Morton watched quietly as Ray brushed hiseyes with his right index finger. ‘That must have been pretty tough onyou,’ Morton said, carefully watching the old man.
Something seemed to click in Ray,catapulting him back to reality. He shrugged slightly. ‘Just one ofthose things, happened to lots of families out there. Still, the silverlining, for want of a better phrase, was that I became very close to mygrandmother. I doted on her, and she on me.’
‘And it was her twin sister whodisappeared?’ Morton asked. ‘The person you want me to try and find foryou?’
‘Yes, that’s right, Mary Mercer.’ Turningfrom the window, Ray walked over to his desk, picked up a framed photograph andhanded it to Morton. ‘That’s her on the right, with my granny, Edith.’
Morton held the cold silver frame and tookin the picture. Seeing the real people behind the names and dates alwaysbrought his genealogical cases to life for him. The time-faded, sepiaphoto was of two girls, identical in height, around the age of fifteen. However, the similarity between the sisters ended there. Mary, dark hairparted in the centre with matching decorative bows to each side, rested herhead on her sister and the pair jointly held some kind of a book. InMorton’s experience, it was usually a Bible. Both girls had plain, whitedresses with simple buttons running down the middle. Edith had sharp,angular features and fiery eyes, giving her the look of someone with aformidable temperament. Mary, meanwhile, had a much softer, prettier facewith warm eyes.
Ray shifted slightly. ‘That was thelast picture of the two of them together. I did a bit of digging—it wastaken at Pearson’s Photography Studio in Hastings in 1910. Look likechalk and cheese, don’t they?’
Morton nodded. ‘I wouldn’t ever haveguessed them to be twins.’
‘Well, I’ve got the proof over there,’ Raysaid with a smile, nodding his head towards the desk. ‘Come and sitdown.’
The pair moved to the leatherchairs. Morton opened his briefcase and took out a notepad and pen. Although he always took his laptop with him on such visits, he still preferred scribingnotes the old-fashioned way then typing them up at home, fleshing out thedetail with further research as he went.
‘Here,’ Ray said, handing Morton an A3manila envelope.
Morton withdrew a large, carefullyorganised pile of papers and set them down in his lap. On the top of thepile was a General Register Office copy of Mary Mercer’s birthcertificate. ‘Nineteenth of April, 1893, 4.16pm, Winchelsea,Sussex. Mary Kate. Girl. Daughter of Thomas Mercer andKatherine Mercer, formally Wraight. Father’s occupation—waggoner. Mark of Katherine Mercer, informant.’ Two pieces of information struckMorton as being of interest: first of all, that Katherine, like manycountryside folk in the nineteenth-century, was illiterate and signed her namewith a cross; secondly, that the precise time of birth had been noted on thecertificate, which usually indicted multiple births so as to prove the order ofdelivery. Morton lifted the certificate and took a cursory glance at thenext: Mary’s twin sister, Edith Jane Mercer, born nine minutes later. Therest of the certificate was identical.
‘So,’ Ray said. ‘There’s the proofthat Mary was actually born onto this planet. You’ll see in that pile ofdocuments that I found her living at home with her sisters, mum and dad in1901, then I found her ten years later on the 1911 census, then shevanishes. Mary’s whole life whittled down to three official documents.’
Morton scribbled some notes on hispad. ‘No marriage or death certificates?’
Ray shook his head vehemently. ‘No. I’ve tried every combination you can think of. I actuallystarted searching for her years ago, back in the days when you had to go to theFamily Records Centre in Islington. I checked every quarter of everyyear—not a dicky bird. I tried emigration and passenger records but thatcame back with nothing either. I’ve tried every conceivable angle but sheremains completely elusive.’
‘I don’t wish to be insensitive here, Ray,but have you considered the possibility that something untoward happened toher? Something which left no genealogical trace for me to follow?’ Morton said, carefully choosing his words.
‘Do you mean what if her death was coveredup somehow? Like someone killed her? Or suicide?’ Ray asked, beforeaddressing the question. ‘She was at my mother’s funeral in 1962,although I didn’t know it at the time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Morton asked, hisinterest piquing substantially.
‘Well, I’ll come to that. Let mestart at the beginning, so you know everything.’ Ray took in a deep breathand looked to the ceiling, as if trying to extract long-buried memories. ‘I clearly remember the first time that Granny told me about her sister’sdisappearance. I must have been about ten years old at the time and I wasrummaging through Granny’s bedside drawer looking for something or other when Ifound a locket. The drawer was full of jewellery but something about thislocket made me pick it out and look at it more closely. It was silverwith a small stone set in the centre. Inside, was the photo of someone Ididn’t recognise. Granny came in and lost her temper with me, snatched itaway and sent me to my room. I remember being jolly upset by it all—I’dnever seen her so angry before. A while later she came and found me, saton my bed and I can still see her now, tears flooding down her face as sheapologised for her outburst and told me that the picture in the locket was ofher sister, Mary, whom she hadn’t seen for a very long time. Then shetold me the same snippet that she would repeat over the course of her lifeuntil the day she died: Mary was at work as usual as a live-in, domesticservant and she left to go home for her half day’s leave. The people sheworked for
