Morton stared at the results. He was only 3% British.
He glanced up at the crude, hand-written family tree that he had previously drawn up for himself. With absolute lucidity, the DNA results confirmed how very little he knew of his own family. That two thirds of his ancestral heritage originated from Western Europe shocked and thrilled him simultaneously. His eyes settled on his maternal grandmother, Anna Schmidt, whom he knew to be German. Other than her, he was aware of no other family connections to this geographical area. He realised then, too, that his biological father’s origins also had to be located somewhere in Europe.
At the bottom of the family tree, beside his own name was written Juliette Meade. He looked at her name, then at theirs together. He’d been stupid and selfish these last few days. He wanted to marry her, so why should his adoptive father’s affairs stop him? He pulled out his mobile and wrote a text to her. Hi. I’ve been an idiot. Sorry. Let’s spend the evening planning the wedding. Love you xx
Having sent the message, Morton felt the warm sensation of calmness rising from inside. He began to feel his pessimism peeling away like a constricting skin. He breathed slowly and the husk of negativity eventually fell away.
It was time to pick up the case and move on.
The squat oblong of glass and concrete that was the Kent History and Library Centre, just outside Maidstone town centre, had been purpose-built in 2012. It was, like many other modern archives, light and open-plan with crisp white pillars and wooden flooring throughout.
The automatic doors silently slid open and Morton stepped inside the cool building. The room seemed to buzz with energy from the people busying themselves at the bookshelves, desks and computers. He headed straight to the family history section at the rear left of the building.
‘Morning,’ Morton greeted the man behind the help desk. ‘Have you got a table and microfilm reader available, please?’
The man smiled pleasantly. ‘Yes, we’re very quiet today.’ He turned to his side and pointed to the row of microfilm readers. ‘Which one do you fancy? Over there are the old-fashioned wind-on ones, or there are two of the more modern digital ones or some ultra brand new PC-based ones which we’re trialling at the moment.’
‘Go on, then, I’ll give the ultra brand new ones a whirl,’ Morton answered with a grin.
‘Excellent—I’ll put you on number two. They haven’t even got these at the National Archives,’ he boasted. ‘Simple to use—I’ll give you a demo when you’re ready.’
‘Thanks,’ Morton said.
‘Can I have your library card, please?’
Morton handed over his card and, in return, received a lanyard with an access key card to the archive reading room and a locker key. He removed his laptop, notepad and pencil, placed his bag inside the locker, then wandered over to the bank of blue folders containing an alphabetised list of Kent parishes.
Having located the file containing parish chest information for Westwell, he completed an orange document request slip for the settlement registers, then swiped his key card to gain access to the adjacent archive reading room.
A sullen middle-aged woman, whose name badge announced her to be Brenda Buxton, glanced up from behind the help desk as he entered. She had a tight, pinched mouth that gave the appearance that she was unable to smile.
‘Can I give you this, please,’ Morton asked, holding up his request slip and trying not to be drawn to the two inches of stark white roots contrasting heavily against the rest of her coal-black hair.
Without taking her eyes off the screen, Brenda Buxton indicated a small wooden box to the side of her desk. Charming lady, Morton thought, as he deposited the slip in the box. She reminded him of Miss Latimer. Every archive must have one, he thought.
Morton took his seat at table number two and set up his laptop. He watched as Brenda unhurriedly finished whatever was occupying her onscreen, then picked up his slip of paper and disappeared out through a door behind the desk, returning expressionlessly to her computer moments later.
Morton waited patiently, using the time to re-read his notes taken yesterday at The Keep, until finally a small lady with letterbox-red lipstick and a thick coat of black eyeliner appeared at his table and placed a white envelope down in front of him. ‘There you go, love.’
Morton thanked her then carefully retrieved the bundle of settlement documents from the envelope and opened them out in front of him. They were arranged haphazardly, with each settlement examination on a separate loose sheet. He began to examine the handwritten names at the top of each piece of paper and, after searching for just a few short minutes, the Lovekin name sprang out at him. He smiled, as he began to read through the paperwork, knowing that he was getting closer to finding out what had happened to the three sisters after their mother had died.
He had read several lines before he realised that he was already familiar with this document; it was an exact copy of the removal order that he had seen yesterday at East Sussex Record Office. Nevertheless, he withdrew his mobile and took a shot of the document, intending to run a comparison when he got home, just to be certain that there were no discrepancies.
‘Have you got a photography licence?’ Brenda Buxton suddenly barked, as she leapt up from her seat and headed over to Morton’s table.
‘Pardon?’
‘You just took a photo of that document—do you have a licence?’ she demanded.
‘In what way?’ Morton asked curiously.
She huffed and folded her arms. ‘It’s a licence that lets you take unlimited photographs.’
‘No, I don’t have one. How much are they?’ Morton asked, always exacerbated by such silly bureaucracy.
‘Ten pounds per day,’ Brenda answered.
‘No
