Outside, the streets were empty. Therain had kept away all but the most ardent tourists and Morton was able to sitin relative solitude by the window with a good excuse to drink copiousquantities of coffee all day without being reprimanded by Juliette. Hewas already in her bad books. His dilemma about whether or not to tellher about the anonymous, threatening package sent to him or the slashing of hiscar tyres had been decided for him yesterday. It had taken him so long tofind a tyre-fitters who had the correct tyres in stock and who were willing tocome out to him to change them that Morton knew his lateness home meant eithertelling her exactly what had occurred or lying to her. Up to now he hadomitted to divulge everything, but he hadn’t actually lied. As he hadfinally driven back from The Keep, he played out the impending scenario in hismind. She would tell him about her day at work, then she’d ask about hisday. He would have to tell her about the tyres. Oh, and Iforgot to say that I also received an anonymous letter through the post whichbasically threatens your life. Something along those lines.
‘Hi,’ Morton had said when he got in.
‘Hi. You’re late—The Keep must haveshut hours ago,’ Juliette had remarked, sitting in her uniform on the sofa,reading a dreadful celebrity-gossip magazine.
Seeing her in uniform always unnerved himslightly and made him feel guilty, usually without reason. Today, he hada reason to feel guilty. ‘Yeah, it did,’ Morton had replied. Literally hours ago. First he had seen all the remnant visitors andresearchers leave, shortly followed by the staff: the receptionist had beenlovely and asked if he needed any assistance; Quiet Brian had quietly walked bywith a barely audible acknowledgment; lastly, Miss Latimer had waltzed gailypast him looking like Mary Poppins. Morton had considered that tobe the worst part about having his tyres slashed—that she had seen and clearlygloated about it.
‘Where did you go then?’ Juliette hadquizzed.
‘I had to have someone change the tyres onmy car,’ Morton said, knowing full well that using the word tyres wouldimmediately kick-start Juliette’s investigation. It would just take a fewseconds for her to register what he had just said. And it did.
Juliette had put down her magazine andturned to face him. ‘What do you mean, tyres?’ she asked. The investigation had begun.
Taking a deep breath, Morton sat downbeside Juliette and told her what had happened. Inexplicably, he decided notto start at the beginning, but to start at the end—with the slashing of thetyres.
‘But why would someone want to slash allyour tyres? Were any other cars vandalised?’ she had asked.
‘No, just mine,’ Morton had said, recallingthe sight of the totally deserted car park.
‘So, you were targeted, then?’Juliette had asked, sweeping her dark hair back over her ears. ‘Why wouldthat be?’
‘The Mercer Case,’ Morton had muttered.
Juliette’s eyes had rolleddramatically. ‘What now? Come on, Morton, there’s plentyyou’re not telling me.’
And so, the majority of their evening lastnight had been spent going over the ins and outs of the Mercer Case. Morton had mentioned the threatening package he had been sent, half-expectingit to freak Juliette out, but she had taken it all in her stride. PoliceConstable-in-waiting, Juliette Meade was not at all phased. ‘I look a bitrough, don’t I?’ had been her initial reaction to seeing the picturepreviously. ‘I think I should wear a bit more make-up.’
Surprisingly, Juliette had been moreintrigued in the case than anything else—not what he had expected. Evenmore surprisingly, she hadn’t warned him off it. She had just asked thathe tell her everything that went on with the case, which Morton hadreadily agreed to do.
‘Here’s your latte and fruit scone,’ thewaitress said, bringing Morton back to the present.
‘Thank you.’ He fired up his laptop, readyto get stuck in: he had a lot of research avenues to pursue today. Flipping his notepad back to the lists of people close to Mary in 1911, Mortonre-read each list in the light of recent developments. He had made goodprogress finding out more about Edward Mercer. His gut reaction wascurrently that he and Mary were more than just friends, work colleagues andcousins. That placed him very highly in the rank of people whomight have known what became of Mary. But, as he had died the monthfollowing her disappearance without having married or had children, Mortoncouldn’t think of any other areas of research concerning Edward that couldcurrently push the case forward. Looking at the rest of the Blackfriarsdomestic servants, Morton began a mundane, yet necessary line of enquiry:finding their marriages, deaths and, with luck, living descendants.
He had finished his latte and ordered asecond cup in the time that it had taken him to find living relatives to a goodportion of the names on the work list. He had drafted letters outliningthe bones of the case with a request for any information or photos todescendants of Charlotte Cuff, Walter Risler, Sarah Herriot, Clara Ellinghamand Joan Leigh. Owing to his unusual name, Morton had found an emailaddress for Bartholomew Maslow, grandson of Jack Maslow. Morton couldfind no marriages or children to Susannah Routledge, Agnes Thompson or JamesDaniels. Charles Phillips had married another Blackfriars servant, ElizaBootle and they had emigrated with their two children to Australia. Sincehe did not appear again in the UK, Morton guessed that the chef, GuillaumeBastion, had returned to France. He would print and send the lettersfirst class later today. For the other employees on the list, history hadleft little to trace easily. If
