The Lost Ancestor

take a degree module ingraphology to work out that Mary Mercer was the definite author of the letter,although having a degree module in graphology compelled Morton to look moreclosely.  He zoomed in close to the letter and studied the formation ofthe letters carefully.  As he worked, he retrieved lectures from thestored repositories of his mind, given by his esteemed lecturer, DrBaumgartner, whom Morton greatly admired.  Dr Baumgartner had taught himto study everything as if through a slow-motion macro lens: meticulously,painstakingly and intricately.  It was because of those lectures thatMorton spotted the anomaly.  Yes, the letter was written by Mary Mercer,but there was a subtle underlying stress and tension in the way that she hadformed the strokes on the page.  Morton then compared her handwriting tothat found on the note left at Edith’s grave.  That the letter revealedthat she was more stressed and anxious than when she wrote the note placed on hertwin’s grave, spoke volumes to Morton.  He considered the possibilities:that Mary really did go to Scotland to escape an embarrassing exit fromBlackfriars; that she went to Scotland to go to someone fromBlackfriars, or that somehow she was forced to write the letter.  The onlyway that Mary could have remained in Scotland was under a pseudonym, since shefailed to appear in any official records there.  Unless she usedScotland as a stepping stone to somewhere else, Morton thought.  Heremembered that Ray Mercer had told him that emigration records had drawn ablank, but maybe he was searching English disembarkation records. Morton opened up the Outward Passenger Lists 1890-1960 on the Findmypastwebsite, filtering the results with a departure place of Scotland. Although he was hopeful with this line of enquiry, he was unsurprised to findthat there were no good matches for Mary Mercer.  Spending a lot of timechanging the search parameters returned the same frustrating answer: zeromatches.

Morton noticed that he was slumped in hischair, having spent a ridiculous number of hours gaping at the laptopscreen.  He rubbed his eyes and stood from the desk.  He returned tothe open window and drew in a long, deep breath, holding it before slowlyreleasing it into the still air.  The streets below were much quieternow.  Morton looked at the time: 4:46.  Juliette would be home anymoment; it was almost time to stop searching.  Almost.  He decided touse what little time he had left until she arrived throwing the search wideopen.  He removed all the search filters and searched all outwardpassenger lists under the name Mercer.  Eight thousand, five hundred andthirty one results.  A needle in a haystack and a pointless waste oftime.  He removed the forename and surname and simply searched under theexact birthplace of Winchelsea.  One match.  Edith Leyden. Morton clicked to see the original image.  The page pertained to acrossing of the RMS Celtic II from Liverpool bound for Canada,disembarking 18^th December 1925.  Morton scanned down thealphabetised list of passengers until he found her.

Name: Mrs Edith Leyden

Lastaddress in the United Kingdom:Wisteria Cottage, Winchelsea

Portat which passenger has contracted to land: Halifax, Canada

Proposedaddress at destination: 4West Street, Halifax, Canada

Profession,occupation or calling:Housewife

Ageof passenger: 32

Countryof last permanent residence:England

Mortonprinted the page then found her return voyage to England two weeks later onboard the Albania.  To some family historians, the record providedan interesting snapshot of a two-week holiday in Canada.  For Morton, itprovided another potential avenue for research.  He now needed to know whowas residing at 4 West Street, Halifax in 1925.  Morton wrote the Canadianaddress on a post-it note and attached it to his laptop screen.  He wasabout to start up a new search when he heard the front door slammingshut.  Morton smiled and went downstairs to meet Juliette.  A sharp,wonderful smell of fresh chips wafted out from the kitchen.  Mortonfollowed the scent and found a sweaty Juliette in tracksuit bottoms, casualt-shirt and no make-up, running herself a glass of tap water.

‘Hiya,’ she said, pecking him on thelips.  ‘Good day?’

‘Hi.  Yeah, it was good thanks—spentmost of it staring at a computer screen.  How was yours?’

Juliette sighed and downed thewater.  ‘More in the classroom—not bad though.  We spent the daydoing role-play.  The supervisors threw various situations at us and wehad to go through it as though we were on the job, deciding whether anarrestable offence had been committed, or not.’

‘Fish and chips?’ Morton said with a grin.

‘Yeah, I was driving past the Kettle ofFish and couldn’t resist.’

‘Good—I’m starving.’  Morton sat upto the island in the centre of the ultra-modern kitchen.  It was this roomwhich had sold the house to Juliette, which Morton found ironic since she wassuch a dreadful cook.

‘Here you go, sir,’ Juliette said,thrusting a wrapped parcel towards him.

Morton unwrapped the packet and ravenouslytucked into the cod and chips.  ‘Delicious, thanks.’

Juliette nodded her agreement andsmiled.

‘This arrived today,’ Morton said, pullingan envelope from its position, tucked behind a magnet on the side of thefridge.

Juliette wiped her hands on a piece ofkitchen roll and opened the envelope.  ‘Oh, wow!  They’re gettingmarried.  How lovely.’

It was an invitation to his adoptivebrother Jeremy’s wedding.  The thought of the wedding brought back asensation of mild nausea akin to that felt prior to a job interview.  Ithad been just a few months ago that Morton’s adoptive father had finallyrevealed the truth about Morton’s past.  Believing himself to be ondeath’s door, he had revealed that Morton’s Aunty Margaret was in fact hisbirth mother, giving him up when he was just a few hours old.  Hisadoptive brother, Jeremy, whom he had previously felt little connection with,was in fact his cousin.  His own flesh and blood.  Following hisfather’s near-death experience, Morton had worked to restart his relationshipwith his adoptive brother, not easy with Jeremy being in the army and away forweeks at a time.  And now here he was getting married.  ‘What do youget for your brother when he’s marrying a man?’

Juliette smiled.  ‘What would youhave got your brother if he was marrying a woman?’

Morton shrugged.  It was a fairpoint.

‘You’re not actually bothered about it,are you?’ Juliette asked with a quizzical look on her face.

‘Course not,’ Morton said.  It waskind of the truth.  He actually didn’t care at all about his brother’ssexuality.  He