‘This is brilliant,’ Juliette mutteredabout the whole event, before making her way to the fifth table showcasing thetalents of yet another photographer.
Morton sighed. It quite easilyranked amongst the worst possible days of his life. It wasn’t thatbad, really, he just couldn’t stand the commercial aspect of marriage. With a slight groan, he realised then that he was turning into his adoptivefather, a man who refused to take part in any special occasion, apart frombirthdays, because of commercialisation. Even when Morton andJeremy were small boys, he never bought Mother’s Day cards or gifts on theirbehalf; it was only when they went to Sunday school and primary school thattheir mother began to receive anything. The two boys learnt early on notto bother with Father’s Day when their efforts at homemade cards were met withthe derisory glimmer of a glance before being tossed to one side. Henever bought Valentine gifts for his wife and only really took part inChristmas celebrations begrudgingly and under duress from the rest of thefamily. Ever since Morton’s mother had died of cancer, his father hadcelebrated Christmas alone, despite numerous offers from friends andfamily. Every year was the same for him: a quiet walk around the park, ameal of shop-bought fish and chips at home and strictly no television. Since 1990, Christmas had officially been banned from the Farrierhousehold. Morton was determined not to turn into him.
‘What do you think of this one?’ Juliettesaid quietly, handing Morton an example of the photographer’s work. Itwas a close-up of the bride’s shoes and a close-up of a filled champagne glasswith a red lipstick mark on the rim.
It was hard for Morton to select among apossible bank of adjectives to describe the photos. He decided to use onethat Juliette wanted to hear. ‘Stunning.’
Juliette shot an incredulous look at him,turned her head away from the man behind the table and lowered her voice. ‘Morton, don’t just say what you think I want to hear.’
‘I…’ he began when his phone began toshriek its ringtone into the air. Saved by the bell. ‘Sorry,’Morton said, pulling his phone from his pocket. It was an unidentifiedmobile number. He answered the call and stepped away from Juliette, whopulled an apologetic face to the man behind the table. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, is that Morton Farrier?’ a femalevoice asked.
‘Speaking.’
‘This is Jenny Greenwood here. I’vejust got your letter.’ Her voice was flat and Morton couldn’t detect herreaction to having received the letter.
‘Oh yes, thank you for getting in touch,’he said, treading very carefully with his words.
‘Well, even though your letter doesn’tmention that we’ve already met at Blackfriars, I’m guessing that you’vediscovered my little secret?’ she asked. There was still no emotion inher voice.
‘It did click, when I found out thatVivien Mansfield had had a daughter called Jennifer and she’d gone on to marrya Greenwood, that it was you, yes. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask thewhys and wherefores of your situation. I’m really only interested in MaryMercer—as I set out in the letter.’
The line went quiet and Morton removed thephone from his ear to check if the call had ended, but it hadn’t. After afew seconds, Jenny spoke. ‘I’ve got my own reasons for working there,which I will tell you. Can we meet up?’
Morton thought for a moment. Hedidn’t need to see Jenny to discuss why she was working at Blackfriars when shewas actually a member of their family. ‘Listen, Jenny, you really don’tneed to explain your story to me. As I said—’
Jenny interrupted him. ‘What if partof my story is part of Mary’s story?’ she asked cryptically.
Interesting, he thought. ‘Okay… when do you wantto meet, then?’
‘My next day off is in two days. That any good?’
‘Yes, that’s fine. When and where?’
‘How about one o’clock at the WinchelseaFarm Kitchen? It’s just a stone’s throw from Blackfriars and not far fromyou.’
Morton, ever the tearoom connoisseur, knewof the place. ‘Yes, that will be fine.’
‘See you then,’ Jenny said and hung up.
Morton was intrigued about what Jenny hadjust said. The implication was surely that Frederick Mansfield wassomehow associated with Mary Mercer’s disappearance. He was about to puthis mobile away when he spotted that he had two new emails. He glancedover at Juliette. She had now moved on to a table filled with every typeof wedding cake imaginable. She was in her element; he had plenty of timeto open his emails. The most recent one was from Ray Mercer. DearMorton, Thank you for your very detailed email. I can see why you are a‘forensic’ genealogist! You sound as though you are pursuing avenues Iwouldn’t even have thought of. I was most intrigued by what you saidabout my grandmother travelling to Canada. I had no idea about this, butof course it was years before I was even born. She certainly nevermentioned it to me. Perhaps just a holiday? You asked after myhealth—not good I’m afraid. I’ve been given the details of a nearbyhospice, which I’m sure doesn’t require much more of an explanation on mypart. I know you’re working at full speed, so hopefully my lost ancestorwill appear from the shadows of the past sometime soon. With warmestregards, Ray. Morton felt an even greater sense of urgency now thatRay’s health was deteriorating. He really needed to go all out onbringing this case to a resolution as quickly as possible. When heconsidered
