The Marriage Certificate (5 page)

It was Thursday morning in early January 2011 at the London
office of Highborn Research, a professional heir-tracing firm. During the
night, the Treasury Solicitor’s Office had published the weekly additions to
the list of unclaimed estates via its Bona Vacantia Division website. After an
early start, Highborn’s main office was buzzing with researchers trawling the
newly published list. They were trying to decide on which cases to tackle,
hoping to find missing heirs to unclaimed assets and thereby earn Highborn’s
commission.

Nick Bastion, a senior partner in the firm, was coordinating
efforts, receiving progress reports and making decisions on where to deploy his
staff. Carol, his young trainee, stood beside her mentor, watching and
learning.

Nick turned to Carol. ‘The Treasury list is updated each
week sometime between Wednesday night and Thursday morning. At one time the
list showed the value of each estate but not anymore.’

‘Why is that?’ Carol asked.

‘Fraud,’ answered Nick. ‘Crooks cottoned on to the
opportunity to impersonate heirs. They went for the higher value estates, so
four years ago the Treasury Solicitor stopped disclosing values. Now, we just
get the name of the deceased, date of death and where they passed away.’

‘So how do you choose which names to research?’

‘Two factors mainly: was the deceased a homeowner and how
common is the surname? We avoid Smith, Jones, Brown, Evans, etc, if we can.’

Tom, one of the senior researchers, shouted excitedly across
the room. ‘Nick! It looks like we’ve got our first heir on that Maidstone
case.’

‘Brilliant, Tom! Get Fred Howard over there ASAP. Hopefully,
he can sign them up. Do we need certificates?’

‘Yes, just to be certain.’

‘OK, send him to the local register office first and then
see if you can make an appointment for him with the potential heir.’

‘Will do.’

Nick looked pleased. It was only eight o’clock. He decided
he’d go back up to his office. ‘Keep up the good work everybody. If anyone
wants me, I’m upstairs.’

Nick returned to the relative tranquillity of his desk with
a contented feeling. Things were going well, so he decided to spend a little
time reviewing the firm’s unsolved cases. He scanned a printout of names. The
list was long. Normally, he worked methodically in alphabetical order, but for
some reason he decided to dispense with convention and he picked one name at
random towards the end of the list. The name ‘Williams’ caught his eye … ‘died
July 1996’.
An awful name for an heir hunter
, Nick thought, but
nevertheless he brought up the file on his computer and started to read the
notes.

Early in 1999, Leyton Council’s solicitors had written to
Highborn Research asking for assistance. The council had failed to locate any
close kin for Harry Williams, who had died in Leyton, aged ninety-five. Reading
on, it seemed that Nick’s firm had got nowhere either. The surname ‘Williams’
was the problem. The death certificate showed no place of birth. They hadn’t
been able to find a marriage for the deceased and therefore had not been able
to confirm the names of his parents.

From enquiries at the time of death, the Council believed
that the family had a Welsh connection, possibly the area around Kidwelly in
South Wales. The house in which the deceased had lived was called
Cambria
,
the Roman name for Wales. Due to the large number of ‘Williams’ in South Wales,
Highborn’s researchers had been unable to identify either the deceased’s birth
or any member of his family. There were copies of correspondence to Leyton
Council confirming this.

The case had come to Highborn’s attention again in 2002 when
it was first published on the Bona Vacantia Division list. The value of the
estate was shown at £67,000, but they had decided not to pursue it due to the
setback three years earlier. Nick supposed that there must have been other
potentially easier and more lucrative cases to chase at that time.

Research resources had moved on since 2002 and the Internet
was now by far their most useful tool. It gave them instant access to property
ownership details, census records, indexes of births, deaths and marriages, and
to specialist genealogical websites, with an immense and diverse wealth of
information, from electoral rolls to passenger shipping lists.
Yes
, Nick
thought,
the choices and options have improved; perhaps we ought to have
another look at this one
.

Nick first double-checked to see if the name was still on
the latest Bona Vacantia Division list and was pleased to see that it was still
there. No indication was given of value, but he already had that information
from 2002.

He opened the file on his computer screen and noted that
Leyton Council’s solicitors had stated that Harry Williams had owned his house.
Nick studied a scanned copy of his death certificate for a few moments.

The place of death was the
same as his usual address, so he had obviously died at home. He noted that the
death had occurred ‘on or about’ 1 July 1996. That implied uncertainty and
meant that he had died alone. He saw that the informant was an employee of
Leyton Council, the Council having assumed responsibility for the funeral
arrangements.
How sad
, Nick thought.
Dying alone and having no friend
or family member to organise the funeral.
What a damning indictment of
the world we live in today, an all too frequent occurrence, unfortunately.

He pondered how they might proceed. Not knowing the place of
birth was a problem and of course, the surname ‘Williams’ didn’t help. Those
were the main stumbling blocks, but the case had to be worth another look. He
buzzed down to Carol and asked her to come up to his office.

Joan struggled with the wheelchair. It barely fitted into the
back of their small car and she always had to take it apart before stowing it
away, which in turn meant putting it back together when readying it for her
twin sister Margaret. She wheeled it round to the passenger side and opened the
door. Margaret was waiting to swing her legs out, as best she could, and with
assistance from Joan managed to stand using her crutches before dropping down
heavily on to the seat of the wheelchair.

‘There we are. How’s that? Do you want your blanket?’

‘It’s fine, don’t fuss. I don’t want to get too hot. Have
you got the list?’

‘Yes, of course I have, and I brought the memory stick for
your computer, so that we can show them which type it is at the shop. You
forgot it, last time.’

‘All right, all right, I only asked!’

They set off from the disabled parking bay, with much
huffing and puffing from Joan, who was pushing the wheelchair and then
proceeded over a rather bumpy set of flagstones, before reaching the entrance
to the shopping centre. It was Saturday in Lymington, market day.
Traditionally, they always went into town on Saturday, when they stocked up
with fresh vegetables, picked up any odds and ends, bought a local newspaper
and then had a coffee and pastry at the Marie Rose café. Their lives were very
much ruled by routine and each of them liked it that way.

They were spinsters and shared a small bungalow, with Joan
acting as Margaret’s carer. They were in their early seventies. Margaret’s
disablement was a result of contracting polio in her teens.

The sisters used to swim during their school summer holidays
in the 1950s at their local park, which had a large lake. There was a bathing
section, marked by a line of brightly painted cork floats, roped together, and
strung across from one side of the lake to the other. Joan was the better of
the two at swimming and she constantly nagged Margaret to go with her, because
their mother would not allow either of them to go to the lake alone. During a
particularly warm spell, the water became discoloured and swimming was
suspended. The girls passed the following few days wondering how they could
amuse themselves, but all that was put aside when Margaret became ill.

She was admitted to hospital and tests confirmed that she
had contracted polio. She had to remain in hospital until she was able to start
eating again. She lost a lot of weight and muscle tone. Her right leg was
paralysed and she was fitted with a leg-brace to help her stand and walk. When
she finally left hospital, Margaret walked with a stiff-legged gait, and never
recovered her former mobility.

Joan did not succumb to polio and because she’d been
the most enthusiastic to go swimming, she had, ever since, felt an element of
guilt that it was her poor twin sister who had been struck down by the cruel
illness. Joan was devoted to Margaret and after their father died, she retired
early, giving up her librarian’s job in order to care for her mother and sister
at her home in Lymington. Generally, they got on well and although they
bickered and moaned at each other continually, there was actually a good deal
of sisterly love between them.

When both of their parents were alive, Margaret
lived with them in Wiltshire and managed to do some part-time clerical work
locally, but her employer’s business failed and she lost her job. Although she
tried hard, she never managed to find any further paid employment.

Her condition had worsened noticeably during the last ten
years. The medical experts called it ‘post-polio syndrome’. She had had to
over-use her functioning muscles and joints, in order to compensate for those
that were paralysed. The result, as she got older, was a faster than normal
deterioration in her muscles, characterised by fatigue and weakness. She had
become more reliant upon her sister for care and support.

Margaret had contracted polio during a time when litigation
was seldom the option for those for whom possible negligence may have caused
them illness or injury. There had been no large payment from the lake’s owners
in compensation. ‘Negligence was too difficult to prove,’ they were told by
someone their father knew at work. The family just accepted it as bad luck –
just one of those things.

Money was tight. It was the luxuries and treats they missed
out on, like being able to afford a holiday and perhaps a spell in respite care
for Margaret, while Joan took a few days break. A new wheelchair would have
been nice, one that was lighter and easier to manage, with electrical
assistance to power it along. They had requested one and for the moment,
Margaret was on a waiting list, but the government was talking about cutbacks
and they had decided not to be too hopeful. The ultimate would have been a new
car, specially adapted so that Margaret could remain in her wheelchair, whilst
sitting in the rear, but vehicles with a loading ramp and the necessary height
clearance were extremely expensive and well beyond their means.

The church stood on a gentle rise and there was a reasonable
view of Leyton Parish from the beautiful wooden lych-gate at the entrance to
the churchyard. An ancient yew tree stood just inside, thirty feet high, with
an incredibly thick, gnarled trunk, full of holes and cavities. Its
circumference was almost equal to its height. It was protected by a neat black
iron railing bearing a small cast iron plaque, indicating the tree’s age at
between one and three thousand years old.

A church had stood on the site since the eleventh century
and its records of baptism, marriage and death told the story of the parish in
that little corner of England. If the ancient yew had been able to speak, what
tales could it have told? What countless folk had passed before it?

A gravelled pathway led from the lych-gate, through
the churchyard to the entrance of the church. On either side were graves, most
neat and well tended, although looking towards the extremities, the grass was
longer and a number of headstones were leaning at awkward angles. Several grand
oaks towered above the graves, each of them at least three hundred years old.
They were leafless in their winter state, but poised to be released from
hibernation, as soon as some warmth from the sun and the lengthening of the
days heralded the return of spring and life’s cycle could begin once more.

The church was quaint and charming to look at; grey stone
under a clay tiled roof with a bell tower and short spire. A painted wooden
porch on the side, its exterior decorated in relief with bars and arches,
sheltered the beautifully carved heavy wooden doors, which opened into the
church itself.

On that Monday morning in January 1900, the congregation had
begun arriving shortly after half past ten. Louisa Crockford was marrying John
Williams. Louisa’s mother and baby brother were already there, but not in the
church, for they were interred in the family grave, located beneath one of the
fine old oaks.

‘Not too many guests’, had been the couple’s wish, but of course
all may attend a marriage. The congregation though was small that day, mainly
close family and the staff from the shop. There were a few parishioners and one
or two customers of Crockford’s too: customers who had known Louisa for many
years and who wanted to wish her well and be there to see her start her new
life.

The choice of which family members to invite had not been
difficult. Neither the Williams' nor the Crockford's family were large. Apart
from his parents and brother, John’s family consisted of his Aunt Beatrice who
was his mother’s widowed sister-in-law, her son George and his wife Charlotte.
George was John’s first cousin and six years older. George and Charlotte
although married for eleven years, were childless.

 There were no relatives on the Crockford side, apart of
course from Louisa’s father. His only brother, Uncle Frederick, had emigrated
to America in 1885. Louisa’s surviving brother, David, had joined his uncle in
1894. Neither Frederick nor David had been invited due to the length of time it
would take them to make the journey to Leyton. Louisa had promised her father
that she would write to them both, sending them a memento of the wedding. As
neither had been in touch for more than two years, she would have to hope that
they were still at their same addresses.

The front pews easily accommodated both families. As the
organist played quietly in the background, the congregation took their seats
and awaited the arrival of the bride. John shifted nervously in his freshly
laundered uniform. As a chief engineer, he was entitled to wear the uniform of
an officer of the Castle Mail Packet Company. He consulted his watch
frequently, anxiously hoping that all would go well, wanting to get the ordeal
of this day out of the way. He loved Louisa dearly, but weddings were not to
his liking. However, society demanded them and for the sake of Louisa’s family,
he was compelled to comply.

‘I hate this waiting,’ he confided to Frank. ‘I hope she’s
not too late. I just want to get this over with.’

‘Calm yourself. Don’t worry. With me in control, everything
will be fine.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about,’ John whispered in response.

John had to admit to himself that Frank did seem totally
relaxed, somewhat surprisingly, in fact, bearing in mind the amount of alcohol
he had consumed the previous evening. That was typical of Frank though:
confident, self-assured, able to take his drink, and never one to worry too
much about anything.

The organist, who had started to play Wagner’s
Bridal
Chorus
, interrupted John’s thoughts. It meant that the bride had entered
the church. The music increased in volume. The Reverend Walter beckoned the
congregation to stand. John took a deep breath and sighed quietly to his
brother. ‘Right, let’s get this over with.’

Louisa and her father, followed by Rose as bridesmaid, made
their way to the front of the church and the wedding ceremony commenced. Rose
cast a glance towards Frank and thought how handsome he looked. Her growing
excitement at seeing him again was in no way diminished. Frank for his part, in
looking back to Louisa as she had proceeded up the aisle, could not curb the
thrill he felt in seeing Rose once more. Frank had decided that he was going to
try and make the most of today and with luck Rose Ince would feature prominently
in his enjoyment of it.

After the couple had exchanged their vows, John took Louisa
on his arm and Frank took Rose on his arm. They followed the Reverend Walter
into the vestry in order to complete the marriage register. He handed the four
of them in turn a quill dipped in black ink and asked them to sign in the
appropriate place. They chatted for a few minutes, Louisa looking happy and
relaxed, Frank saying all of the right things. Then John and Louisa led the way
back into the body of the church, followed in turn by Frank and Rose, and with
bells ringing and the organ playing, they emerged into some unexpected but
welcome winter sunshine.

The bride and groom remained outside the church for a while
to accept congratulations. Introductions were made; for it was the first time
that the two families had met. Then under a shower of confetti, John and Louisa
walked together down the gravel path, past the ancient yew, through the
lych-gate to their carriage, for the short ride to The George Hotel via Mr Douglas’
Portrait Studio.

There, Mr Douglas was waiting to take the wedding portrait
cabinet, which would be mounted on small, embossed cards to be sent to David
and Uncle Frederick. Afterwards, they walked the few doors down to the hotel in
order to join their guests for the reception luncheon.