Two hours later, back at the guesthouse, Morton was sitting at the desk in his bedroom, a gentle, salty breeze blowing up from the sea through the open door to the veranda. Watercolours of local sites in oak frames were spaced neatly on the white walls and a vase of fresh carnations rested on a coffee table in the small lounge area.
‘Damn,’ Morton muttered, as confirmation appeared onscreen that both Edward and Irene Dyche had died in the late 1980s. Given what his father had told him about their ages in the 1970s, it was hardly surprising that they were long since dead. All hope now rested on a son that Morton had found, Roy Dyche, who was born in 1933. Using an online electoral register website, Morton had tracked him down to a current address in Portsmouth. Given that Roy was not present with his parents in 1974, it was highly unlikely that he had any personal recollection of the American visitors. It was Morton’s hope, however, that some fragment of Roy’s parents’ guesthouse business still existed, which might shed some light on their former guests.
Morton hastily typed out a letter to Roy Dyche, which he would print and send as soon as he returned home later that day, then he sat back and gazed at the laptop screen. There must be some other way to find him, he thought. Some other genealogical trick or avenue to pursue. But he couldn’t think of anything. He had previously conducted extensive research into the university course of which his Aunty Margaret had a vague recollection of Jack’s enrolment and he had found that only the Department of Classical Studies and Anthropology in Boston University offered degrees in Archaeology in 1974. Although without firm evidence, Morton sufficiently felt this to be the most likely place at which his father had studied and had emailed them, painstakingly setting out why he was asking for the surnames of anyone who took the course in 1974 called Jack. An officious reply from a lady called Bridgette in the administration department had told him that data protection laws meant that his request had been denied. Every hope now rested with Roy Dyche. As niggling doubts began their low chatter in his head, Morton closed the laptop lid and stepped out onto the balcony in order to free his mind from the bleakness of the case. A purple and pink sunset worthy of an artist’s canvas nestled gracefully between the two hills, the sight of which instantly calmed his spirit. Somewhere out there, across the ocean was his father. Somehow, Morton was determined to find him.
From the coffee table beside him, Morton’s mobile began to ring.
Dad, the screen said. Had his father had a change of heart and decided to tell Morton everything he could remember about the mysterious American visitors from January 1974? Morton wondered, as he clicked to answer the call.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he ventured, trying to mask the apprehension in his voice.
‘Hello, Morton, it’s Madge here.’
Morton’s insides sagged. Madge. His father’s girlfriend. The idea of his father having any kind of a relationship other than with his mother still filled Morton with an immature misplaced abhorrence that he felt could never be placated. ‘Hello, Madge,’ he said, unclenching his molars. ‘How are you?’
‘Good, thank you. Listen, I was just wondering if you were busy at the moment?’
Morton hesitated. What was this all about? Madge never phoned him and he began to fear that something had happened to his father. Had his phone call caused another heart attack? ‘Is Dad okay?’
‘Oh yes, he’s his usual grumpy self. So, are you busy?’
‘No, not really,’ Morton answered, curious to know where this conversation was leading.
‘Excellent,’ Madge chirped. ‘Can you and Juliette come to dinner tonight? Something I’d like to discuss.’
‘Oh, right. Anything important?’
‘Yes, it is rather. Can you make it for around six?’
Morton found himself agreeing. ‘Yes, that should be fine.’
‘See you tonight, then. No need for chocolate, wine or flowers—just yourselves. Bye.’
Morton looked at his phone incredulously. What could be so important? he wondered. Nothing…except some information about his biological father. If that was the case, Morton couldn’t fathom why Madge had phoned him and not his father. He’d noticed from recent visits that they were spending an increasing amount of time together—perhaps his father had simply asked her to make the call? Or perhaps it was her attempt to diffuse a potentially explosive situation before it had the chance to ignite and his father was unaware that she had rung him? Whatever, he would find out tonight.
Morton texted Juliette about their last minute plans this evening, pocketed the phone, then began to pack his small suitcase.
‘There. The dinner’s in the oven,’ Madge announced, as she strode into the lounge. ‘I hope your father won’t be too much longer at the Bowls Club. I did tell him to be here by now, but you know what he’s like.’
Morton smiled politely, trying to stifle his malaise at Madge’s over-familiarity with his father’s house—the place in which Morton had grown up and in which hundreds of family memories—good and bad—had been lived out and created.
‘That’s Farrier men for you,’ Juliette quipped with a faint smile, as she turned her head in his direction. Her words were playful, but having lived with her for two years, Morton could detect the controlled vestige of genuine displeasure. The source of her trouble was to be found on the front page of the newspaper resting on the coffee table between them. Guilty! The headline of the Hastings & St Leonards Observer declared boldly, above a blurred shot of Lady Daphne Mansfield being bundled into the back of a police van, destined for a life sentence at Lewes Prison.
