Read The Lost Ancestor for Free Online Page B

off.  It had struck Morton as curious when he had first noticed on
the census that she was living at the property, despite only living metres
away.  It was only after he had reflected on the nature of her job as a
housemaid that he understood that her duties would have required her to spend
almost every waking hour in service with only half a day’s leave per week.
    He reached a pair of stone pillars just
wide enough to accommodate a standard horse and carriage, then crossed into
Blackfriars.  He walked slowly down the concrete path which bisected a
perfectly manicured lawn.  As the path drew closer to the house, a teasing
glimpse of a purple wisteria-engulfed wing appeared.  He continued as the
house appeared inch by inch in front of him.  When the full magnificence
of Blackfriars came into view, Morton stopped and stared in awe.  Despite
the few members of the public milling about near to the building, he was able
to see the estate through the Edwardian eyes of Mary Mercer.  She too must
have been locked in sheer admiration the first time that she walked this
path.  As he neared the building, he turned back on himself and stared at
the winding path that he had just taken.  Somewhere on that route back to
Friar’s Cottage on Wednesday 12 th April 1911, Mary Mercer had
vanished for more than fifty years.  Where did you go? Morton
wondered, as he photographed the pathway.  And why?
    Morton slung his camera around his neck
and became absorbed in a growing crowd, steadily moving towards the makeshift
ticket office outside the Blackfriars front door.
    Every snippet of conversation emanating
from the queue to enter Blackfriars centred on the television show, The
Friary, a popular Sunday night drama about the ‘upstairs downstairs’ lives
of an Edwardian aristocratic family.  Blackfriars was used for the
external shots and some of the ‘upstairs’ filming.  Juliette loved the
programme but Morton took great offence at the historical liberties taken in
the name of entertainment; it was exactly the same for Juliette and police
dramas.  Except now that she was training to be a fully-paid up member of
the police, rather than a PCSO, she was even more sceptical and deriding.
    The gap shrank between Morton and the lone
ticket-seller sitting behind a wooden trestle table with an open
cash-box.  Not the most sophisticated ticket office in the world, Morton thought, but he knew that a modern day ticket office would look slightly
anachronistic in an Edwardian television drama.
    Finally, he reached the front of the queue
and was greeted with a sharp frown from a plump lady with a ruddy complexion
and white curly hair.  Her name badge announced her as ‘Mrs Greenwood’.
    ‘Welcome to the Blackfriars estate,’ she
said in a voice which told Morton that she had said it a million times before.
    ‘Morning.’
    ‘Have you been here before?’ she asked
monotonously.
    ‘No, first time,’ Morton said.
    ‘I expect you’re a fan of the show.’
    ‘Yeah, I guess so,’ Morton said vaguely,
wondering why, yet again, lying was much simpler than telling the truth.
    The dreary lady informed him that his
sixteen pounds entrance fee bought him a ticket which was valid for a year, and
a map of the estate.  He additionally purchased a five pounds guide book,
which, from having a quick flick through whilst he handed over his money,
appeared to blend trivia from the show with factual historical
information.  Morton spotted an extract which seemed to be an Edwardian
estate accounts list.  Underneath it was a modern photo of a smartly
dressed, spectacled man in his fifties.  The caption to the photo labelled
him as the Blackfriars archivist, Sidney Mersham.
    ‘Do you happen to know if Sidney Mersham
is in at all today?’ Morton asked, snatching the opportunity.
    The lady frowned.  ‘I don’t know,’
she said, without giving the question a moment’s consideration, before adding,
‘I come in, hang my coat up downstairs,