Morton shookthe proffered hand and was relieved to see that he was carrying the preciouscopper box. With all that had occurred recently it wouldn’t havesurprised him to find Dr Garlick dead and the box stolen. ‘Can I get youa coffee or tea?’
‘A coffee wouldbe great, thanks,’ Morton answered, hoping it would taste better than the awfulstuff from the hospital vending machine.
‘Julie, acoffee for Mr Farrier and a peppermint tea for me, please,’ he called across tothe receptionist, who suddenly lost her smile. ‘Would you like to take aseat over there?’ he said, indicating an area with a coconut plant and fourcomfy chairs. ‘Very interesting one, this,’ he said, holding up thebox. Morton had a moment’s fear that his nightmare might have been déjàvu and he was about to witness Dr Garlick’s sudden mutation into DanielDunk.
‘So you’veidentified the arms then?’ Morton asked, being slightly perturbed by the factthat Dr Garlick’s stomach was resting on his thighs. It seemed so oddthat his thin and pasty father was lying in a hospital bed after a heart attackwhile a giant bulb of garlic waddled around Canterbury without a care in theworld. If Morton had been closer to his father he might have thought itunfair. Instead he just thought it odd.
‘Yes,’ DrGarlick said, but there was a tentative edge to his voice. ‘Though thereis some confusion.’ Isn’t there always? It seemed thatnothing was straightforward with the Coldrick Case. He struggledto remember what a normal genealogy job was like anymore. Certainly notthis one. ‘It belongs to the Windsor-Sackville family,’ Dr Garlick said,pausing for Morton’s reaction.
‘Really?’ wasall Morton could think to say, as he processed the information. Heremembered that the Windsor-Sackvilles were the patrons of St George’sChildren’s Home, where James Coldrick had lived as a child. Was James giventhe copper box? Did he steal it? Did all the childrenreceive one as some kind of leaving gift?
‘It wasproduced circa nineteen forty-five and belongs to the current Sir David JamesPeregrine Windsor-Sackville,’ he said, before clarifying, ‘the father of ourSecretary of Defence.’
‘Current? He’s still alive?’
‘As far as Iknow. He must be in his nineties by now, though.’
‘Is thissomething that could’ve been mass-produced?’
Dr Garlickshook his head vehemently. ‘No. Perhaps two or three were made, butmore than likely just this one. Worth a pretty penny, too, I shouldn’twonder. If you are thinking of selling it, though, don’t just stick it onthat eBay place for goodness’ sake.’ Dr Garlick laughed, but at whatMorton wasn’t sure.
Thereceptionist returned carrying a metal tray with Dr Garlick’s peppermint tea, ablack coffee, bowl of mixed sugar lumps and a small pot of milk. She setthe tray down wordlessly and flounced back over to her desk.
‘Helpyourself,’ Dr Garlick said.
‘Thanks.’ Hestirred in two sugars and some milk and took a sip. Filtered. Muchbetter than the Conquest Hospital. ‘You said there was some confusion?’
‘Yes. Look,’ Dr Garlick said, moving the box between them. ‘This half of thearmorial achievement, with all the expected brisures and what have you, is pureWindsor-Sackville, dating back many generations. We know that it has tobelong to Sir David because it bears his mother’s arms within it. What wedon’t know, none of us here knows, is who the other half belongsto. Are you up on your Windsor-Sackville history?’
‘Er, no, notreally.’
‘Well, DavidWindsor-Sackville married Maria Charlotte Spencer, distant relative of LadyDiana Spencer in 1945, yet this isn’t her family arms,’ Dr Garlick said,handing Morton a sheet of paper. ‘That is the coat of arms ofDavid and Maria Windsor-Sackville, registered with the College of Arms soonafter their marriage.’ Morton compared the two coats of arms. Onlyhalf of each shield matched the other.
‘What does itmean?’ Morton asked, repeating a question that had haunted him for the pastweek. Nothing made sense.
Dr Garlickshrugged. ‘I’m afraid my colleagues and I are at a loss over it. Taking an educated guess, it’s possible that it was produced for Sir David’smarriage to someone else but who that is, we’ve no idea. He certainly didonly marry the once – I’ve double-checked the official records.’
‘And did youfind anything under the Coldrick name at all?’ Morton asked, hoping that histhirty pounds an hour of research fees had gone on something more than onepiece of paper and yet more uncertainty.
‘Nothing, I’mafraid. The name isn’t registered at all. Ever.’
Morton neededhis best friend and saviour, Google, and he needed it now. He downed thehot coffee, thanked Dr Garlick for his time and handed over a cheque for ahundred and eighty pounds - surely a world record for a photocopy of theWindsor-Sackville coat of arms.
Outside, allsigns of the last two days’ inclement weather had completely passed. Morton took off his jacket and buried the copper box inside it and made a beelinefor his car.
When he reachedthe Mini he called the Conquest Hospital for an update on his father and anurse on the assessment ward told him that there had been no change in hiscondition. Some mercy, he supposed.
Morton parked on the drive behindJuliette’s car. He looked at his watch curiously. She wasn’t due tofinish work for another hour. Hurrying up the stairs into the lounge, hefound her in uniform, frowning, contemplative and staring at the loungefloor. Something had happened. It had to be his father. Thehospital must have called whilst he was driving home. Part of him didn’twant to ask. But he had to know. ‘What is it?’ She met hisgaze and he saw that she had been crying.
She shook herhead.
‘It’s myfather, isn’t it?’
‘What? No, I don’t know anything about your dad. I was hoping you were going totell me.’
‘He’s stable atthe moment. They’re running every test known to man and he’s rigged up todrips, heart monitors and God knows what. I’m going back up later tonightwith some bits from his house.’
‘I’ll come withyou.’
‘Fine. What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve beensuspended.’
‘What? What for?’
‘Accessingprohibited information,’ she said, her voice on the cusp of an angryoutburst. Morton knew he needed to tread very carefully.
‘The numberplate?’
She nodded,then prolonged his agony by saying nothing more except, ‘I have to go back infor an interview at some point.’
‘And?’
‘The BMW’sregistered to Olivia Walker,’ she said.
‘OliviaWalker?’ Morton repeated. He knew the name, but couldn’t place
