He finished his latte and returned to his laptop, his migraine thankfully lifting. The very first step in his genealogical cases was usually to run a simple Google search on the person or family that he was researching; sometimes a mass of information could be found, other times, nothing. He patiently waded through various combinations of names, places and time frames. His discovery that Hawkinge had an operating aerodrome at the time when Elsie had met William yielded no obvious online connections to the pair. But he was facing an uphill battle with William’s surname. Smith. It was one of his unwritten rules to never take on a genealogical case involving anyone with a common surname. Just running a search for William’s potential birth in the year 1921 alone resulted in 290 results. Madness.
Morton’s phone beeped loudly from his pocket. It was a text message from Juliette. You may return. The wine is waiting. Xx
He smiled and shut his laptop. His searches so far had yielded nothing on William Smith or Elsie Finch. It seemed that aside from bringing an unwanted child into the world, their wartime had left little impact on history.
Chapter Five
It was gone ten in the morning and Morton and Juliette were still in their pyjamas, eating breakfast at the kitchen table. The smell of fresh coffee and hot toast lingered in the air around them. On the table, between them, were the three letters addressed to Margaret Farrier.
‘Of course you’ve got to open them,’ Juliette said, pulling a face that suggested any alternative was wholly ridiculous.
‘It’s not as simple as that, though,’ Morton answered. He wished it were. If the letters had belonged to another family, or could have at least been considered remotely historic, the decision would have been an easier one. ‘They were private letters between two people—at least one of whom is still alive. It’s the difference between reading your mum’s diary and Anne Frank’s.’
Juliette shot an incredulous look at him.
‘Maybe that’s not the best analogy, but do you see my point?’
Juliette shook her head, rushing to finish her mouthful. ‘Not really, no. If it helps you to find your father, then you have to do it. Besides, if you do open them, then you can decide what to do with them—maybe even give them to Aunty Margaret.’
‘That’s the policewoman in you talking, though,’ Morton goaded. ‘It’s evidence. Would you have opened them in your days as a librarian? Or if they were between your mum and dad?’
Despite his light provocation, she thought seriously for a moment. ‘Given the whole picture, knowing what you know and what you need to know—yes, I definitely would.’
Morton picked up the letters, turning them over, willing them to reveal their secrets. Then he put them down, consciously trying to cease thinking about them. He needed to change the topic of conversation. ‘So, who’s cancelled on you today, then?’ he asked.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, you’ve got a day off and you’re not doing any wedding planning. Who cancelled?’
Juliette tossed back her bed-dishevelled hair. ‘I don’t do wedding stuff every day, you know, Morton,’ she said giggling, before adding, ‘But I should have been meeting the photographer: he’s had to rearrange—some family emergency.’
‘There you go,’ he laughed. ‘Fancy a research trip with me to Capel-le-Ferne?’
‘Where’s that? France?’
‘According to Google, it’s somewhere near Folkestone.’
‘That could still be France,’ she said, rolling her eyes. ‘Okay, if I must.’
Morton grinned and kissed her on the cheek.
Among the misshapen fields of crops and livestock that rose above the white cliffs between Dover and Folkestone was the windswept village of Capel-le-Ferne. The population of just over two thousand lived in an almost neat triangle of streets, many of the properties coming with a near-perfect view of the mirrored French coast.
Juliette climbed from the car and joined Morton on the pavement of a quiet residential street. She pulled tight her cardigan, shivering at the wind sliding up from the English Channel. ‘Where first, tour guide?’
‘Cliff House,’ he replied, leading the way along the busier main coastal road.
‘It looks like we’re leaving the village, though,’ Juliette said, threading her arm through his as they walked.
‘By the looks of it, it’s the last house,’ Morton answered, zooming into the map on his phone for closer inspection.
‘Or the first, if you’re coming from the other direction,’ Juliette pointed out.
It took a few minutes, and then they turned off the main road onto a thin track which climbed steeply. They strolled beside low bramble-woven hedges of hawthorn until they reached a tall white electric gate which was being held ajar by a rock.
‘Impressive,’ Juliette said at the view that had opened up to their left: a stunning vista of open countryside and rolling hills with Dover Castle perched on the distant horizon. The only sign of modern life was the busy M20 dual carriageway that carved its way through the landscape.
Morton turned to the right and saw the property. Cliff House: a huge, whitewashed building with all the characteristics of a box, perched just a few feet from the cliff’s edge; a hell of a place to have been born in the first years of war. There was something different about the building, it was so very unlike the rows of humble chalet bungalows that dominated the rest of the village, as if being the highest and closest to France had conferred onto it a boastful ostentatiousness.
‘Spooky,’ Juliette murmured, as she too turned to face the house. ‘Is that it? Where your woman was born?’
‘Yes,’ Morton answered, the gentle tightening of her arm through his revealing that she too felt the cold emptiness that emanated from the house. ‘I’m just going to get a couple of shots.’ He pulled out his Nikon camera and began to attach a
