‘Perhaps. But that’s a long way downthe line. You tell me how we proceed from here.’
There was a question. Morton heldJenny’s gaze, as he thought about all that he had just been told. Hehated the fact that there was so little evidence—it went directly against hiswhole genealogical ethos. Yet, despite this, his instincts told him thatJenny could be onto something. If she were correct, then theywould have one hell of a job proving it. DNA would be the simplest answerif he were following a direct male lineage, but the switching between sexesfrom Ray Mercer’s generation to Edith and Mary’s parents left only one type ofDNA test available: the autosomal test, which looks at the twenty-two pairs ofnon-sex chromosomes. From what he knew about the test, it was shaky atbest. As the generations increase, the odds of sharing autosomal DNAdecrease. Not to mention the fact that no member of the Mansfield familywould willingly agree to a test. For the moment, Morton ruled out the useof DNA to prove or disprove the theory, which left him with very few optionsfor the time being.
‘I think,’ Morton began. ‘If yourtheory is right, then the answer will come when I find out what happened toMary. Speaking of which...’ He glanced at his watch. He hadarranged to meet with the vicar of Winchelsea in fifteen minutes’ time. Whilst most documents pertaining to the church had long ago been transferred toEast Sussex Archives, the vicar had told Morton that a small bundle—mainly comprisedof letters—was still held at the vicarage. ‘I’ve got an appointment withthe vicar of St Thomas’s church in a moment, so I need to dash.’
Jenny’s eyes lit up. ‘Bitpresumptuous, but can I come?’ she asked.
Morton was slightly taken aback at thequestion. He usually liked to work alone, although an extra pair of handsmight just be useful on this occasion. ‘Yeah, sure. Okay.’
Jenny smiled. ‘Drink up then.’ She finished the last dregs of her tea and stood to pay.
‘Let me get these,’ Morton said, fumblingfor his wallet.
‘Nope. My treat. You’re theonly person beside my husband who thinks I’m not totally bonkers.’
‘Okay,’ Morton said, packing up hisbelongings. He held onto the Next carrier bag until Jenny had finishedpaying. ‘Thanks for that. Here’s your bag.’
‘Keep it—it’s a photocopy of all myresearch which is relevant to Mary.’
‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling open thedoor and stepping out into the quiet streets. The bright day had turnedslightly overcast, with thick clouds shielding the sun.
‘I wonder what on earth went on there?’Jenny said, as she and Morton looked into the churchyard. The entrancesat each corner were still sealed off with police tape. It looked asthough the forensic tents were being taken down and the operations scaledback. Just one police car and three policemen remained.
Morton grinned. ‘I might tell youlater. Come on, let’s go.’ Morton turned to leave when somethingcaught his eyes. It was a name on a headstone. His eyes darted backto the name carved into the simple grey memorial.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jenny asked,realising that Morton was transfixed by the grave.
‘This grave. It can’t be.’
Jenny leant over and looked. ‘MarthaStone, 1890 to 1902.’ Jenny switched her attention to Morton. ‘Doyou know her?’
Morton nodded. He knew heralright. She was alive and well, living in Canada in the 1920s. Heneeded to think. Fast. He quickly took a picture of the grave, thenaddressed Jenny. ‘Let’s go—I might need your help this afternoon. I’ll explain later. For now, we need to go and see this vicar.’
‘Okay,’ Jenny said, sounding slightlyconfused.
Morton led Jenny across the street to arather grand peg-tile-covered house. It was detached and had animmaculate garden filled with bright red roses. A pink climbing rose witha thick trunk splayed out across the front of the house. ‘This is it,’Morton said, checking the address with what he had scribbled on hisnotepad. He rang the bell and waited.
A moment later, a squat man with whitehair, wearing a cassock and dog collar, opened the door. ‘Morning,’ hesaid cheerfully. ‘Mr Farrier?’
Morton nodded and shook the vicar’shand. ‘Yes, thank you for seeing me. This is my friend, Jenny.’
‘Nice to meet you, Jenny,’ he said,shaking her hand. ‘Come in.’ The vicar stepped to one side to allowthem in. ‘I might have to cut this short if I get a visit from ourfriends over there.’ He nodded his head over to the church andsighed. ‘First time I’ve ever been barred from my own church. Terrible business.’ He showed them into a small room at the front of thehouse. It was a simply furnished one, which Morton guessed was used forparish business rather than personal use. It had three fabric chairs,which had seen better days, and a small table. On the walls was anassortment of watercolours of scenic views around Sussex.
‘What happened?’ Jenny asked.
‘Murder,’ the vicar said, taking a longbreath. ‘I don’t know the full extent yet. A man was shotdead. You can’t imagine anyone in this town with a gun.’
‘Have they caught the murderer?’ Mortonasked.
The vicar shook his head, making his jowlsshake like a boxer dog. ‘Not that I know of, no. It’s terrified mypoor parishioners, I can tell you.’
‘I bet it has,’ Jenny commented.
‘Well,’ the vicar replied, facing Morton,‘as I said on the phone, we’ve only got a few parish chest bits and pieces butpretty well everything of importance, official church records, etcetera werehanded over years ago. It’s mainly letters to and from the diocese. Don’t get your hopes up.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Morton said. ‘Justchecking every avenue.’
‘I won’t be a moment. Take aseat.’ The vicar strode from the room, leaving Morton and Jenny to sit atthe table.
‘So, is Martha Stone something to do withthis case you’re working on, then?’ Jenny asked.
‘Possibly. I need to get to The Keeppretty quickly after this. Fancy coming along?’
‘Oh, yes please!’ Jenny saidenthusiastically.
Morton smiled. ‘I’ll bring you up todate on
