The room in which Morton found himself wasmuch larger and somehow more modern than he had imagined that it wouldbe. It was at least forty feet long with no windows and no otherdoors. A low, whirring sound emanated from a complicated labyrinth oftubes and vents, which Morton suspected was controlling the humidity andtemperature of the room. On each wall were tall metal filing cabinets.
‘You look impressed,’ Sidney said, pushinghis glasses onto the bridge of his nose.
‘Yes, I am,’ Morton said. ‘It mustkeep you busy.’
Sidney laughed. ‘Very much so. I’ve spent the last fifteen years trying to get the archives into some kind oforder and to catalogue what we have. When I started here it was in onehell of a mess. Generations’ worth of paperwork. Of course, at themoment it’s the writers of The Friary that are keeping me busy, askingquestions about the ins and outs of life here in the Edwardian period. That’s how I know exactly what we have here that might show your Mary.’
My Mary. Morton brought the photograph of Mary to mind. He supposed she was becoming his in some strange way. It alwayshappened with an interesting assignment like the Mercer Case; after just a fewhours of research, he was hooked. Juliette often said his passion forgenealogy was like an addiction and she was right. Douglas Catt wouldhave needed to offer him an awful lot more money for him to back out now. He was a forensic genealogist, employed to find Mary Mercer, and that’s justwhat he was going to do.
‘Right, most of the information on thedomestic servants is in here,’ Sidney said, making his way towards a filingcabinet near the back of the room. He took out a silver key from hispocket and pushed it into the lock, then tugged open both doors. Inside wereneat rows of books, boxes, ledgers and papers, bundled and wrapped like anydecent archive.
Sidney held the sides of his glasses andscrunched up his face as he darted his head up and down like a curiousmeerkat. ‘Ah, here we are,’ he said with a grin, as he plucked a smallleather book from the shelves, followed by an A4-sized ledger. ‘Let’shave a look.’
Morton followed Sidney back out into thesmall office, where he carefully set the documents down onto the desk. Morton watched patiently, as Sidney opened up the first book. It was alight-brown, calfskin-bound book about the size of a paperback. Sidneyturned past the marble-effect endpapers until he reached the first handwrittenpages. Slowly, he ran his index finger down the side of the page. ‘1909,’ he muttered, turning the page and beginning his search again. ‘1910.’ On the next page he held his glasses and leant in to take acloser inspection. ‘Here we are, wages for the year 1911.’ Hepushed the book over to Morton. ‘See if you can’t find your Mary.’
Eagerly, Morton grasped the book in bothhands. He loved the feeling of touching history, making a specialconnection with the past, with the person who had held this very document intheir hands more than a century ago. He scanned down a list of names,which seemed to be arranged haphazardly. The name Mercer jumpedout at him. Morton moved his eyes across the line, Mercer, Edward,Second Footman. Mary’s first cousin. There then followed a runof dated, weekly columns, showing Edward’s pay of fourteen pounds. ThenMorton spotted something curious. Edward Mercer’s pay ceased on Friday 19thMay 1911—alarmingly close to Mary’s disappearance. Morton skipped forwardto the remainder of the year, into 1912 and then 1913. No Edward Mercer. ‘Interesting,’ he said, capturing Sidney’s interest. ‘Her cousin, Edwardworked here as a footman. He seems to have stopped work here the monthafter she disappeared. Could be a connection there.’
Sidney nodded emphatically, thrust hisglasses back onto the bridge of his nose and leant in for a closer look. Morton took out his pencil and notepad and began to scribble down theinformation. Working backwards, he found that Edward’s first pay atBlackfriars had been in 1908; there were no breaks in employment until he leftin May 1911. Finding what happened to Edward was definitely a priority,but for now he needed to continue his search for Mary. Morton returned to1911 and ran his finger further down the page until he found her. Herwages, twelve pounds per annum, began in January 1911 and, as Morton hadexpected, ended on Friday 14th April 1911. He quickly checkedif her name appeared elsewhere in the book but found no further trace.
‘Is it okay if I take a quick photograph?’Morton asked.
‘By all means. I’ll hold it open foryou,’ Sidney said.
Morton took a photograph of the relevantpage, showing both of the Mercers’ terminated employment. ‘Thank you,that’s very helpful.’
Sidney slid the wage book to one side thenpicked up the A4 brown brushed-velvet ledger. ‘Now this…’ he said,stroking the front of the book as if it were a pet dog, ‘might well have beenyour saving grace. It’s the Blackfriars Day Book, the butler andhousekeeper’s account of daily life in the house. It’s of varied usefulness,recording stock levels of wines and spirits, the purchasing of fruit andvegetables, household repairs and also the comings and goings of staff.’
Morton’s excitement about the promise ofthe Day Book was tempered by Sidney’s use of the word ‘might’, clearly meaningthat the book would, in fact, be of no use to him. Although historicallyinteresting, the quantity of claret and champagne consumed by a wealthyEdwardian family in one week was of no use to the Mercer case. ‘Goon,’ Morton urged.
Sidney flicked to the back of thebook. ‘This one ends in January 1911.’
‘And the next one?’ Morton asked, alreadyfearing the answer.
‘Still in use in 1939—’ Sidney began toexplain.
‘The fire?’ Morton interjected,remembering what Milton Mansfield had told him about certain records havingbeen
