The Marriage Certificate (31 page)

‘Do you think I could take this with me and copy it for
inclusion with the other evidence? I’m sure it will help our case.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Joan, looking at Margaret, who
nodded.

‘Absolutely,’ said Margaret. ‘Let’s go for it and give it
everything we’ve got.’

‘Yes, go for it, Mr Sefton,’ agreed Joan. ‘Do your best.’

Peter rang the Treasury Solicitor’s Department late the
following morning. It was Friday. He spoke to a Case Officer. Peter had just
finished writing a detailed explanation of how he believed Harry Williams to be
Harold Ince. He’d gathered together copies of documents, photographs and other
evidence in support of his claim, all of which he intended to include. He
wanted to know whether he needed to send the originals of the postcards and the
telegram, or whether copies would suffice.

‘Copies will do initially,’ was the reply. ‘For which
unclaimed estate do you intend to submit a claim?’

‘Harry Williams, died 1996, in Leyton,’ replied Peter. There
was a pause and he could hear the tapping of keys on a keyboard. ‘Have you
already submitted any documents on this case?’

‘No, I haven’t,’ said Peter, starting to feel slightly
concerned. A nagging doubt was forming at the back of his mind. Had Highborn
Research, or somebody else, beaten him to it? ‘I’ve just checked and the estate
is still listed on your website.’

‘That cannot be taken to mean that we have not already
admitted a claim. It can take a while to update the list.’

Peter felt sick.

‘Is the claim for yourself?’ the officer asked.

‘No, but I have a Letter of Representation to act on the
claimants’ behalf.’

‘Is the claim fully documented?’

The question only aroused more anxiety for Peter. He started
to worry. Was the officer looking at something on his screen?

‘I believe so, but it takes some explaining and there is
quite a long trail to follow,’ Peter replied nervously.

‘You have documents such as certificates and census returns
to prove the claim?’

‘Oh, yes. The claim is strong, certainly strong enough to
beat any other competing claims.’

‘What do you mean by competing claims?’ queried the officer.
‘We only accept one claim per estate.’

‘Well, if you were examining two claims for the same estate
at the same time … I know it’s unlikely … but if you were, you’d accept the one
from the claimant who was the closer kin to the deceased, wouldn’t you?’

‘We admit the first fully documented claim we receive.’

‘So you wouldn’t look at both claims and go for the stronger
one?’

‘We only admit the first fully documented claim we receive.’

Peter suddenly felt a cold sweat wash over him. ‘Are you
currently examining a claim on the estate of Harry Williams, died 1996?’ he
asked, holding his breath for the answer while he waited for what seemed an
eternity for the reply.

‘At this moment, we have no kin claim under examination for
that particular estate.’

Peter sighed with relief. He thanked the officer for his
assistance and put the phone down. He tried to calm himself. He realised that
he had been lulled into a false sense of security. He’d wrongly assumed that if
Harry’s name remained on the list, it meant that his estate was unclaimed, but
he’d now learned that that was not necessarily so. He’d also assumed that even
if he submitted his claim while another was under examination, then his claim,
which he was sure would be the stronger, would prevail. However, he’d just
learned that the Treasury Solicitor admits the first fully documented claim,
nothing more, and nothing less.

Therefore, the only way to be certain that the claim from
the Trigg sisters could be admitted was to ensure that it was the first fully
documented claim received by the Treasury Solicitor. He rushed upstairs to
gather the documents and other proof he’d assembled. His original plan had been
to post everything, but now time was of the essence. He left a message for
Felicity on her voicemail. Ten minutes later, he was nosing out of the
driveway, destination central London and the Treasury Solicitor’s Department in
Kemble Street.

Nick Bastion sat back from his computer with a satisfied expression.
It was late Friday afternoon and he’d just received a reply to the email he’d
sent to Purdie-Gressl in New York. John Gressl was delighted to hear that the
claim on the Harry Williams case had been sent to the Treasury Solicitor’s
Department earlier that afternoon.

Highborn Research had a reputation for solid professional
work in the field of heir hunting and were not prone to frivolous or
unsupported applications. Their evidence spanned the years from Victorian
England to the 1940s in the United States. Carol had carefully put together a
fully documented claim to make the examiner’s task as straightforward as
possible.

Nick was confident that the contents of the package
couriered to Kemble Street earlier that afternoon would convince the Treasury
Solicitor that Scott Crockford, grandson of David Crockford, was entitled to
claim the estate of Harry Williams.

John Gressl, in his email, noted Nick’s caution in assuming
that everything was ‘in the bag’, but was reassured to know that Nick was
reasonably confident of a successful outcome. Nick had told him that the value
of the estate, after costs and deduction of interest, was likely to be in the
region of £60,000. John finished by saying he was looking forward to a
successful outcome and wished Nick a good weekend.

Peter was stuck in traffic. It was
just after two o’clock. He was about two miles away from his destination, and
despite his frustration, he had no choice but to stick with the slow grind that
he had become part of. He hated driving in London, especially on Friday
afternoons. It took so long to get anywhere and it was expensive too, with the
congestion charge and the cost of parking. He kept an eye out in his mirrors
for cyclists and motorcyclists, who were in the habit of riding between the lanes
of almost stationary traffic. He didn’t want to have an accident injuring
someone. Neither did he want to get his precious car scratched, or have a wing
mirror broken by a motorbike trying to squeeze through.

Almost from nowhere, a motorcycle courier, panniers stuffed
with packages weaved past him and then cut in front of him. Peter cursed
silently, noting the bike’s distinctive white fairing. The rider had a white
helmet too and a full-face tinted visor. The matching white panniers were
marked horizontally with a stripe of orange reflective tape. To a casual
observer, it closely resembled the motorcycles used by the police. Unbeknownst
to Peter, one of the packages carried by the rider was from Highborn Research.

Five minutes later, Peter had broken free of the main
congestion. He was moving again, switching lanes and charging with the rest of
the drivers through a sequence of green lights, hoping that his luck would
hold. He didn’t notice the distinctive white motorcycle, parked with others in
front of a snack bar a mile short of Kemble Street, as he sped by.

He parked his car on a meter just off The Strand, paying the
parking fee with his mobile phone. Then he retrieved the large envelope
containing the evidence supporting the claim from the back of the car and
walked smartly around the corner, to the office of the Treasury Solicitor.

When he returned to the car, he sat down behind the wheel
and breathed a sigh of relief. He’d done it … logged and accepted. The claim
was in. He was thankful that there hadn’t been any complications. He rang the
Trigg sisters and spoke to Joan.

‘I’m in central London and have just submitted the claim to
the Treasury Solicitor.’

‘In London?’ Joan repeated incredulously.

‘Yes. I rang the Bona Vacantia Division from home this
morning. It seems that just because a name is on the list of unclaimed estates,
it cannot be assumed that they have not recently admitted a claim for it. I
decided not to take any chances, so drove up here myself to make sure it goes
in.’

‘Gosh, Mr Sefton. What can we say? Thank you very much … did
they say how long their investigation would take?’

‘Only that they try to admit or reject a claim within ten
working days,’ replied Peter. ‘I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything and
you let me know if you hear from them too.’

‘Yes of course, Mr Sefton. We’ll have to be patient and
cross our fingers in the meantime.’

Peter switched off his phone and buckled his seatbelt. He
started the car and pulled out into the traffic. He had to stop at the next set
of traffic lights. He waited patiently, recognising the same motorcycle courier
flash past him going in the opposite direction towards Kemble Street. Peter
smiled to himself.
I bet he enjoys confusing some drivers into thinking he’s
a motorbike cop
.

The lights changed and Peter was on his way again, heading
for home.
All that work
, he thought. He tried to rationalise what he’d
included and to reassure himself that the claim was well supported. He could
have done no more. Everything hung on the strength of his submission and the
decision of the Treasury Solicitor.

A week later, Peter received a
letter from the Bona Vacantia Division. It was quite formal and intriguing. In
no way did it admit the claim nor did the letter reject it, but instead asked
Peter to supply additional information.

Firstly, they wanted to see original documentary proof of
Frank’s postcard from the Cape, the two postcards sent from Ventnor during the
summer of 1902 and the telegram sent to Rosetta with the news of Henry’s death.

Secondly, and this was part that worried Peter, they wanted
to know if he had any evidence relating to the baptisms of the twins, Harold
and Edith, which might name Frank Williams as their father. Peter considered
this request for a while. He had to admit that it was something he had not
thought to look for and wasn’t sure where it might be found, if at all.

He decided to ring the Trigg sisters to see if they had any
ideas. It was Margaret who answered this time. Peter explained the contents of
the letter he had just received. ‘Do you have any idea whether your mother was
christened?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I’m sure she was. She was confirmed too and was very
keen to make sure we were as well. I don’t think you can be confirmed without
being christened.’

‘Have you any idea where she was christened or confirmed?’

‘It must have been at the parish church in Ventnor. Auntie
Charlotte and Uncle George brought her up and they did go to church sometimes.
I can’t think where else it could have taken place.’

Peter was thinking aloud. ‘Your mother was born at their
house, Brindle Lodge. From postcards and census returns, I’m fairly sure both
your mother and her brother lived at Brindle Lodge until Rose’s death. So, I
think you’re right. If they were baptised, then it had to have been at the
parish church in Ventnor. I’d better get over there and see what I can find
out.’ Peter paused for a moment. ‘Just an idea here, but if you’re up to it,
would you and your sister be interested in meeting me in Ventnor? You never
know what we might turn up.’

‘That does sound rather exciting,’ Margaret, replied. ‘I’ll
need to ask Joan first, because it will mean a lot of work for her and she’ll
be doing the driving. I think she’ll say yes though, because she is finding all
of this as exciting as I am. We’ll call you back.’

A few minutes later, Peter’s phone rang and it was Joan
ringing back to arrange the trip. Assuming Peter could confirm with the vicar
that the church had the baptism records for 1900, they agreed to meet at Saint
Matthew’s in Ventnor at eleven o’clock the following day. Peter said he would
find somewhere for them to have lunch afterwards.

Twenty-four hours later, having crossed the Solent from
Southampton, Peter was waiting in his car outside Saint Matthew’s Church,
Ventnor. He kept an eye out for the sisters and after a while the battered
hatchback appeared hesitantly around the corner and pulled up behind him. They
had a few minutes to spare before their appointment with the vicar.

Peter got out of his car and walked back to their car. ‘How
did the ferry go? Smoothly I hope?’

‘Fine,’ Joan replied. ‘Thirty-five minutes, Lymington to
Yarmouth. We haven’t been over for quite a few years. It’s a bit of an
adventure, isn’t it Margaret?’

‘Yes, it is. Amazing though, how much one remembers,’ piped
Margaret. ‘Of course, we came here to this very church for the funerals, you
know, both Uncle George’s and Auntie Charlotte’s. They both died when we were
in our early teens. It was before I got polio.’

Joan got out and opened the tailgate. She lifted out
Margaret’s heavy wheelchair. Peter was unsure whether to help Joan, as she
prepared the chair before pushing it around to the passenger door. He felt
slightly awkward, but could see that she was used to it and he stood back, for
fear of getting in the way or giving Joan the impression that he doubted her
capabilities in dealing with the needs of her disabled sister. Margaret slid
into the chair and all three of them made their way to the adjacent vicarage.

Reverend Cartwright welcomed them at the door and
introductions were made. Fortunately, the access was suitable and Joan was able
to push Margaret as they followed the vicar into a room reserved for parish
matters. In the centre, a large circular table easily able to accommodate ten
people, dominated the room. Laid out in readiness was a heavy leather-bound
book, recording the parish baptisms.

‘Now, what was the name you wanted to check?’ the vicar
asked.

Peter took the lead. ‘It’s two names actually, twins, a boy
and a girl. We believe they may have been baptised here between September 1900
and December 1902. The mother’s name was Ince, Rosetta Ince.’

‘What about the father’s name?’ asked the vicar as he turned
his attention to the book, looking for the relevant pages.

‘Well, we think the father’s name was Frank Williams, but
they weren’t married,’ replied Joan.

‘Frank Williams?’ I’ve heard that name somewhere,’ the vicar
muttered, ‘and what about the children, what were their Christian names?’ He
didn’t seem at all concerned about the fact that the children were
illegitimate.

‘Edith and Harold. Edith was our mother,’ answered Margaret.

By then, the vicar had found the correct pages and was
sliding his finger down the column of entries. He checked the first page but
found nothing. He turned over and continued to check the names. His finger
stopped.

‘Here we are,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I’ve found it: 26
August 1901. Edith and Harold Ince. Mother’s name, Rosetta Ince. Father’s name,
Frank Williams, deceased. Godparents of Harold were John Williams and Louisa
Williams. Godparents of Edith were George Morris and Charlotte Morris.’

‘Did you say that the father’s name was Frank Williams,
deceased?’ asked Peter.

‘Yes. It seems unusual for illegitimate births of that time,
but the vicar entered the father’s name.’

Peter and the two sisters looked at one another in
excitement and satisfaction. This information was priceless. It proved the
family relationships and hopefully, it would impress the Treasury Solicitor
too.

‘Would it be possible to photocopy this page?’ Peter asked
the vicar.

‘I’m sorry, but we don’t have any copying facilities and I
can’t let you take the book away.’

‘Do you think it would be in order for me to take a
photograph of the relevant page?’ asked Peter.

‘Of course,’ replied the vicar. Go ahead. Why do you need
it?’

‘It’s all to do with an inheritance and the need to prove
close kinship,’ explained Peter.

As Peter focused his digital camera over the page, the vicar
suddenly exclaimed with a note of triumph. ‘I’ve got it! I know where I’ve seen
the name Frank Williams.’

‘Really?’ asked Joan. ‘Where?’

The vicar tapped the side of his nose with a finger. ‘All
will be revealed presently,’ he said.

Meanwhile, Peter took several close-up photographs and then
checked to see that the images were clear, which they were.

‘Thank you Reverend Cartwright … that should do, but could I
ask one other favour? If I print out a copy of this page at home and post it to
you in a stamped addressed envelope, would you mind signing it as a true copy
of the baptismal register and then returning it to me?’

The vicar closed the book. ‘No, not at all … now come on,’
he said, ‘follow me, I want to show you all something.’

The vicar led them out of the side entrance of the vicarage
and down a path leading to the church. He opened a heavy wooden door decorated
with iron studs and they entered. Peter helped Joan with Margaret’s wheelchair.
Reverend Cartwright then took them along a side aisle, passing several rows of
pews before drawing them into a small alcove. He pointed to a wooden plaque
fixed to the wall.

‘Here we are!’ he said triumphantly. ‘Would you care to read
that?’

The words on the memorial were simple and poignant. The
sisters were silent; this was, after all, a memorial to the sacrifice their
grandfather had made. Peter could sense their emotion.

Joan broke the silence. ‘Would he be buried here?’

‘He died at Bloemfontein and would have been buried there,’
Peter intervened. ‘Unfortunately, the bodies of soldiers were not repatriated
then, as happens nowadays.’

There was a further moment of silence before Margaret asked
the vicar a question. ‘Do you have any records of burials in the graveyard, for
the end of 1902?’

‘Yes, we have. Why do you ask?’

‘It’s just occurred to me that our grandmother, Rosetta
Ince, could be buried here. Do you think you could look to see if that’s the
case? Her death occurred in October 1902. She was a victim of a railway
accident.’

‘Certainly, I’ll go back and look it up for you. Give me
five minutes. If you want to start searching the graveyard yourselves, I can
tell you that most of the graves on the north-west side of the church date from
around the turn of the twentieth century. That side over there,’ he said,
pointing to the direction where they should look first.

Joan pushed Margaret back down the aisle and out into the
fresh air with Peter following respectfully behind. Something he hadn’t
considered when he’d invited them to join him that day, was that the sisters
were investigating their own family and that there might be emotional
complications. For him, it was different and he was more detached. However, he
had to admit that from the moment he first saw the marriage certificate, he’d
felt part of something that was pulling him along, and right then, he started
to sense a renewed burst of that same feeling.