‘Glad to hear it, too!’ Margaret chuckled.
Morton stood up and headed over to his laptop and notepad, receiving a glareand groan from Juliette, who slumped into the space on the sofa which he hadpreviously occupied.
Scribbled on his notepad were a fewpotential lines of enquiry that he wanted to follow up. One of the postcardsfrom Leonard to Nellie had mentioned Charles Farrier’s will. Morton knewthat wills of some soldiers killed in the British armed forces between 1850 and1986 had recently been added to the government website, so he found his way tothe relevant page and typed in Charles Farrier’s name and date of death. One match.
Surname: Farrier
First name: Charles
Regimental number: L/7512
Date of death: 26 December 1914
Mortonclicked ‘Add to Basket’, paid the ten-pound fee and downloaded the smallfile. ‘I’ve just located Charles’s will if you want to see it,’ he calledover to Margaret.
She stood up, set down her porridgeremnants and came scuttling over to see.
The document was headed ‘Informal Will’ and contained a page detailingCharles’s service details and date and place of death with the official typedscript: The enclosed document dated 25.12.14 and signed by CharlesErnest Farrier, appears to have been written or executed by the person namedin the margin while he was “in actual military service” within the meaning ofthe Wills Act, 1837, and has been recognised by the War Department asconstituting a valid will.
‘Come on then!’ Margretsaid, ‘don’t keep me in suspense.’
Morton scrolled down to the next page, which gave, in his own handwriting, thelast will of Charles Farrier. ‘In the event of my death I give the wholeof my property and effects to my wife, Mrs Nellie Farrier, 14 York Street,Eastbourne, Sussex.’ At the bottom of the page Charles had signed anddated the will.
‘Well, that was certainly short and sweet,’ Margaret commented. ‘No realsurprises, are there?’
‘No,’ Morton said. And yet something bothered him, but he couldn’t workout what. As Margaret returned to her armchair and porridge, Mortonreread the will several times, but he still couldn’t place the cause of hisunease. It was slightly strange—but perhaps a pure coincidence—thatCharles had written his will the day before he was killed, but that wasn’tit. Morton was desperate to read the unit war diary for the 26thDecember to finally see what had happened to his great grandfather. Hewas sorely tempted to take a sneaky look without telling his Aunty Margaret,but thought better of it. These tentative initial researches into hisfamily tree had been one of the best genealogical cases that he had worked onsimply because they were his family. But what he had enjoyed themost about his research was that it was a shared venture with AuntyMargaret—something to bring them closer together and remove the veils ofsecrecy that had hung over their relationship all these years.
‘Shall I read today’s diary entry?’ Morton asked.
Margaret, mouth full ofporridge, nodded fervently.
‘24th December, Le Hamel. Brigade relieved. Marched toLe Hamel arriving about 8.30am and billeted. Capt. Wainwright athospital…That’s it—another short one.’
Margaret looked disappointed. ‘So they’re out of harm’s way for themoment. Goodness me, I do hope he at least had a nice ChristmasDay. I couldn’t bear to think of him being up to his waist in muddy wateror worse.’ She shook her head in dismay. ‘It doesn’t bear thinkingabout. No sign of a Christmas truce for Grandad Farrier, then?’
‘We’ll find out tomorrow…but no, it doesn’t look like it.’
‘We will indeed,’ she answered, standing up and heading towards thekitchen. ‘Come on then, Margaret Daynes, this won’t do. You’ve goterrands to run.’
‘Anything you need help with?’ Morton called.
‘No, I just need to pop around the village dropping presents off andwhat-not. Do you two still want to come to the Christingle servicetonight?’
‘We’d love to,’ Juliette answered, before turning to Morton. ‘Right,you. The weather is kind of reasonable, so do you fancy that cliff-topwalk you mentioned—show me where you went with Aunty Margaret the otherday? It does mean you’ll have to put your computer away, though.’
Morton grinned and closed his laptop. ‘What about a wander through thevillage? Have a nice pub lunch?’
Juliette seemed disappointed. ‘I fancied seeing that amazing view.’
‘We’ll do it another time—later maybe,’ Morton promised.
‘Okay. I’ll go and make myself beautiful, then.’
‘You don’t need to,’ Morton said with a smile.
Juliette lifted her hair and let it fall messily back to her shoulders. ‘Yeah,’ she replied, dragging the word out as she left the room.
Itwas late morning when Morton and Juliette stepped outside. They hadwrapped up with gloves, scarves and thick winter jackets; the sun had so farspent much of the morning cowering behind ominous-looking clouds that racedacross the sky, as if they were in a desperate hurry to be somewhere else.
‘God, that’s chilly,’ Juliette said with a shudder, threading her gloved fingersinto Morton’s.
‘Come on, then, let’s get a move on,’ Morton encouraged, as he lengthened hisstride.
‘Alright, slow down—we’re not on a march,’ Juliette complained.
Morton slowed his pace and the pair continued on into the main part of thevillage, a single lane that descended to the beach inlet before rising againthe other side. Along this short stretch was a fish shop, an arts andcrafts shop, a gift shop and a restaurant, all of which relied on Cadgwith’stwo main sources of income: the sea and tourists. Morton stepped off theroad and down onto the beach, leading them past an array of fishing detritus:lobster pots, crates, baskets and an assortment of tubs out of which spewedgreat bundles of tangled rope. A pair of large fishing boats were hauledup onto the shingle and a range of other, smaller sailing vessels were alsomoored, safely tucked up away from the inclement seas.
‘Those seas are really rough,’ Juliette exclaimed. ‘I’m surprised your UncleJim wanted to go out today.’
‘Hmm,’ Morton mumbled, thinking that he probably knew the reason why Uncle Jimwould rather brave the squally Atlantic Ocean than stay in his own home.
Juliette leant in and faced Morton. ‘What?’
‘What do you mean what?’ Morton said innocently.
‘That
