The Lost Ancestor
by
Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan DylanGoodwin 2014
Nathan Dylan Goodwin hasasserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998 to beidentified as the author of this work.
This story is a work offiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imaginationand any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirelycoincidental.
All rightsreserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in aretrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission inwriting of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition thatit shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, orotherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding,cover or other eformat, including this condition being imposed on thesubsequent purchaser.
I would like to dedicatethis book to
Robert, Sarah andHarrison
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Biography
Chapter One
MortonFarrier was impressed. He had known that, when he was given an address onthe exclusive Granville Road in St Margaret at Cliffe, he would find himselfenvious but the house outside of which he had just parked was nothing short ofstunning. It was centred among a row of disparate and elite properties,the homes and second homes of the rich and fortunate. The village,perched high on the white cliffs of Kent between Deal and Dover, overlooked theinvisible marine boundary of the English Channel and the North Sea and had, sinceVictorian times, attracted wealth and prosperity. Whatever the occupationof the house’s owner, he had to be earning a decent salary.
Morton stepped from his red and white Miniand took a good look at the house. Protected by black iron gates and acherry-laurel hedge, the pristine white-walled and oak-window-framed propertywas dominated by a sumptuous three-storey panel of glass, set in a concavesemi-circle.
Given the apparent luxury of the place,Morton was surprised to be able simply to pull open the gates and head up thedrive unhindered by video entry systems or guard dogs. Pressing thedoorbell, he waited as it chimed noisily inside. A few moments later, theblurred shadow of a figure moved towards the frosted glass. The dooropened, revealing a tall, slender man with an affable, pleasant face. Wearing an expensive-looking shirt and dark trousers, the man smiled andoffered his hand to Morton. His hair was stone-grey, thinned at thecentre and deep lines were etched on his forehead and around the corners of hiseyes; Morton guessed him to be in his mid-seventies.
‘Mr Mercer?’ Morton asked, shaking theproffered hand vigorously.
‘Ray,' he said warmly. 'You must beMorton Farrier? You look familiar from the newspapers a few monthsago. Come on in.'
‘Thank you,’ he answered,preferring not to discuss a previous case which had made the national headlinesafter it had led to the downfall of a prominent aristocratic family, thesacking of an upcoming police chief and the imprisonment of a murderer. The upshot of that high profile case was that Morton was afforded the luxury ofcherry-picking from prospective genealogical assignments. The intriguingemail which had arrived in his inbox three days ago from Ray Mercer had piquedhis interest sufficiently to warrant a meeting.
Morton followed Ray through an opulenthallway. Fractured light filtered in through the large, floor-to-ceilingwindows, illuminating the marble flooring. The vast hallway fed an openstaircase and a network of oak doors, some offering Morton revealing glimpsesof the luxurious rooms within. Ray pulled open one of the doors, whichled into a sizeable, rectangular room with one wall being made entirely ofglass, offering a breathtaking view of the English Channel.
‘Wow!’ Morton said, heading towards thewindow. ‘Fantastic view.’ In the hazy distance the rugged cliffs ofthe Nord-Pas de Calais rose over the Channel, busy with giant whitepassenger ships coming and going between Dover and Calais.
Ray, arms folded contemplatively, joinedMorton and stared out to the distant sea. ‘Not bad, is it? I cameback here to retire a few years ago. I’ll never get bored with it—alwayssomething different or new to appreciate. When I was designing the house,I spent an age fussing over artwork for the walls. Then I realised thatif I just had a decent window, Mother Nature would paint me a new picture everyday and there would be no need for anything else.’
‘It certainly is lovely,’ Morton said,taking in the whole room. The three remaining walls were lined withbookshelves. Besides that, the room was minimalistic in its furnishing: aselection of silver-framed photographs stood on a desk in the centre of theroom with two leather chairs neatly placed either side of the desk. Agrand piano completed the room’s furniture.
Ray turned to Morton. ‘You can seewhy they called it Hellfire Corner around here during the last war, withFrance being so close.’
‘Didn’t the Nazis have gunsstationed in northern France which could reach here?’
‘That’s right. I was born in a smallcottage just down the road from here in 1935. My earliest memories are ofwar: searchlights over the Channel, guns banging, planes dog-fighting overhead,bombs landing nearby, Jerry pilots being frogmarched by the Home Guard past ourhouse.’
‘Must have been scary for a young boy.’
‘Well, it was all boys’ adventure stuff atfirst. Then Hitler put the V1 rocket launchers just across the water andsuddenly we were under the flight path of the dreaded doodlebugs. That washow my father died: a doodlebug was shot down by a well-meaning Americanfighter plane and it detonated right next door to our house. He waskilled outright.’
‘How awful for you,’ Morton said.
‘Yes. My mother had taken me out fora walk along the beach down in St Margaret’s Bay that morning. The ironywas that she had guessed what the American plane was about to do and pointed itout to me so that I could watch. The image of my mother’s face, as theblood drained from it and horror consumed her eyes, will stay with meforever. I knew, too, of course—I wasn’t silly. She sent me off tospend a few days with my granny in Winchelsea. She was my dad’smum. Though she later had a short-lived marriage to the village doctor,he was illegitimate,
