entry
into the room.

Lady Rothborne, Frederick
and Cecil walked behind Dr Leyden into the bedroom.  Looking hot and
tired, Philadelphia sat up in bed carefully cradling her new baby in her
arms.  She was smiling and seemed oblivious to the new arrivals.

Lady Rothborne heaved a sigh
of relief when she saw the tiny baby with its small tuft of bright red
hair.  A boy.  A Mansfield boy in fine health.  Under normal
circumstances, she might have allowed herself to shed a tear but there was
still work to be done.  Only part of the story was written.

Cecil rushed to his wife’s
side and gently kissed her on the lips, before kissing his new-born son.

Lady Rothborne turned her
attention to Frederick.  He was transfixed by the baby and all the colour
had drained from his face.  ‘I think it’s time you left Blackfriars,’ she
said quietly.  ‘For good.  No more impromptu visits.  No more
annuities.  You need to stand on your own two feet.  Goodbye,
Frederick.’  She determined right there and then, that the family would no
longer suffer this man.

Frederick opened his mouth
as if to speak, but nothing came out.  He staggered from the room,
slamming the door behind him.

The baby screamed his
startled response and Lady Rothborne smiled.  Her next problem was
Caroline Ransom.

Mrs Cuff sat in the servants’ hall beside
Risler’s vacant seat.  All the other servants were seated and silent, just
as she had demanded them to be.  Mrs Cuff stared at her empty plate. 
She had requested no food when the under-butler had offered it.  She felt
sick and had no appetite.  The mood amongst the servants was, after many
months of despondency and sorrow following Edward Mercer’s death, positively
euphoric.  Even the generally more glum staff were delighted at the
prospect of a new baby arriving at Blackfriars.  The older members
recalled that the last birth had been with Lord Cecil himself, way back in
1880.  Before she had ordered silence, there had been excited talk of
parties, champagne and extra holiday days.  She couldn’t stand it. 
The euphoria was based on a horrible, sordid lie.  After what had happened
to Edward when she had told him the truth, Mrs Cuff had vowed to keep silent on
the matter and allow events to evolve and unfold without her
interference.  But this morning, with all the hype and excitement rippling
and bubbling through the hierarchies of the house, she could take the
disgusting ruse no longer and had slipped unnoticed out of the house to the
Mercer household.

Mary’s older
sister, Caroline had answered the door with a grimace.  ‘What?’

Mrs Cuff had
looked uncertainly at the surly, unwelcoming face and turned to leave.

‘What do you
want?’ Caroline had called after her.

Mrs Cuff had
stopped and knew she just needed to say it.  Come what may, she needed to
unburden herself.  She had moved closer to Caroline and lowered her
voice.  ‘I know something about Mary.  May I come in?’

Caroline had
shown Mrs Cuff into the tiny sitting-room and directed her to a chair.

‘Mary’s in
Scotland.  What about it?’ Caroline had barked.

Mrs Cuff, for
many reasons, had needed this to be over quickly.  She had had no time or
desire to discuss the subject in detail.  ‘Mary’s being held—I believe
against her will—at Blackfriars.  Any moment now she’s going to give birth
and the baby will be kept by Lord and Lady Rothborne, who are unable to have
children of their own.’

Caroline, as
expected, had been stunned into shocked silence.

Mrs Cuff was
brought back to her present surroundings in the servants’ hall by the gentle
thud of the door closing and heavy footsteps heading towards her.  She
looked up and saw the beaming face of Mr Risler.

The sound of
wood scraping stone resounded around the room as the servants pushed their
chairs back to stand for the entrance of the butler.

Mr Risler
indicated that they could sit.  ‘I have some wonderful, delightful news!’
he chirped.  ‘It is my great pleasure to announce the safe arrival of
Master George Richard Mansfield.’

Mrs Cuff smiled,
unable to look anybody in the eyes and joined in with the chorus of clapping
and cheering that erupted around the room.

‘On this
occasion…’ Mr Risler began to say over the din, but nobody was listening. 
Talk had returned to parties and time off.  Mr Risler bent down and spoke
to Mrs Cuff.  ‘I was going to say, on this occasion they would be
permitted to talk!’

Mrs Cuff offered
a weak, pathetic smile.

‘Not excited
about the news, Mrs Cuff?’ Mr Risler asked, raising a knowing eyebrow.

‘Of course,’ she
answered flatly.  Any moment now, the Mercer family—maybe even the
police—would arrive and stop this awful charade.