Morton made it most of the way along the High Street before he passed a single other person, the town having yet to wake from its winter slumber. He continued along to where the High Street seamlessly gave onto East Cliff. His destination, a modest building situated beside the ancient Landgate Arch, drew into sight: Knoops. Stepping under the white canopy bearing the shop name, Morton was relieved to enter the warm building.
‘Ah, good morning,’ the proprietor, Jens Knoop, greeted with a smile from behind the counter.
‘Morning,’ Morton replied, shaking the water from himself like a dog, small puddles forming on the stone floor around him.
‘Lovely day,’ Jens said.
‘Isn’t it just,’ Morton agreed.
‘What can I get you?’ Jens asked, glimpses of an almost-indiscernible Germanic accent coming through.
Morton reached for a napkin and wiped his rain-soaked face. Behind the counter were hanging fifteen clipboards, each of them—headed with numbers ranging from 28% to 100%—indicating a different type of hot chocolate. The best hot chocolate in the world in Morton’s opinion. ‘I’ll go for the 67% today, please,’ he chose. Dark chocolate. Single origin (Madagascar). Notes of liquorice, blueberry and coffee. Even Juliette couldn’t complain about a ‘note of coffee.’
‘Okay,’ Jens replied. ‘And how is your little daughter?’
‘She’s great, thank you. She’ll be a year old in a couple of weeks. God only knows where that time’s gone,’ Morton said, gazing through the misty window panes to the adjoining Landgate Arch, one of his favourite buildings in the town. He often tried to imagine it when it had been built in 1340, giving Rye—then an island—the only connection with land at high tide, its history quietly stowed away behind its thick stone façade, which still served as the main vehicular entrance to the High Street.
Jens smiled as he made the drink. ‘Such a lovely age.’
‘Yes,’ he answered, his thoughts drifting back to Grace’s birth.
Then it struck him that there was one thing which he had failed to add to the gap in the timeline: the birth of Ann’s son, William. Owing to the year, obtaining a birth certificate for him was impossible, but locating his baptism should not be. Morton struggled to recall where the census had said that William had been born.
‘Here you go,’ Jens said, presenting him with a take-away cup. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thanks very much, Jens.’ Morton paid for the drink, said goodbye and, with a renewed burst of energy, hurried out into the wet morning.
He arrived home, kicked off his boots and hung his soaked coat out to dry, then bounded up the stairs to his study. Standing in front of the investigation wall, he took his first sip of the drink, relishing the hot chocolate’s glow slowly pervading through him, gradually warming his insides. Perfection.
Morton removed the 1851 census from the wall, running his finger down to the residents of Honey Pot House: Ann Fothergill, her son and five domestic staff. He traced along the line of William’s details. He was unmarried, aged twenty-six, and his occupation was stated as being ‘assistant publican’. His place of birth was given as Aldington in Kent.
Morton did a quick mental calculation. William had been born around 1825. He had heard of Aldington, but didn’t know much about it. A quick Google search later and he had learned that it was a rural village eight miles outside of Ashford in Kent, situated on a steep escarpment overlooking Romney Marsh, with a population of just over one thousand people. Hoping that Aldington was one of the 127 Kent parishes covered by the FindmyPast record collection, Morton typed in William’s details. He was in luck.
Name: William Fothergill
Baptism date: 2nd July 1825
Relationship: son
Parents: Ann Fothergill, a single woman
Residence: Aldington
Morton noted the new details onto a postcard and added it to the chasm in the timeline. Without a precise date of birth, it was impossible to gauge accurately when William had been conceived. Given that most baptisms occurred at some point within the first three months of a baby’s life, it was likely that William had been conceived in the summer months of 1824. It was reasonable to suppose that he had been conceived in the village of his baptism, Aldington. Morton wrote the village name on his notepad of next steps to pursue.
As he looked at the entirety of the investigation wall, it was hard to imagine Ann’s seismic shift from an illiterate vagrant criminal to a literate wealthy property-owning businesswoman.
The bubble of his thoughts was lanced by the ringing of the home phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi there,’ came the cheerful greeting. It was Jack, his biological father.
‘Hi, Jack—how are you?’ Morton asked, glancing at the clock. ‘You’re up very early.’
‘Best part of the day. Yeah, we’re all good here, thanks. How’s my little granddaughter?’
Morton brought Jack up to date with Grace’s latest exploits, despite the fact that it had only been a handful of days since their most recent video call.
‘So, I got your email,’ Jack started, ‘and just wanted to quickly say that the three of us would like it—if it’s okay with you—to come over for little Grace’s birthday? I mean, she’s my only grandchild, I don’t want to miss it.’
Morton paused, a little too long.
‘Not if it’s a trouble, though,’ Jack added.
‘No, no trouble,’ Morton stammered. ‘Erm… It’s just that… My Aunty Margaret is also planning on coming…’
‘Oh. I see.’
There was another pause in the conversation as the two men weighed up the situation.
‘Well,’ Jack began, ‘I for one would love to see her again, unless you think she wouldn’t like it?’
Morton drew in a long breath. He had no idea whether she would like it, or not. The last time that they had spoken about it, on Christmas Day in 2014, she had made him promise that
