He took one last look at the grave, thenmade his way across the diagonal path in the clawed shadow of the church untilhe reached his car on Friar’s Road. Morton opened the Mini, climbed inbut did not fire it up. Instead, he sat in the peace of the town, allowinghis mind to sew and weave a mental collage of the case. It had alwayshelped Morton to visualise his cases, to bring them to life from the bareboring bones of names and dates. The tapestry in his mind contained thesepia picture of Mary and Edith as children, 3 Friar’s Cottage, Blackfriars andthe churchyard. The answer to the disappearance of Mary Mercer was wovensomewhere into the fabric of this.
Withinan hour, Morton had arrived home and sent a research request to the NationalArchives to search among the indexes of J18—name changes 1903-2003. Hehad considered visiting the archives in person but with currently only oneresearch avenue to pursue there, the twenty pound search fee per fifteenminutes seemed a better option. He had poured himself a large glass ofred wine and then set about the task of making his and Juliette’s dinner. Although he had officially stopped work for the day, the case was always beingworked on in the back of his mind, as new avenues and ideas were produced.
Juliette arrived home just before sixo’clock. ‘Wine,’ she said, strolling into the kitchen and kissing Mortonon the lips.
Morton pointed to the glass waiting on theworktop. ‘And how was the Initial Police Learning and DevelopmentProgramme today?’ he teased. Juliette was in phase three of a four-phasetraining programme to become a police officer and, despite the odd moan andgroan, she was loving it. She was born to do it. Juliette kickedoff her boots and perched herself at the kitchen table.
‘After having a few brilliant days ofsupervised patrol with the guys from Ashford, today we were back in theclassroom at Maidstone. Class-based learning. Hence the needfor wine. I just don’t take it in very well coming from a textbook or theancient ex-police wheeled in from retirement to share anecdotes. I wantto be out on the streets, learning from real life.’
‘It won’t be long,’ Morton reminded her,as he dished up their dinner and carried it over to the table.
‘Thanks—looks lovely. How was yourday?’
‘Not bad,’ Morton said, relaying the mainhighlights of his day. After more than two years together, Morton couldnow gauge the very thin line of giving just the right bullet-pointed amount ofdetail about his day before her eyes glazed over and he lost her. Healmost crossed the line when he told her that he had hired a researcher at theNational Archives to search the records of the Supreme Court of Judicature,then hastily added ‘Name change records.’ Ever since his lasthigh-profile case, which involved a great deal of illegal activity on his part,she had demanded to know his every move. Now that she was training tobecome a police officer, she insisted that he always stayed on the rightside of the law.
‘I think we’ve got an episode of TheFriary in the Sky planner to watch. Fancy it after dinner?’ sheasked.
Morton couldn’t tell if she was joking ofnot. ‘Only if we can follow it with an episode of The Bill.’
Juliette smirked. ‘A film it is,then.’
‘Perfect. Cheers.’
Underthe focussed light from a desk lamp, a man methodically searched, read andprinted every page on Morton Farrier’s Forensic Genealogist website. Witha thirsty concentration, he pored over the printed papers, absorbing anddigesting every word. Then he ran a Google search, pulling up picturesand quotes from Morton’s past cases. Opening up a new tab in his browser,he logged into a family history website and used some of Morton’s own tricks tofind out everything about him, including where he lived and with whom. With some difficulty, owing to two bound, broken fingers, the man scooped upall the papers and pushed them into a manila envelope. ‘Morton Farrier,I’m coming for you,’ he breathed.
Chapter Four
Tuesday3rd January 1911
MaryMercer’s alarm clock sent its shrill tones into the silent room. Sheswitched it off and sat up in bed. From the other side of their smallshared bedroom, Edie emitted a protracted and irritated sigh. Mary hadslept very little, the weight of her decision to steal her sister’s coveted jobpreventing her mind from succumbing to sleep. When the two sisters hadreconvened in the Blackfriars kitchen, Mary had been assured by Lady Rothbornethat the housemaid’s job would be hers. She had waited for Edith with hereyes fixed to the floor. Minutes took hours to pass, until she finallyarrived. Seventeen years without separation had told Mary everything thatshe needed to know from her twin’s face: Edie already knew that she had lostthe job to her sister.
‘Edie! Wait!’ Mary had cried, as shehad bolted through the kitchen door into the blustery Winchelsea snowstorm.
A hand had grabbed Mary by the wrist andprevented her from following. Mary had twisted around to see Mrs Cuff, apolite yet forceful look on her face. ‘Let her go. She’ll just needsome time.’
Mary had given her sister time; she hadwalked back home so slowly that the freezing air had penetrated through hercoat, deep into her very core so that her skin was pink and prickly. Silently, she had headed straight to her room, like a scolded puppy. Shehad lit the fire, tucked herself under layers of woollen blankets and remainedthere until bedtime. Such was the weight of her guilt, she could not evenbring herself to read the pristine copy of Four Sisters, given to her byLady Rothborne, which she had stared at on her bedside table. It was thefirst time in her life that Mary had really stood in defiance of Edie, havingnever previously had the courage. Her heart was heavy and she was filled withremorse for the way that it had happened, yet underneath it all, she stood byher decision. Why
