Next, he opened the 1930 Federal Census and ran a search for his great-grandfather, George P. Jacklin and his wife, Lucy. One result. In San Francisco, California. Three thousand miles from Boston. He opened the page and instantly saw why his grandfather had not shown up in previous searches: he was listed as Joseph Jacklin—not Roscoe. There were two other children in the house: John and David Jacklin.
Morton considered what he had just discovered. His grandmother, Velda had evidently believed that her husband had been born in Boston, Massachusetts, yet clearly he had not been. Why would his grandfather tell his wife that he had been born on the other side of the country? Morton wondered. Did this have anything to do with his father’s disappearance?
He needed to see if there were more records in California pertaining to his grandfather. Navigating through the Ancestry website, he typed in Joseph Jacklin’s name, along with those of his parents. One suggested record matched the search criteria: a marriage on the 4th March 1949 in San Francisco, between Joseph Jacklin and Audrey Fuller.
Morton studied the entry for some time. Four years after this marriage, Joseph—under the name Roscoe—had married Velda Henderson in Wellfleet, Massachusetts, stating himself to be a bachelor. The implication was clear; that Velda had no knowledge of her husband’s birth and marriage three thousand miles away in California.
As he had done several times in the past few months, Morton allowed his mind to ramble back to an imagined scene of his grandparents’ wedding on Cape Cod. Only this time, thanks to the newspaper report of the fire, his grandfather’s face had sharpened into focus. His grandmother, Velda, was still a blur, yet still Morton felt a deep sympathy for her marrying a man with a clearly secretive past.
Morton wanted to know more about that life, becoming more convinced that it could have a bearing on his father’s disappearance.
Opening up the 1940 Federal Census, he searched again for his grandfather—this time under the name Joseph with parents George and Lucy. He found them easily. They were living in a house on Russian Hill, San Francisco. Before he could read the finer detail about his family, he was distracted by a familiar name in the neighbouring house. Living next door to his twelve-year-old grandfather was his eleven-year-old grandmother, Velda Henderson, with her sister and widowed mother.
Morton stared at the screen as the fictional scenes that he had created once again collided with hard genealogical facts. His grandmother had to have known her husband’s place of birth and probably also, therefore, of his previous marriage.
‘What were you both running from?’ Morton murmured.
Chapter Four
4th March 1949, Cow Hollow, San Francisco, California, USA
Velda Henderson was shaking. She hadn’t noticed it until she looked at herself in her full-length bedroom mirror. Her hands were quivering as if she had some peculiar illness. She clasped them together and steadied them on her stomach. She needed to calm down before she left the house, but time was running out—she literally had one hour until it was all too late. Her heart, though, told her that it already was, but still the demons inside her mind persisted.
Closing her eyes, she pictured calmness as a physical entity; she imagined a viscous liquid akin to blood slowly seeping through the blackness of her body. She dragged the breath in and out of her lungs, as though it were a great effort.
When she opened her eyes minutes later she was composed. The shaking had stopped. She smiled, took a step back and regarded herself in the mirror. Perfect. She was wearing a brand-new dress in the ‘New Look’ style—padded hips, rounded shoulders and a wasp waist. It was white with a blue and red swirling pattern that would have been completely unimaginable just four years ago what with the depravations of war. To complete the look, she wore ostrich platform shoes that gave perfect definition to her legs. Quite what her mother would have made of such an outfit was anyone’s guess.
With an extravagant twirl, she opened her bedroom door and descended the staircase to the large entrance hall below. Her sister and some of their mutual friends were scattered around the house, getting themselves ready for the wedding in just under forty-five minutes’ time.
It was now or never.
She quietly slipped from the house and walked a short distance up the steep incline, then stopped. She glanced up at the imposing house that was next door to hers; the tiny voice inside her that said that this wasn’t a good idea made one final plea.
With the thinnest veil of confidence, she climbed the stairs and rang the bell.
‘Velda! Come on in.’ It was David, Joseph’s younger brother and best man. He stepped to one side and she entered the house. ‘He’s up in his room—pacing the floor by the sounds of it.’
‘Thank you,’ Velda replied, taking some meaning from the fact that Joseph seemed anxious. She climbed the stairs and crossed the upstairs hallway to his bedroom. She paused for a moment then tapped lightly on the door.
‘Yes,’ Joseph called.
There was a hint of annoyance or displeasure, Velda noted, as she entered the room. ‘Hi, Joseph.’
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. ‘Velda—I wasn’t expecting to see you at the wedding today, much less appear in my room right before it.’ He stood up and faced her.
‘I had to see you,’ she said quietly. ‘I need to tell you something.’
Joseph’s head sank down in a sigh. ‘Velda, listen—’
‘She’s not really pregnant,’ Velda blurted.
Joseph looked up, startled. ‘How did you know she was pregnant?’ he whispered.
‘That doesn’t matter—what matters is that it’s
