Morton removed his Nikon camera from hisbag and took several shots of the house, all the while hoping that the ownerwouldn’t spot him and burst out to ask him what he was doing. It had notyet happened in his career, but he never really had a clear answer ready as towhat he would say. He always thought the truth sounded too convoluted orcomplicated. He tucked his camera back into his bag and strolled down thequiet road. Traffic visitors to Blackfriars were directed along the mainA259 road to the front entrance, but Morton knew that just past the village primaryschool was an unpublicised footpath into the estate. He was sure thatthis was the way which Mary Mercer would have walked to and from work on herdays off. It had struck Morton as curious when he had first noticed onthe census that she was living at the property, despite only living metresaway. It was only after he had reflected on the nature of her job as ahousemaid that he understood that her duties would have required her to spendalmost every waking hour in service with only half a day’s leave per week.
He reached a pair of stone pillars justwide enough to accommodate a standard horse and carriage, then crossed intoBlackfriars. He walked slowly down the concrete path which bisected aperfectly manicured lawn. As the path drew closer to the house, a teasingglimpse of a purple wisteria-engulfed wing appeared. He continued as thehouse appeared inch by inch in front of him. When the full magnificenceof Blackfriars came into view, Morton stopped and stared in awe. Despitethe few members of the public milling about near to the building, he was ableto see the estate through the Edwardian eyes of Mary Mercer. She too musthave been locked in sheer admiration the first time that she walked thispath. As he neared the building, he turned back on himself and stared atthe winding path that he had just taken. Somewhere on that route back toFriar’s Cottage on Wednesday 12th April 1911, Mary Mercer hadvanished for more than fifty years. Where did you go? Mortonwondered, as he photographed the pathway. And why?
Morton slung his camera around his neckand became absorbed in a growing crowd, steadily moving towards the makeshiftticket office outside the Blackfriars front door.
Every snippet of conversation emanatingfrom the queue to enter Blackfriars centred on the television show, TheFriary, a popular Sunday night drama about the ‘upstairs downstairs’ livesof an Edwardian aristocratic family. Blackfriars was used for theexternal shots and some of the ‘upstairs’ filming. Juliette loved theprogramme but Morton took great offence at the historical liberties taken inthe name of entertainment; it was exactly the same for Juliette and policedramas. Except now that she was training to be a fully-paid up member ofthe police, rather than a PCSO, she was even more sceptical and deriding.
The gap shrank between Morton and the loneticket-seller sitting behind a wooden trestle table with an opencash-box. Not the most sophisticated ticket office in the world,Morton thought, but he knew that a modern day ticket office would look slightlyanachronistic in an Edwardian television drama.
Finally, he reached the front of the queueand was greeted with a sharp frown from a plump lady with a ruddy complexionand white curly hair. Her name badge announced her as ‘Mrs Greenwood’.
‘Welcome to the Blackfriars estate,’ shesaid in a voice which told Morton that she had said it a million times before.
‘Morning.’
‘Have you been here before?’ she askedmonotonously.
‘No, first time,’ Morton said.
‘I expect you’re a fan of the show.’
‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Morton said vaguely,wondering why, yet again, lying was much simpler than telling the truth.
The dreary lady informed him that hissixteen pounds entrance fee bought him a ticket which was valid for a year, anda map of the estate. He additionally purchased a five pounds guide book,which, from having a quick flick through whilst he handed over his money,appeared to blend trivia from the show with factual historicalinformation. Morton spotted an extract which seemed to be an Edwardianestate accounts list. Underneath it was a modern photo of a smartlydressed, spectacled man in his fifties. The caption to the photo labelledhim as the Blackfriars archivist, Sidney Mersham.
‘Do you happen to know if Sidney Mershamis in at all today?’ Morton asked, snatching the opportunity.
The lady frowned. ‘I don’t know,’she said, without giving the question a moment’s consideration, before adding,‘I come in, hang my coat up downstairs, then I’m stuck here for the rest of theday.’
Morton smiled, hoping that it mightenliven the jaded cashier. ‘I’m a forensic genealogist and I’m trying tofind out if any staff records exist for the Edwardian period here. Do youthink there’s anyone I could speak to today?’
The lady sighed. ‘They’re not keenon opening up their records to the public,’ she warned, handing him his change.
‘Any chance you could ask for me?’ Mortonpleaded.
She rolled back her sleeve and looked ather watch. ‘I’m off on my break shortly. I’ll see who’s around toask.’
‘That would be great, thank you. I’ll be in the main house.’ Morton flashed his best smile and made hisway into the grand entrance hall, joining the tail-end of a snaking queue,penned in by narrow maroon ropes, which separated the public from the ornatefurnishings. Strategically placed around the room were enlarged stillstaken from The Friary, showing the approximate location the actors hadstood in a particular episode of the programme. Morton would have likedto get some photographs of the house to help him build an impression of whatlife was like here for Mary in 1911, but numerous large signs explicitly bannedit in every language possible.
The line of babbling, excited visitorswound their way past an officious custodian, who directed them into the grandsaloon. The two women directly in
