‘No problem at all,’ Douglas said. ‘We don’t need much of an excuse for a weekend away, do we, dear?’
‘Especially not somewhere so beautiful,’Susan said meekly.
‘To be honest, I’m pretty well retired nowanyway.’
‘Ironmongery still doing well, is it?’Morton asked, somewhat surprised to hear of a traditional shop doing so wellagainst the big supermarkets and online retailers.
Douglas laughed. ‘Oh, not that—mybrother makes a couple of quid from that—I’ve been in stocks and shares sincethe early nineties.’
Susan gently tapped Douglas on theleg. ‘We haven’t come here to talk about that, Doug.’
‘Sorry, fire away,’ Douglas said, pullinga mock-reprimanded face.
Morton picked up his pen, then posed hisfirst direct question: ‘What do you know about Mary Mercer?’
Douglas drew in a long breath. ‘Well, obviously I’ve not got a personal memory of her! I mightlook old but I’m not so ancient that I actually recall her. Everythingthat I know comes from family lore. I think there was some kind of afamily bust-up so our side down in Bristol haven't really kept in touch withthe rest of the family.’
‘What were you told about what happened toMary?’ Morton probed.
‘Basically, from our position outsidelooking in, Mary was driven away from Winchelsea. Either she got into arow at home or work, I don’t know which, then decided to up sticks andleave. She went to Scotland to get some peace and never returned. Simple really.’
‘And, as far as you know, she never cameto visit your grandmother, Caroline, or made contact at all?’
‘No,’ Douglas said assuredly. ‘Never. Mary was always the odd one out in the family, bit of aloner. She didn’t really bond with either of her sisters. From whatmy mum had said to me over the years, it would have been really out ofcharacter for her to have suddenly made contact with our side again after sheleft.’
‘That’s a bit strange, wouldn’t you say?’Morton said. ‘To just up and leave and never return. That must havebeen some huge argument.’
‘But it’s only unusual because of the typeof people we are, Morton. I mean, I know my old ball and chain is a bitof a handful at times, but I couldn’t leave her,’ Douglas said, smilingplayfully at Susan. ‘But that’s because of the type of person I am. I expect you couldn’t leave your girlfriend either. Mary wasn’t like us,though. As I said, she was the odd one out: a loner.’
Morton smiled but wasn’t convinced. Every family had its share of trials and tribulations, but, to his mind, itwould take one cataclysmic event for anyone to voluntarily disappear and nevermake contact with anyone in the family ever again. ‘Do you know ifanyone on your side ever tried to find her?’ he asked, taking a mouthful of hislatte.
‘I wouldn’t know for certain; I wouldimagine so. My mum spoke of her on and off over the years but I don’tthink she was very minded to try and track her down—she’d not ever mether. I think they just respected the fact that she didn’t want to befound.’
‘It would be nice to know what happened topoor Mary,’ Susan said quietly.
Morton looked at Douglas’s ambivalentface. He clearly didn’t share his wife’s interest. Either Douglaswas helping keep a family secret well concealed, or he actually didn’t care atall about what happened to Mary Mercer. The fact that he had so willinglydropped everything to make the trip to Rye, suggested to Morton that Douglasmight be more interested than he was letting on. It was a long way tocome, even if you were semi-retired and in need of a short break.
Douglas sipped his drink and cast a lookto Morton. ‘Look, nothing personal to you, Morton but I’m not quite surewhy Ray’s so hell-bent on finding someone who, whatever thecircumstances, is now dead. What does he think he’ll do if you do findout what happened to her? I mean, come on, talk about overkill!’
‘I think…’ Morton began, searching for adiplomatic answer which didn’t reveal Ray’s terminal illness, ‘that he feelshe’s getting on a bit now and just wants to know where she is. Layflowers at her grave, that kind of closure. He was close to hisgrandmother, Edith, who in turn was close to her twin, Mary. I think he feelshe owes it to Edith somehow.’
‘But he never even knew her! That’swhat makes me laugh; he’s acting like she was his sister.’ For the firsttime, Douglas’s face turned serious. ‘I tell you what, from what Mum andDad said, that side of the family know more than they’re lettingon. A lot more.’
Morton set his mug down and lookedup. ‘What do you mean?’
Douglas received something resembling awarning look from Susan and seemed to calm visibly. He smiled. ‘Isuppose I just mean that over the years for some reason, whether through theirown guilt or what, they’ve played around with the truth of the matter. Iexpect you’ve heard this old fanciful tale that Mary came back for her twin’sfuneral and left a locket on her grave? It’s all nonsense. Romanticpoppycock to tie up the story.’
Morton was unsure of how to take thenew serious tone of the conversation. Douglas, clearly nettled with redcheeks and a furrowed brow, received a reassuring look from Susan.
Susan shifted uncomfortably in her seat,then began to forage in her handbag, which Morton presumed to be her exitstrategy from the sticky conversation. A slightly uncomfortable silencelingered in the air between them, which Morton was about to break when he sawSusan pull something from her handbag and hand it to Douglas. AddressingMorton with a polite smile, she said: ‘She clearly didn’t want to be found.’
Douglas took the small white envelope fromSusan and passed it to Morton. ‘Take a look at that.’
Morton turned the envelope over in hishands. It was addressed to Mr and Mrs Mercer, 3 Friar’s Cottages,Winchelsea, Sussex. He recognised the writing instantly: it was a letterfrom Mary. The pen pressure, the size and stroke all unequivocally matched thenote left on Edith’s grave and the name and
