The foundlings the foren.., p.1
The Foundlings (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 9), page 1
About the author
Nathan Dylan Goodwin is a writer, genealogist and educator. He was born and raised in Hastings, East Sussex. Schooled in the town, he then completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Radio, Film and Television Studies, followed by a Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. A member of the Society of Authors, he has completed a number of local history books about Hastings, as well as several works of fiction, including the acclaimed Forensic Genealogist series. His other interests include theatre, reading, photography, running, skiing, travelling and, of course, genealogy. He is a qualified teacher, member of the Guild of One-Name Studies and the Society of Genealogists, as well as being a member of the Sussex Family History Group, the Norfolk Family History Society and the Kent Family History Society. He lives in Kent with his husband, son, dog and chickens.
NathanDylanGoodwin
@NathanDGoodwin
By the same author
nonfiction:
Hastings at War 1939-1945
Hastings Wartime Memories and Photographs
Hastings & St Leonards Through Time
Around Battle Through Time
fiction:
(The Forensic Genealogist series)
The Asylum - A Morton Farrier short story
Hiding the Past
The Lost Ancestor
The Orange Lilies – A Morton Farrier novella
The America Ground
The Spyglass File
The Missing Man – A Morton Farrier novella
The Suffragette’s Secret – A Morton Farrier short story
The Wicked Trade
The Sterling Affair
The Foundlings
(The Mrs McDougall Investigation series)
Ghost Swifts, Blue Poppies and the Red Star
(Venator Cold Case series)
The Chester Creek Murders
The Foundlings
by
Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan Dylan Goodwin 2021
Nathan Dylan Goodwin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This story is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where the names of real people have been used, they appear only as the author imagined them to be.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding, cover or other format, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover image copyright Nathan Dylan Goodwin, featuring the original The Broadway, Haywards Heath image copyright of The Francis Frith Collection
Cover design: Patrick Dengate
For Géraldine, Martin & James
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
HISTORICAL INFORMATION & ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FURTHER INFORMATION
MORTON IN LOCKDOWN!
Prologue
23rd September 1973, Haywards Heath, West Sussex
She was the only person to alight from the train at Haywards Heath; the few other passengers, who had occupied the train carriage with her, were likely taking advantage of the hot September Sunday to escape the capital for a day out beside the sea in Brighton. She took a brief glance around the empty platform, then carefully placed the red and white chequered bag, which she had been clutching in her hand, down onto the ground. She pulled a crumpled packet of Embassy cigarettes from her handbag as she watched the train crawl out of the station, continuing its journey south towards the coast. Lighting a cigarette, she stood for a moment in the silence left by the departing train, then she picked up the bag and walked out onto the main road.
She ambled along The Broadway, taking casual interest in the window displays of the small shops that she passed. It being a Sunday, this main thoroughfare running through the town was deserted; the shop interiors were dark, their awnings retracted and the parking spaces in front of them all but empty. Just the way she wanted it to be.
She stopped outside of Jo’s Boutique, admiring a fancy new barmink coat in the window. Much nicer than the grubby black leather jacket that she was now wearing. ‘Twenty-five quid? Is that a joke?’ she scoffed, drawing on the cigarette and continuing on up the hill towards the town centre.
A young couple, arm in arm, were walking towards her. She looked down at the pavement as they passed, not wanting to make eye contact.
She quickened her step until she reached a row of three shops. She paused, glanced up briefly to the first floor, and then tossed the cigarette butt into the road. Looking around her and finding the street to be deserted, she crossed over, heading for the bright currant-red telephone box outside of the Seeboard showroom opposite.
She hastened towards it, pulling open the door and smelling the familiar musty, metallic odour common to every telephone box into which she had ever stepped.
Placing the red and white bag down onto the floor, the woman turned to leave, heading back towards the train station. Behind her, the heavy door closed slowly and weightily. Seconds later, from inside the bag the baby began to cry, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the telephone box.
She continued walking without so much as a glance back.
Chapter One
15th December 2019, Rye Foreign, East Sussex
Morton Farrier was exasperated. He was standing in a large field of Christmas trees on the Dengate Farm Stall in Rye Foreign with a tangle of brambles wrapped around his boots. His wife, Juliette, was grasping onto a traditional Norway Spruce and staring down at the ground.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked her, questioning the wisdom of trekking up two small hills in search of the perfect Christmas tree whilst being seven months pregnant.
‘Yeah, fine,’ she answered, meeting his gaze. ‘I just don’t want anyone else to take this tree.’
Morton looked all around them. The nearest people were on the opposite bank, fifty yards away. ‘I’m not sure that’s very likely,’ he mumbled, gazing at the chosen tree. They were surrounded by two fields of textbook-perfect Christmas trees of all shapes, sizes and varieties but they had misguidedly conferred the decision as to which tree they would be taking home on their two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Grace, who had opted for the only one on the entire farm with almost no branches at its centre; it looked plainly ridiculous.
‘Chosen?’ a male voice asked, emerging from the thicket of trees, startling Grace.
‘I think so,’ Morton said.
‘Yes, we have,’ Juliette stated firmly.
The owner of the site, David Dengate, approached with a grin and a small saw. ‘This one?’ he asked, his tone uncertain.
‘This one!’ Grace said, jumping up and down.
David looked between Morton and Juliette for a final confirmation.
‘That one,’ Morton reluctantly agreed.
‘Okay,’ David said, crouching down so that he was level with Grace. ‘You’re going to need to stand right back and then use some magic to help me cut down the tree, okay?’
Grace nodded as Juliette took her hand and stepped backwards a few paces.
David knelt down on the ground and began to saw through the trunk at the base. After just a few seconds, he stood up and frowned. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said to Grace. ‘Can you help me?’
She nodded and walked over towards him, pulling Juliette along behind her.
‘Okay, I’m going to count to three and you need to give it a really, really big push. One…two…three. Push!’
Grace did as she was instructed and leant against a branch of the tree so that it tumbled down. ‘Yay!’ she exclaimed.
Juliette clapped enthusiastically.
‘Right,’ David said, hoisting the tree up onto his shoulder, ‘let’s get this over to your car, then you can get home and start decorating it.’
‘Can’t wait,’ Morton muttered, receiving an admonishing rap on his arm from Juliette.
‘Stop being so bah-humbug,’ she whispered as they headed back down the hill behind David and the Christmas tree.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It just doesn’t seem worth going over the top this year, since we’re going to Aunty Margaret’s in a few days.’
‘This will be the first Christmas that Grace really understands, so we need to make an effort. Besides, we’re not going down to Cornwall for another six days yet.’
‘I really need to get on with that research, then,’ he said. ‘I can’t very well drop the bombshells on Aunty Margaret, that I’m going to have to drop, without more information to back it up.’
Two months ago, Morton had discovered that his Aunty Margaret had a half-sister about whom the whole family, she included, had known absolutely nothing. In the process of trying to work out how this new-found family member fitted in, Morton had also stumbled upon the unlikely but horrifying truth that his grandfather—Aunty Margaret’s dad—had killed a prostitute, named Candee-Lee Gaddy, whilst holidaying in Reno, Nevada in 1980. But, since discovering these indigestible facts two months ago, Morton had been preoccupied with another genealogical case and had not made any additional progress. And now time was pressing down on him; he needed to be able to tell Aunty Margaret the whole story in less than a week’s time.
‘Start your research later today,’ Juliette suggested. ‘Once you’ve helped us to put up the tree, that is.’
‘Grace’s tree!’ she chanted, skipping between a corridor of tall Norway Spruces.
‘Yes, and what a lovely tree it is,’ Juliette responded. ‘Isn’t it, Morton?’
‘Yes, it’s the best tree in the world,’ he said monosyllabically.
Juliette rolled her eyes.
Two hours later, with Bing Crosby softly crooning his way through a Christmas album, the tree was finished. It was standing, fully decorated in the corner of the lounge in their home on Mermaid Street, Rye. Morton stood back to take it in fully. Maybe it didn’t look so strange now that it was covered in decorations, and generous quantities of beads and tinsel covered the large gaps in the centre. ‘Ready?’ he asked, moving over to the light switch.
Juliette nodded, whilst handing over to Grace a small black box with an inset button. ‘Press that when daddy turns off the big lights, okay?’
‘Yes.’
Morton plunged the room into darkness and Grace pushed the button, illuminating the tree in a soft white light that cast long atmospheric shadows all around them.
‘Wow!’ Grace beamed. ‘Pretty.’
‘It’s beautiful,’ Juliette said.
‘Yes, it is,’ Morton was forced to agree.
He moved back into the room, placing his arms around Juliette’s waist, around their baby bump and stroked Grace’s hair. Although he was looking forward to spending Christmas down in Cornwall with his Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim, his anticipation was soured somewhat by the shocking news that he would have to impart to them. Standing here with his little family, he wished now that they were staying put, just the three and a half of them with lots of good food, wine and Christmas movies.
‘Grace,’ Juliette said eventually, ‘do you want to help mummy to make a Christmas cake?’
‘Yes!’ Grace replied.
‘Aren’t you supposed to make them in October?’ Morton asked.
Juliette shrugged. ‘It’ll just be a glorified fruit cake,’ she answered, leading Grace into the kitchen. ‘We’ll let daddy get on with his family tree work.’
‘Christmas tree work?’ Grace asked.
Morton laughed and ruffled her hair as he followed them into the kitchen. He headed over to a simmering pan on the hob, where he ladled out two glasses of non-alcoholic mulled wine. He chinked glasses with Juliette and gave her a kiss. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘Cheers. Good luck with the case,’ she said.
‘Good luck with the baking,’ he replied, pointing to Grace who was shoving a handful of glacé cherries into her mouth.
‘Grace!’ Juliette yapped.
Morton smiled as he escaped the room, carrying his drink upstairs to his study on the top floor of the house.
He sat down at his desk and drank some of the mulled wine. It wasn’t too bad, he considered, given that it was alcohol-free. In front of him was his sleeping laptop and behind that, his investigation wall where he liked to attach the findings of the case on which he was currently working. At the moment, it was empty.
The beginning of a new genealogical investigation—especially the more complex ones—was always a moment of excited anticipation for him, but this one, being so close to home, brought with it an edge of apprehension. But it was too late to back-pedal now; the Pandora’s Box had been well and truly opened. All he could do was to arm himself with as many facts as he possibly could before disclosing everything that he knew to Aunty Margaret.
He took another sip of his drink and then woke his laptop. Having worked on another case for the past two months, the first thing that he needed to do was to refresh his memory about his findings; so, he accessed the short document that he had started and carefully re-read it.
Aunty-Margaret’s half-sister, Vanessa Briggs, found in a shoebox outside Woolworths in Sevenoaks shortly after birth. Assistant manager found the baby and phoned for an ambulance. Vanessa discovered the truth about her birth in 2019. Uploaded DNA to GEDmatch and discovered two half-sisters who shared unknown mother:
Liza, found in Croydon, South London
Billie, found in Manchester
Both in cardboard boxes within a red and white chequered bag. Identity of their shared mother unknown. Prostitute?
Morton wrote UNKNOWN FEMALE in the centre of a piece of A4 paper which he attached to his investigation wall. Below that, he affixed a post-it note with Vanessa Briggs’s date of birth: 13th May 1975. She was Morton’s half-aunt, despite her having been born four months after him. Her father, confirmed by DNA, was Morton’s grandfather, Alfred Farrier.
Morton returned to his computer to pull up the birth details of Liza and Billie. Both women had granted him permission to access the basic family trees that they had separately created. He soon found that the two trees were pitiful in substance, containing just their own names, the names of their half-sisters and with UNKNOWN UNKNOWN as the name of their shared mother. No grandparents, no cousins, no other siblings, no history and no past. Morton knew the feeling only too well. As a teenager, he had discovered that he had been adopted and it wasn’t until six years ago that he had learned that his biological mother was none other than his Aunty Margaret, his adoptive father’s younger sister. For him, the journey to discovering his biological past, including finding the identity of his father, had been highly complex and deeply emotional, but he was now in a position of clear understanding as to who he really was. It was because of his own history that he had happily volunteered to work pro bono to try and remove the veil over Vanessa’s, Liza’s and Billie’s shadowed past.
The two women’s trees were all but useless to him, providing only their dates of birth. Or at least their approximate dates of birth, since there was no official documentation of when each had occurred. He wrote Liza’s name and her assumed date of birth of 28th April 1977 onto a post-it note, did the same for Billie and her date of birth of 19th December 1979, and then attached both to his investigation wall.
Whoever their mother might have been, she certainly hadn’t stayed in any one place for too long, which had made Morton wonder if that had been her lifestyle choice or a need to cover up multiple unwanted pregnancies, perhaps.
He copied the three women’s birth information onto separate index cards which he stuck to the bottom of his investigation wall as the beginnings of a timeline with which to track their mother’s movements in a chronological order.
He sat back at his desk and clicked to view the DNA tab within his Ancestry account. Liza and Billie had also given him the status of Collaborator to their DNA results, which meant that he had the maximum access permissions. Owing to his having been engaged with his previous case, he still had yet to analyse their results.
First, he pulled up Liza Bennett’s page and was presented with three options: DNA Story, DNA matches and ThruLines. He clicked to view her DNA Story. A monochromatic map loaded onscreen with seven differently coloured, curved shapes superimposed over the top, each offering a loose and unrefined geographical area identified in Liza’s DNA. Ethnicity, or admixture reports as they were sometimes known, were an evolving science with many generalisations and errors; Morton rarely paid them too much heed.
