The vicar pushed open the door with anapologetic look on his face. In his hand was a bundle of papers bound bya red ribbon. ‘It really isn’t much,’ he said, setting the bundle down onthe table and proceeding to unpeel the binding. ‘I’m afraid, for securityreasons, I’m going to have to stay in the room while you look at them.’
‘That’s fine,’ Morton said, leaning overto inspect the bundle. He felt like a child in a sweet shop whenpresented with historical artefacts, desperate to delve in. He took thefirst document and Jenny took the second. He could see instantly that thepiece of paper was of no use. It was simply a letter written from thediocese to the church about a village event commemoration in 1978. Mortonset the paper down and took the next, a bundle of papers which heskim-read. They were a series of letters about the erection of a tabletcommemorating the life and distinguished service of one of their organists, whohad died in 1948. Jenny set down her document and took another.
‘I did warn you,’ the vicar said with alook of slight embarrassment.
‘It’s fine,’ Morton said. ‘We’rejust very meticulous.’
After ten minutes of fruitless searching,the end of the pile drew closer when Jenny suddenly sat up straight. ‘Morton,’ she said, a hint of excitement in her voice. ‘Look at this.’She handed over a letter.
‘Dear Rev. Knowles, I am writing to you torequest that you prepare a marriage licence so that I can be married at yourearliest convenience. I enclose the sum of 7s 6d, which I believe to bethe cost. I am currently in Scotland with the Mansfield family, but Iwould like to marry my fiancée, Mary Mercer as soon after my return toWinchelsea as possible. I hope this is all as it should be. Yourssincerely, Edward Mercer.’
‘He somebody of interest?’ the vicarasked, sitting up with curiosity.
‘Very much so,’ Morton replied. Theletter proved that he and Mary were an item. They were engaged. Marrying by licence often, but not always, implied a rushed marriage. WasMary pregnant and they were marrying quickly to avoid the scandal of having achild out of wedlock? Morton studied the letter again. It wasdated Monday 10th April 1911. It disproved one of Morton’sinitial theories: that Mary had taken herself off to Scotland to be withEdward. He can only have learned of her disappearance upon his returnwith the rest of the household. And then he was dead just over a monthlater, drowned in the Blackfriars lake, just like Florence McDougall. ‘Mind if I take a photo of it on my phone?’
‘By all means,’ the vicar answered.
‘Would a copy of the licence existsomewhere?’ Jenny asked hopefully.
‘I’m guessing that the reason this letteris still here is because the licence wasn’t granted. Vicars couldn’t, andindeed still can’t, issue marriage licences. This Edward chap of yourswas in such a hurry that he wrote to the wrong place. The Bishop ofCanterbury would have been the person to issue the licence. If it hadbeen granted, then the marriage would likely have taken place soon after. Your best bet is to see if they actually married. The marriagecertificate will tell you if it was after banns had been called or by licence.’
‘They didn’t marry,’ Morton said.
‘Oh, I see. He seemed keenenough. Maybe young Mary wasn’t quite so keen.’
‘Maybe,’ Morton said, not wishing to wastetime conveying the details of the case.
Jenny carefully held the letter whilstMorton took the picture.
‘Right, let’s finish the bundle and thenwe’ll let you get on,’ Jenny said to the vicar.
Morton and Jenny continued looking throughthe remaining papers, both working in silence as they considered theimplications of chancing upon Edward’s letter. They reached the end ofthe pile, with no further trace of the Mercers or Mansfields.
Morton thanked the vicar and handed him aten-pound note. ‘For your trouble.’
‘It was no trouble, but thank you,’ thevicar said, holding the front door open for them.
‘Well—that sure was a discovery!’ Jenny beamedonce they were out of earshot. ‘That proves that they were acouple. And we know they looked alike.’
‘It doesn’t prove that she was pregnantwith his child, which was then given over—willingly or otherwise—to Cecil andPhiladelphia.’
‘We’ll see,’ Jenny said with a wry smile.
As they walked towards Morton’s car, hecouldn’t help but feel a hint of admiration for Jenny and her determination toprove her theory through her own personal endeavours. If it all came tonothing, it would still be a pleasant afternoon spent in the company of someonewho shared his passion for uncovering historical truth.
MarkDrury was agitated and angry. Last night had not gone to plan and he waspissed off. He was sitting in his van clenching his jaw, impatiently waiting. Suddenly, the GPS signal from Morton Farrier’s phone was moving. A smallgreen dot representing Morton’s signal moved apace across a map on Mark Drury’slaptop screen. The laptop was open on the passenger seat of hiscar. Mark was little over half a mile from Morton’s present location inWinchelsea. Turning onto the main road, Mark began to follow thesignal. With the technology sitting beside him, he had no need to everget into Morton’s view and could comfortably hang back and allow the GPS signalto guide him to wherever he was going. In the glove compartment wasMark’s Sig Sauer handgun, loaded and with a silencer. After a severereprimand from his boss, Mark knew that it had to end today.
Chapter Nineteen
Thursday18th May 1911
Twoweeks of solid sunshine had given way to violent storms. Dense blackclouds raged outside and the windows of Blackfriars were pounded by the heavyrain.
‘Goodness, I think we might have to lightsome fires tonight, if this continues,’ Mrs Cuff said, as she walked besideEdward along the corridor towards the housekeeper’s room. It was halfpast eight in the evening and the servants had just finished their tea.
Edward agreed with an inaudible mumble; heknew that she was just trying to make small talk, despite obviously havingsomething more significant to say to him. It had to be a personalissue—if it were work-related then Mr Risler would have spoken to him. Maybe it was about Mary, Edward hoped. He had known all day thatsomething hadn’t been quite
