The Lost Ancestor (32 page)

Morton
was paralysed to the spot with fear.  Every muscle was frozen.  He didn’t
do well in fight or flight situations such as this.  He focussed on
Juliette’s puffy red eyes.  She had been crying but didn’t look
hurt.  He tried to think what she would do if the situation were
reversed.  Negotiate.  Be nice to him.  Buy time.

‘You finally turned up, Mr Farrier,’ Mark
Drury laughed.  ‘Your poor old bird here has been waiting ages for
ya.’  He lowered his head towards Juliette’s face.  ‘He must have
gone the wrong way back from that big library place in Falmer.  Or, do you
reckon he’s got another woman on the go somewhere?’’  Mark grinned. 
‘Expect you’ll be glad when I’ve shot him.’  He laughed in a hollow,
exaggerated way.

Juliette squirmed in her seat and tried to
speak, but all that came out was a muffled, nonsensical sound.

‘What is it you want?’ Morton asked,
trying his hardest to stay calm.  ‘Money?’

‘Naa,’ Mark answered.  ‘Cup of tea
maybe.  But don’t worry, I’ll make it myself when I’ve finished
here.’  He laughed again and drew a quantity of phlegm from his nose.

That was when Morton was able to place
from where he knew him.

‘I ain’t come for nothing except to kill
you.  Don’t get much simpler than that, really, does it?  It was a
bit of a surprise finding
her
here, so I’ll have to take her out as
well, but never mind.’

‘Please—I can get you money—lots of money
for you to just walk away,’ Morton pleaded, his eyes darting around the room
for something—anything—with which to hit the assailant if it came to it. 
He was almost certain that negotiation would fail and he would need to take
action to keep him and Juliette alive.

‘I told ya, I ain’t here for money. 
You or her first?’ Mark asked.

Morton’s brain was racing at lightning
speed, as he tried to work out what to do next for the best.  From past
experience, fighting wasn’t a great option and so far he could see nothing in
the room that could be used as a weapon.

‘I asked you a question—you or her first?’
Mark shouted.

‘Er… me,’ Morton stammered.  ‘But
before you do it, could you answer me one question?’

‘No,’ Mark said with another laugh.

Morton was running out of time.  ‘I
know you work as a security guard at Blackfriars, so I assume the order came
from there…’  Morton let his words hang in the air, hoping that it would
catch the intruder off-guard.  He remembered that Juliette had said he was
hapless and not a very good shot.  Morton had quickly assimilated a hasty
plan and it relied very heavily on that information’s being correct.

‘How do you know I work there?’ Mark
asked, lowering the gun slightly.

‘I’ve seen you there.  Was it Lord
Rothborne that sent you to do his dirty work?’

Mark scowled.  ‘No, he ain’t got a
clue about none of this.’

‘Who then?’ Morton persisted.

Mark sniffed and smiled.  ‘Suppose
there’s something quite poetic about the last words you hear being the name of
the person who wants you dead.’  Mark laughed again.

Morton saw his chance.

With all the power he could muster, he
launched his laptop from under his arm, aiming straight for the assailant’s
hand which held the weapon.  The laptop flew through the air.  Mark
saw what was happening a moment too late, raised the gun to take a shot, just
as the laptop cracked down on his wrist.  He squeezed the trigger and the
barrel flipped upwards in a jerking motion, as the bullet glanced his forehead
and penetrated the ceiling.  The gun tumbled from Mark’s hand and fell to
the floor.  Both Mark and Morton dived for it, but Mark, being closer, had
the advantage and his hand reached out towards the hand grip.

Morton watched as, in a flash, Juliette
rocked her chair from one side then to the next, sending herself crashing down
onto the intruder.  It was enough to buy Morton a few precious
seconds.  He reached down, grabbed the gun and backed himself away to the
door.

With a hulking shove, Mark pushed Juliette
off him; her head hit the floor with a painful thud.  ‘You ain’t going to
use that,’ Mark sneered.  ‘Go on, shoot me.’

‘Stay where you are,’ Morton shouted.

Mark slowly began to pull himself up until
he was standing.

‘I said don’t move,’ Morton yelled.

Still Mark ignored him, a loutish grin
wide on his face and made a step towards him.

Morton knew that he had to act but he also
knew that he couldn’t bring himself to actually kill someone.  He lowered
the gun slightly and pulled the trigger. 

Mark let out an agonising scream as the
bullet passed into his right foot.

‘Sit down or I’ll shoot your other foot,’
Morton warned, surprising himself with the commanding authority in his voice.

Mark fell to the floor clutching his foot,
moaning and writhing in pain.

Morton, with the gun pointing at Mark,
carefully stepped over to Juliette and removed the gag from her mouth. 
She gasped and drew in a great lungful of air.  ‘Are you okay?  Did
he hurt you?’

‘I’m fine, a little bit dazed from hitting
the floor just then,’ she said.

Morton moved behind the chair and began to
untie the rope.  Moments later, Juliette was freed and Morton offered her
the gun.

‘You keep it, you did a really good job,
Morton.  I’ll phone the police.’

‘Hang on a moment,’ Morton directed. 
He had suddenly became aware of the vast quantities of adrenalin rushing around
his body and he felt his limbs begin to quiver.  He definitely was not
suited to a career in law enforcement.  However, he wanted to make one
final use of his power.  

Juliette looked at him in surprise. 
‘What are you going to do?’

‘Shoot him and plead self-defence,’ Morton
said firmly.

‘But…’ Juliette began, ‘you can’t. 
Don’t!’

Morton aimed the gun at the assailant.

‘Stop!’ Juliette shouted.

Mark looked up pitifully, having removed
his shoe and sock he was now cradling his foot in his arm, as though it were a
new-born baby.  Wet streaks coursed down his cheeks.  ‘Please, don’t
shoot me.’

‘Who sent you?’ Morton demanded.

Mark needed no extra threats. 
‘Daphne Mansfield.’

‘Why?’ Morton asked.  He already knew
the answer.

‘She didn’t tell me the ins-and-outs of
it, just that she wanted to protect the next generations of Mansfields at
Blackfriars.  That’s all I know.  Honest.’

Morton nodded to Juliette and she called
the police.

It was game over for Mark Drury.

Four
hours had passed since the drama had ended and the police had carted Mark Drury
away.  Lying in his dark bedroom with only a glimmer of moonlight creating
bizarre shadows and shapes on the ceiling, Morton was wide awake. 
Juliette was sleeping peacefully beside him, as if being taken hostage and
threatened with a gun was just another ordinary day.  He supposed that it
was the kind of situation for which she was being trained.  She had fallen
asleep within seconds of her head hitting the pillow and now Morton was left
wide awake, mulling over the latest developments in the Mercer Case
. 
He
remembered, then, that Jenny was going to send over the certificates for George
Mansfield’s birth, marriage and death.  He could easily and quickly have
checked his emails on his phone, but he convinced himself to head back up to
his study to look at them on his laptop in the context of the whole case.

Having made himself a decaf coffee, Morton
made his way to his study.  With a slight trepidation, he pushed open the
door and switched on the light.  The violent scenes from earlier in the
day, made manifest in the blood-stained carpet, replayed in his mind and he
considered just how close he and Juliette had come to being seriously injured
or worse.  Although Juliette and the armed police who stormed the house
all praised his actions and bravery, in reality he knew that his survival was
more down to Mark Drury’s incompetence than his own gallantry.

With his laptop fired up and thankfully
unharmed from being launched at Mark, Morton opened his emails and sipped his
coffee.  Above an email with attachments from Jenny were two other
emails.  He started at the top and worked his way down.  The first
email was from a Thomas Day. 
Dear Morton, I received your letter about
my grandmother, Joan Leigh, with great interest.  I have been researching
the family tree for a number of years now, so take an active interest in such
things!  My grandmother died before I was born, so I only have a limited
amount of information on her and scant amount for the precise period you are
researching.  I attach a photo of Joan in her servant’s outfit, which
would have been taken around 1914.  From what I can gather from my mother
,
Joan wasn’t overly keen on her time at Blackfriars and was ready to leave
when she met my grandfather, Andrew Day in 1915.  I’m not sure this is of
any use to you, but I wish you luck in your search!  Yours faithfully,
Thomas Day.

Morton opened the attachment of Joan Leigh
in her uniform.  She was standing beside a man dressed in a First World
War soldier’s uniform, which confirmed that the picture had little value for
the Mercer Case
,
although Morton always appreciated putting a face to a
name.  He printed the picture and added it to the wall under Joan’s name.

The next email was from a Henry
Goacher. 
Hello Morton!  Received your letter about my granny,
Clara Ellingham.  Dear old lady, she was.  You’re in luck! 
Granny kept a diary her whole life and, much to my wife’s consternation, I have
a whole bookcase full of them!  I’ve always intended to publish them one
day as a kind of social history—perhaps when I retire.  Anyway, I’ve had a
good look through the diary for 1911 and Granny makes several mentions of your
Mary Mercer—is she a relation of yours?  I have scanned and (hopefully)
attached the relevant pages.  All for now, Hen Goacher.

Morton found himself holding his breath as
he clicked to download the seven attachments, each entry saved as a
photo.  Onscreen appeared the first entry, written in a typical Edwardian
scrawl.  It took a moment for Morton to break into the style and letter
formation before he could read each entry.  He scanned for any salient
elements.

3
^rd
Jan.
  The short time having my own bedroom is now
over.  A new girl, Mary Mercer has started as third housemaid.  Seems
nice enough but no previous experience.  Her sewing is awful!  Still,
good to have a bit of company in the evenings I suppose.

18
^th
Jan.
  Mary Mercer really is a mischievous one!  Today
she was caught in Lord Rothborne’s bed!  Fortunately he was not in it at
the time…

30
^th
Jan.
Mary really has been down of late.  She hasn’t taken
well to being a domestic servant—think she has dreams and ideas above her
station.  I’m having a great difficulty getting off to sleep owing to her
constant crying at bedtime.

8
^th
Feb.
Found a note under Mary’s pillow from her cousin, Edward
declaring his love!  Hopefully now she might cheer up a little. 
Whispered my discovery to Eliza but that wretched scullery-maid, Joan,
overheard and has been teasing Mary.

10
^th
Feb.
  Mary confided in me today that Edward took her to the
folly the other night and proposed!  How delightful. 

5
^th
April.
  I’ve got a growing suspicion that
Mary might be in the family way.  I haven’t spoken to her about it, but
she is much more guarded when changing and the last few mornings she has been
ill.  Do hope not, for her sake.

15
^th
April.
  Returned from a great time in
Scotland.  Bit of a to-do at B’friars—Mary’s packed up and gone. 
Vanished.  She didn’t go home and now Edward’s sick with worry—even
organised search parties to look for her.  Eliza and I joined in, a little
half-heartedly I must confess, but to no avail.  Guess she’s run off
somewhere—maybe to have the baby in peace?

Morton
printed each entry then re-read them.  They added further proof that Mary
and Edward were an item and gave further credence to the idea that Mary was
pregnant by April 1911.  Morton stuck the sheets to the wall, then clicked
to open the last email—the one from Jenny Greenwood. 
Here they
are!  Had such a lovely day—please keep me posted!! Jenny x
.  He
opened the three certificates, paying the closest attention to George’s birth
certificate.  He had been born 1
^st
November 1911 to Cecil and
Philadelphia Mansfield.  As he went to stick it to the wall, Morton
noticed the timeline that he and Juliette had created.  Just then, another
key piece of the jigsaw fell into place.  He couldn’t quite believe what
he was seeing; the Mercer Case had just taken another twist.