‘Well, I’m willing to take the case on andgive it a go,’ Morton said.
Ray turned, standing in a puddle of whitesunlight. He smiled. ‘Don’t take too long about it. Not toput too fine a point on it but I’ve got stage four cancer of the pancreas.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,’ Morton said,realising just how much finding his lost aunt meant to Ray and how little timehe had in which to find her: ‘I’ll do what I can for you.’
‘Thank you. Is there anything elseyou need from me?’
‘This is all a good start,’ Morton said,holding up the stack of papers. ‘I’ll get back to you if I need anythingelse.’ Morton reinserted the paperwork back into the manila folder, thenpacked away his briefcase. He stood, ventured towards the window and shookRay’s hand.
‘Thank you, Morton,’ Ray saidquietly. ‘I finally feel there’s a glimmer of hope at finding her.’ He briefly turned to the photograph of Mary and Edith. A snapshot ofhistory when their family was intact.
Morton said goodbye and left thehouse. As he walked down the driveway towards his Mini, he began to laythe pieces of the puzzle out in his mind. Unlike the bog-standardgenealogical cases that he used to undertake, whereby he would research theancestral lines of a particular surname, this type of case intrigued andexcited him. The fragmented Mercer Case jigsaw in his mind neededto be reassembled. Quickly. He didn’t know much about pancreaticcancer but he did know that stage four meant that Ray probably didn’t have longto live.
As Morton drove the forty-three miles backhome, he began to consider his first steps in the case. The bottom linefor him was that someone, somewhere had once known what had happened to MaryMercer. His job was to find that person.
Chapter Two
Monday2nd January 1911
EdithMercer stared into the tiny hallway mirror, her self-directed anger increasingin earnest as she tugged her hairbrush through her thick dark hair. ‘ForGod’s sake!’ she muttered, regretting cursing the moment the words had passedher lips.
‘Edie!’ a hollow voice berated from theliving room.
Edith exhaled sharply. ‘Sorry,Father. It’s my hair, it’s awful. And my face. They’re notgoing to want to give me any job at Blackfriars House, never mind a jobas third housemaid.’ Edith lifted the unwieldy hair and let it falluntidily around her ears. At seventeen years of age, Edith hated herappearance; she always had. She had hoped that when the change intowomanhood had arrived, just like her older sister, Caroline, had once intimated,she would somehow be transformed from the plain-looking girl she saw before herinto someone much more beautiful. In fact, the change had only left herwith greasy, blotchy skin and equally oily unmanageable hair. Herchildish naïvety had led to dreams of metamorphosing into Ellaline Terriss, astage star with whom Edith had become enchanted after seeing her performing inthe musical comedy The Beauty of Bath at the Aldwych Theatre. Itwas Ellaline’s centre-parted hair which fell into neat ringlets that Edith wasattempting to replicate. She rubbed her face with a Papier Poudrewipe, trying to render her skin the desirable, pallid complexion of Edwardianladies rather than the hideous dark complexion that she and her sisters hadinherited from their father.
‘There’s nothing wrong with yourappearance, Edie,’ her twin sister, Mary said, emerging from their sharedbedroom. ‘You’re fine-looking.’ Mary looked over her sister’sshoulder, smiling and placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Edith shrugged her sister’s handoff. ‘Fine-looking. Who wants to be fine-looking?’ Thetwins were polar opposites in looks. Mary was a natural beauty with fieryred hair, stunning hazel eyes and a dark complexion; she never saw the need toconstantly titivate and fiddle with her hair or try to look like the plethoraof glamorous women who adorned the postcards stuck to the walls by Edith’s bed.
‘Are you nearly ready? It’s almostnine-thirty,’ Mary asked softly.
Edith sighed. ‘I’ll have tobe. It won’t do to be fine-looking and late for the interview:I’ll never get the job.’
Mary ran her fingers through Edith’s hair,gently teasing apart the lank strands. She leant in and pecked her sisteron the cheek. ‘Let’s go.’
Edith poked her head around theliving-room door. Their father, in his tatty labourer’s clothes, wassitting beside the simmering open-fire, smoking a pipe and attempting to repairone of his boots. ‘See you later,’ Edith said.
Her father nodded without looking up andsaid nothing until Edith reached the front door. ‘Mary, you want to trylearning from your sister. About time you paid your way, you two.’
A knowing, conversant glance passedbetween the sisters as Edith took a deep breath and opened the door. Asurge of freezing, winter air rushed at Edith’s face. She pulled her coattight and stepped onto a fresh flight of snow with Mary close by in hershadow. The tiny town was even more still and calm than usual. Theswathes of white snow, which had steadily fallen for the past three days, seemedto mute every flicker of life.
The Mercers lived in a small stone cottagein Winchelsea, a town whose former glory days as the premier Cinque Port,taking pride of place on the Sussex coast, were long since over. Forhundreds of years the townsfolk had quietly watched the coast recede from view,taking with it the reliance upon the sea. Gone were the mariners, seamen,rope-makers, shipbuilders, tradesmen, sailors and coastguards, replaced withlabourers, farmers and domestic servants.
Mary pulled her coat tight. ‘Bloodyhell, that’s cold,’ she whispered with a giggle.
‘Shh, or you’ll get us both shot,’ Edithsaid with a glance over her shoulder.
Mary pushed herself into her sister’sside, as icy winds scooped great squalls of fresh snow up from the low-lyingfields to the exposed streets. ‘He can’t hear us. What’s he in sucha foul mood for anyway?’ Mary asked.
‘The usual—this weather means no work onthe farm, which
