The Marriage Certificate (29 page)

Nick called Carol on the internal phone and asked her to come up
to his office.

‘Great news,’ he said, as Carol came in. ‘Sit down. I’ve
just received an email from John Gressl in the States.’

‘Have they traced any heirs?’ she asked excitedly.

‘They certainly have, well, one heir anyway, but one is good
enough for us, makes the paperwork easier too!’

‘OK, so who is it? What’s the relationship to David Crockford?’

‘They’ve found a grandson, Scott Crockford. He was born in
1941 and he lives near Boston. He’s an only child. His father, Michael, another
only child, was killed in Normandy in 1944. Scott’s been signed up. So, we now
have our heir. We’ll be submitting the claim as soon as we have the
documentation back from Purdie-Gressl.’

‘Ah, I remember from the 1930 US Census that David and Doris
had a son Michael aged nine. So he was Scott’s father?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Scott was born just before Michael was called
up, when the United States joined the war.’

‘And Michael didn’t come back … that’s a shame. I wonder if
his widow remarried.’

‘She may have, but of course any subsequent children are not
part of David’s bloodline and can’t inherit.’

‘Yes, of course. Sorry, I was just thinking aloud. Have
Purdie-Gressl found out what happened to David Crockford’s father, Thomas, and
his uncle, Frederick Crockford?’ Carol asked.

Nick scanned the email he was reading. ‘Just says that
Thomas died in New York without remarrying, in 1924, and the uncle died without
issue, also in New York in 1924. So David was the only live stem.’

‘Oh, great. So that’s it then,’ replied Carol, who
had secretly hoped that by some fluke the trail would have bounced back to
England and given her a last stab at solving it.

‘Yes, that should wrap it up Carol. Well done, you’ve worked
well on this case. Pity you couldn’t have solved the last part yourself, but
that’s heir hunting; no respect for international boundaries, I’m afraid. You
did all that you could, so don’t be disappointed. When the documents come
through from the States, you can be responsible for putting everything together
in order to submit the claim.’

‘Thanks Nick. I’d really like to do that.’

‘Great, and next time we get a case from
Purdie-Gressl, I promise that you can handle it. OK?’

‘Oh right, thank you. Yes, I’ll look forward to that too.’

Peter checked his email and was delighted to see one from
Margaret Trigg. The sisters had agreed to meet him and suggested one afternoon
later that week at a convenient time. It was perfect. It gave him a day or two
to collate his information and think about how he would approach the meeting.

Peter spent that evening scanning documents and certificates
relevant to the sisters, and working out how they were related to Harry
Williams. He wanted to persuade them to allow him to submit a claim on their
behalf. He needed to make a good impression and to show that he knew what he
was doing. Having come this far, he couldn’t bear the thought of not finishing
this off himself.

By now, Peter also felt he deserved something for his
trouble, perhaps a small percentage, if possible. He knew that professional
heir-hunting companies charged a commission. He prepared a letter of
representation, which he hoped the Trigg sisters would sign. It would give him
the necessary authority to act on their behalf. He also drew up a side letter,
which granted him a percentage of anything received by the sisters, from the
estate of Harry Williams. The amount of the percentage was left blank, to be
filled in when, hopefully, he had agreed his commission with them. The issue of
commission was a delicate one and not a subject he looked forward to broaching,
so he decided that he would see how things went at the meeting.

Before he closed down his computer, he went to the Bona
Vacantia website and was pleased to see that Harry Williams’ estate was still
on the list. Peter was feeling more confident now and each time he checked, he
felt less anxious than the time before. He smiled to himself.
With luck
,
he thought,
Highborn Research has hit a brick wall and hasn’t found a way
around it.

Peter was driving through the New Forest in Hampshire, heading
towards the south coast and Lymington. Snowdrops were just coming out and weak
sunshine had burnt away the overnight mist.

Behind him, locked securely in the luggage
compartment, his briefcase contained the documents he wanted to show to Joan
and Margaret Trigg. They included the will of Frank Williams, which had finally
arrived the previous day. Thankfully, it had contained no surprises. Frank had
left everything to his brother John. There was no mention of a wife or child.
Peter felt it safe to assume that there was no competing interest from Frank’s
side of the family to Joan and Margaret, as entitled relatives of the estate of
Harry Williams.

Peter arrived on the outskirts of Lymington just before
lunch. He wanted to eat before he saw the sisters, so when he spotted a quaint
looking pub, he pulled in. He gave himself an hour, which still allowed plenty
of time for his meeting. As he ate, he mentally ran through what he intended to
say to the sisters.

At just before half past two, he drew up outside a small
bungalow in a quiet avenue of similar properties, about a mile from Lymington
town centre. Carrying his briefcase, he opened the wrought-iron gate and walked
up the pathway to the front door. The small garden was neat and tidy, with
early daffodils just showing through the soil below the south-facing bay
windows on either side of the porch. He estimated that the bungalow had been
built in the 1930s, although the door looked more recent and there was a ramp
instead of a doorstep.

Peter rang the bell and as he waited for someone to answer,
he took in the battered hatchback parked in front of the single garage. It
wasn’t obvious whether the dents were wounds received or self-inflicted, but
instinctively he knew it was the type of car he avoided when he was looking for
a space in a car park.

The door opened and a tall, elderly lady stood before him.

‘Hello, I’m Peter Sefton. Miss Trigg?’

‘Hello, Mr Sefton, I’m Joan Trigg. Do come in and meet my
sister.’

She closed the door behind him and led him down a short
hallway to a large kitchen overlooking the garden at the back of the bungalow. Margaret
Trigg was waiting for him, seated in a wheelchair. The kitchen was warm and
cosy, heated by a large range, which looked as if it was also used for cooking.

‘Margaret, this is Mr Sefton. Mr Sefton, this is my sister,
Margaret.’

‘How do you do, Miss Trigg?’

‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Sefton.’

Peter could see instantly that they were twins. They weren’t
identical, but their faces were strikingly similar. Of course, there the
similarity ended, because while Joan seemed fit and able, it was certainly not the
case for Margaret. Peter wondered what had caused her to be in a wheelchair.
Hopes of asking the sisters for a large share of any inheritance started to
fade. He was offered a seat at a table, next to Margaret, on which to put his
briefcase. Joan meanwhile, put the kettle on the range.

Peter started his well-rehearsed explanation. ‘I expect you
wonder what this is all about. Do you have any idea to whom I was referring,
when I said in my letter that you might be entitled relatives to an unclaimed
estate?’

‘No, we haven’t’ said Margaret. ‘We’ve racked our
brains. All we can think is that it must be someone on our mother’s side,
because that side of the family is rather mysterious.’

Peter smiled. ‘Well you might be getting warm there.
I think I ought to explain my position at the start. I’m not a professional
heir hunter, only an amateur genealogist. I enjoy researching family history.
After Christmas, I found a marriage certificate in an antiques centre. It was
from 1900 and I was curious. Don’t ask me why, but I bought it, for the huge sum
of five pounds! For some reason, I felt drawn to it and I decided to try to
find out what had happened to the couple who married. Now, could I ask you a
few simple questions about your family, just to confirm my research?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Margaret said, looking towards Joan who
nodded in agreement.

‘What was your mother’s name, married and maiden?’

It was Margaret who led the replies. ‘Edith Trigg, but her
maiden name was Ince.’

‘Good,’ said Peter. ‘Now do you have any brothers or other
sisters?’

‘No, there’s just the two of us.’

‘What about your mother, did she have any brothers or
sisters?’

‘No, she was an only child.’

‘Now, do you know the name of your maternal grandmother?’

‘Yes we do,’ replied Margaret. ‘Her name was Rose. She was
killed in a train crash when mum was very little.’

‘Mum was brought up by Uncle George and Auntie Charlotte,’
added Joan, anxious to play a part, and not be left out.

‘Do you know the maiden name of your grandmother
Rose?’ Asked Peter, using a softer, more sympathetic tone of voice.

There was a pause of a few seconds. The sisters
looked at each other unsure whether to continue. Peter was right to assume that
parts of this meeting might be a little delicate.

It was Margaret who spoke. ‘Her full name was
Rosetta Ince. She wasn’t married to mum’s father. Mum never liked to talk about
it, but one day she did say that her father was killed in the Boer war. When I
pressed her to tell me more, she wouldn’t.’

Peter opened his briefcase and removed the marriage
certificate from its protective sleeve. ‘This is the marriage certificate which
I bought at the antiques centre.’

He passed it to Margaret. Joan slid a chair in beside her
and sat down. They both looked at it closely, but gave no hint that they
understood its significance.

Peter pointed to the section showing the names of the
witnesses. ‘There’s your grandmother’s name, Rosetta Ince.’ He let it sink in
for a few moments. ‘That, I believe, is the name of your maternal grandfather,
Frank Williams. He died in the Boer War at Bloemfontein in South Africa, three
days before your mother was born in October 1900.’

He gave them a little while to take in everything.

‘Is it true that grandmother Rose was killed in a train
crash?’ asked Joan.

Yes, it is,’ he said quietly. ‘It happened near Winchester
in 1902, when she was on her way back to Ventnor having been staying in Leyton,
Essex.’

‘Mum came from Ventnor,’ Margaret chipped in.

Joan, meanwhile, was studying the marriage certificate. ‘It
says here that this wedding took place in Leyton. Rose obviously knew the
couple who married, so had she been to see them? Is that why she was coming
back from Leyton when she was killed in the accident?’

‘Yes it was,’ replied Peter. ‘She’d been to a funeral, the
funeral of the couple’s son, Henry. His funeral had taken place just two days
before the train crash. He was born one month to the day, before your mother.’

‘Gosh … he must have only been about two years old then.
What a terrible loss for them,’ stated Margaret.

‘That’s right,’ Peter confirmed. ‘He was just two years
old.’

‘I see the groom’s name is John Williams. Was he Frank’s
brother by any chance?’ asked Margaret.

‘Yes, he was, making him your great uncle.’

‘Fascinating,’ said Joan as she got up and went over towards
the kettle. ‘Would you like some tea, Mr Sefton?’

‘Yes please, thank you.’

‘So who is the mystery relative who’s died?’ Joan asked,
pouring milk into the cups.

‘Look,’ Peter said. ‘I’m probably going to tell you some
things about your mother’s family which I don’t believe you know. Some of it
could be upsetting and I don’t want to seem uncaring, as it’s not my family.
You just stop me, if I go too fast or you find it difficult.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Margaret again looking over to Joan
for reassurance.

‘First of all,’ he said, ‘and I’m sorry if this might come
as a shock, but did you know that your mother had a brother – a twin brother?’

There was a silence and the two sisters exchanged a
surprised expression. Joan looked more taken aback than Margaret.

‘No, not at all,’ replied Joan. She came back to sit with
her sister. ‘Are you sure? We had no idea?’

‘Yes, I am,’ said Peter. He passed over the birth
certificates of Edith and Harold. ‘Here’s your mother’s birth certificate and
also her brother Harold’s. If you look, the time of birth is entered. Edith,
your mother was about twenty-five minutes older than Harold, your uncle.’

‘We’ve never heard of Harold. What happened to him? Is he
the mystery relative?’ asked Joan.

‘Correct,’ said Peter. ‘It’s quite a long story.’

Joan went back to the teapot. ‘Let’s have some tea, shall
we, while we hear what Mr Sefton has to say.’

Peter began to feel more relaxed, having got over the
initial awkwardness of meeting the sisters for the first time. He described how
Edith and Harold had been born in Ventnor, to Rose, who was not married. He
showed them their parents’ marriage certificate, which they had never seen
before. He pointed out that ‘Frank Williams (deceased)’ was entered on it as
Edith’s father, despite her birth certificate not showing a father’s name. He
then went on to explain his theory that following the death of Rose, the family
must have come to some form of arrangement over what to do with the orphaned
twins. Harold went to live with John and Louisa Williams, and George and
Charlotte Morris fostered Edith.

When he got to the part of his story, which covered Henry’s
funeral, he showed them Henry’s death certificate and pointed out the place of
death – Great Ormond Street Children’s Hospital. He also passed over the death
notice, which listed the mourners proving that Rose was there. He then got out
the relevant pages of the 1901 and 1911 Census Returns, showing that the
Williams family had changed address during the intervening period.

Peter continued. ‘We know that Henry died in 1902, aged two,
yet in 1911 the census shows a son in the household called Harry, aged ten. You
can see here that John Williams put a dash through the box recording the number
of children who had died during the marriage. I’ve checked to see if Louisa had
another child, but she didn’t. No, the only reasonable explanation is that they
looked after Harold after the death of your grandmother, Rose. They regarded
him as their son. I expect when they moved house after taking on Harold, the
new neighbours had no reason to believe that he was anything other than their
natural son. Don’t forget too that the name “Henry” is often changed with
familiarity to the less formal “Harry”. John and Louisa, it seems, maintained
the pretence that he was their son, whereas George and Charlotte respected your
mother’s true parentage. On the 1911 Census, your mother is described as a
“foster child”. She kept her birth name and someone, at some point before she
married, told her that Frank Williams was her biological father.’

‘But surely John and Louisa adopted Harold and they
changed his name?’ Margaret asked.

‘Ah, there was no such thing as legal adoption
before 1927. Harry Williams was born Harold Ince and under inheritance law, I
believe that he was still Harold Ince when he died in 1996.’ Peter was getting
into his stride. ‘I’m not sure whether he knew his real name or not, but sadly
after his mother died, or should I say foster mother, Louisa … after she died
in 1962, he became a recluse.’

Seeing that the sisters were enthralled, Peter continued.
‘Mind, it wasn’t the only sad event to happen to him around that time. Not long
after she died, he had an accident at work. He was a skilled patternmaker and
the injury forced him into premature retirement.’

‘How awful,’ murmured Margaret.

‘Who told you that?’ asked Joan.

‘I went over to Leyton one day and spoke to one of the
neighbours in Stephenson Street, that’s the street where he used to live. He
remembered Harry from the Falcon Foundry where they both worked. There was a
piece about his retirement in the works’ magazine too.’ Peter looked among his
documents and produced the photograph he had copied from the Falcon magazine.
He showed it to the sisters. ‘I think that was taken around the time that he
retired. He looks about sixty.’