The Marriage Certificate (27 page)

Peter’s search to find living descendants of Edith Ince took him
slightly longer than he had initially expected, but it was ultimately fruitful.
He knew that she was born in 1900, so he began to look for her marriage in
Hampshire and the Isle of Wight, during the period 1918 to 1930. When he drew a
blank, it crossed his mind that she had either died or gone abroad. Undeterred,
he tried the next ten-year period and found that she had married Charles Trigg
in 1935.

The marriage was registered in Lymington, which he knew well
as a pretty little fishing port and market town on the south coast of England.
The town lay directly opposite the Isle of Wight and ferries carried passengers
between Lymington and Yarmouth on the island. It was no surprise to Peter that
Edith had married there.

Peter noted the GRO reference for Edith’s marriage and then
searched for any children of Charles and Edith. He found two where the surname
was Trigg and the mother’s maiden name was Ince. They were girls, both born in
the second quarter of 1938, named Joan and Margaret. He noticed that the births
were registered in Wiltshire, which wasn’t quite as he’d expected, but it was
only about seventy miles from Lymington. If the births were correct, it didn’t
take a genius to work out that they were twin sisters. Their grandmother
Rosetta Ince had produced twins, so the trait was obviously in the genes. He
knew that they were Edith’s children, but the birth certificates would confirm
it. Again, he noted the references.

He needed to find out whether Joan and Margaret were still
alive, bearing in mind that each may have married and acquired her husband’s
surname. He examined the marriage registers between 1956 and 1979. There were
quite a few ‘Trigg’ marriages, but none that matched. Their mother had married
at age thirty-five. Surely, at least one of the daughters had married before
she was forty, he thought. Failing that, the girls may have married abroad or
died. He would need to hunt further.

Peter decided to try a different tack: checking the old
telephone directories available online up to 1984.
What a fantastic resource
,
he chuckled to himself, as he found an entry for ‘M. Trigg’ in the Lymington
directory of 1984. No sign of a Joan Trigg, but he had made a start.

Next, he tried the electoral roll. He had to pay a fee, but
it was worth it. He found an address in Lymington and to his joy, sister Joan,
he presumed, as she was the only other person registered at the same address.
With a fair degree of certainty, Peter had found an address for Margaret and
Joan. If they were the two descendants he was looking for, then they were about
seventy-two years old and living together, probably as elderly spinsters.

Just to complete that stage of his research, Peter looked
for the deaths of their parents. He found the death of Charles Trigg in
Wiltshire in 1967, aged sixty-eight when he died. The mother, Edith, died eight
years later in 1975. Her death was notable in that it was registered in
Lymington. It followed therefore, that after the death of her husband, she may
have returned to Lymington, to live with her daughters. He’d only be able to
confirm that, if ever he met Joan and Margaret.

Peter sat back from his computer. He couldn’t believe how
well he’d done and he knew that he had to meet Edith’s twin daughters. He was
as certain as he could be that they were granddaughters of Rosetta Ince. If he
could prove that to be the case, then that would make them nieces of Harold
Ince, also known as Harry Williams, whose estate rested in the hands of the
Treasury Solicitor.

He ordered certificates for the births, marriages, and
deaths he’d just found, once more paying a supplement for a rapid turnaround.
This
is starting to get expensive
, he thought,
what with trips to Leyton as
well
, but somehow Peter was feeling increasingly confident that he might be
able to recoup his costs. In fact, the more he thought about it, he might even
be able to make some money from it.

He knew that heir-hunting firms worked on a commission. He
didn’t know how much they charged, but it had to be somewhere between fifteen
and thirty per cent. He mentally calculated that he might be able to earn
between £10,000 and £20,000 if he could process a claim for the Trigg sisters
and they were the only entitled relatives.
Mustn’t count chickens
, he
thought.
You are not a professional heir hunter
.
You don’t have the
legal agreements in place, nor the expertise to submit a claim and don’t forget
that a professional firm is also sniffing around
.

Peter decided it was better to play this carefully and see
how it panned out. He needed to wait until the certificates arrived. If they
confirmed what he believed to be true, then he would move one step closer to
solving the extraordinary mystery that his quest had now turned into.

There was an impatient knocking on the front door. Harry got up
from his mother’s bedside and went downstairs to meet the doctor. He thanked
him for coming and showed him up to the bedroom. The doctor asked some
questions before examining his mother.

Harry left the room and went back downstairs to the sitting
room. He wanted to keep out of the way for a minute, trying to understand what
his mother had just told him. He gazed around the room and looked at the wooden
framed photograph hanging on the wall. It was a black and white photograph of
the
RMS Kidwelly Castle
. In the bottom right-hand corner, another
photograph had been inserted behind the glass. It was a picture of his father,
head and shoulders. He was wearing the uniform of the Castle Line and the
caption read ‘John Williams, Chief Engineer’.

Harry focussed on his father’s face.
Does it mean that
you’re not my father
, he thought.
Who is Rosetta Ince?
He had never
heard her name before. It was bizarre.
No, mother is confused
, he
thought.
I am Harry Williams, everyone knows me as that. How could I be
someone else?

‘Mr Williams,’ the doctor called from the bedroom.

There
, he reassured himself,
the doctor’s just
referred to me by my correct name
. ‘Yes, I’m coming,’ Harry answered,
making his way back upstairs to his mother’s bedroom.

The doctor met Harry on the landing and had closed the
bedroom door. ‘I’m afraid your mother is very ill,’ he spoke quietly. ‘Her
pulse is very weak. How long has she been like this?’

‘Since I found her – when I got back from work. She was
lying on the floor, just inside the bedroom. She was fine this morning … well,
as fine as you would expect for a ninety-two-year-old. I always make the
bedroom fire for her and put some bread and butter on the dressing table,
before I go to work. She gets up later on and makes herself a sandwich. She
takes all her meals in her bedroom now, you know. I make her some tea when I
get home. I could see that she hasn’t made a sandwich today, so maybe she fell
when she got up this morning. She did seem very cold when I found her.’

The doctor glanced back to the bedroom door and continued,
‘The shock of the fall and lying on the floor for some hours may have affected
her. Do you want me to admit her to hospital? I will if you want, but I’m not
sure what it will achieve. I’m sorry, Mr Williams, but she is very ill and I
don’t think she will get better. It may only be a question of hours.’

It was the ‘Mr Williams’ thing again. This time, much to
Harry’s surprise, it jarred his nerves.

The doctor misinterpreted his expression for one of dread at
the thought of losing his mother. ‘Would you prefer it if your mother went into
hospital?’

‘No, no, not if you really think she is unlikely to recover.
Let her remain here until she …’ he paused, not wishing to use the obvious
word. ‘I know that’s what she wants,’ Harry continued. ‘She’s often told me she
wants to stay here and not go to hospital.’

‘I think that’s wise,’ the doctor reassured him. ‘I can
arrange for you to have some assistance to care for her. Would you like me to
organise a nurse to sit with her?’

‘Yes, that would be helpful, thank you.’

The doctor made his way downstairs with Harry following him.
‘Ring me if anything happens. I’ll arrange for a nurse to call later this
evening, probably about ten o’clock.’

‘Thank you doctor,’ Harry said as he showed him to the front
door.

It was just after seven in the evening. Normally, they would
have had their tea by now, but Harry had lost his appetite. He went back
upstairs to his mother’s bedroom. He looked at her long and hard to check that
she was breathing – she was; the bedclothes were rising and falling very
slowly, almost imperceptibly.

He stared at her and recalled what she had told him. Was it
really true that the two people in his life, the two people whom he had always
known as his parents, were not in fact his biological parents?
I’ve been
deceived
, he thought.
I should have been told. Why hadn’t they told me?

Harry didn’t want to blame his father, though. He had died
in the First World War, which had given his mother forty-eight years to tell
him.

He tried to remember exactly what she’d said about who his
real mother was. Someone called Rosetta Ince, her friend. She was her
bridesmaid. He had no idea about any of it, or what it meant.

Harry went downstairs into the back sitting room. The alcove
next to the fireplace was filled by a built-in wooden cupboard. He’d constructed
it himself. The top formed a shelf and it supported a collection of miniature
souvenir china jugs and vases, a fair number of which came from resorts on the
Isle of Wight. He knelt on the floor and felt underneath the front of the
cupboard. Finding the hidden screw head, Harry pinched it between his left
thumb and forefinger, and pulled. A cleverly made section of the plinth below
the cupboard came free. He put his hand into the void behind and grasped the
old biscuit tin, in which family papers were kept. He pulled it out and took it
through to the kitchen table, where he opened it and began to examine the
contents.

He wasn’t sure what to look for, but guessed it was anything
that would add some credence to what might be nothing more than the ramblings
of a fading old lady. He found his parents’ marriage certificate. He scanned
the details. Then he noticed the names of the witnesses: Frank Williams and
Rosetta Ince.

He sat down heavily at the table, took a few deep breaths,
and looked at the marriage certificate again, this time, slowly and carefully.
According to his mother, the two witnesses named on the certificate were
actually his real parents, his biological parents. Uncle Frank’s name hadn’t
been mentioned for years. He’d died long ago in the Boer War; at least that was
what his father had told him. He’d never heard of Rosetta Ince.

Harry went back upstairs to the bedroom with the
certificate. ‘Mother, I’ve got your wedding certificate here,’ he whispered
urgently.

His mother turned her head towards him and opened her eyes.

‘Are these two witnesses at your wedding – Frank and Rosetta
– are they my real parents?’

‘Yes they are,’ she said weakly. ‘I’m sorry Harold, I’m
sorry.’

Harold?
he thought.
That’s strange; she’s never
called me Harold before
. ‘Why did you call me Harold? You just called me
Harold. You and Dad have always called me Harry. Was I named Harold?’

‘Yes, you were … Harold Ince.’

‘Why not Harold Williams, if my father was Dad’s brother?’

‘Because your real parents weren’t married. Your father,
Frank, was killed before he came home to marry Rose.’

‘Why have you never told me this before?’ Harry’s voice rose
in frustration and shock.

His mother remained silent.

He left the bedroom. He was annoyed now. He needed to go
down to the kitchen to get a cigarette. As he lit up and inhaled the smoke, he
sat down at the table and continued to look through the contents of the biscuit
tin. He spotted a telegram. He unfolded it and read the message.

TO: Miss Rosetta
Ince. ‘Brindle Lodge’, Beaufort Street, Ventnor, Isle of Wight

Henry passed away
yesterday. Please return Leyton urgently if possible. Louisa.

Harry went back upstairs. His mother hadn’t moved. ‘Mother,
was Henry your son? The son who died?’

She turned her head slowly towards him and then stared at
him with a vacant expression. Her thoughts were elsewhere. It was as if the
name ‘Henry’ had sent her mind back into the past. She said nothing for about a
minute, then she seemed to come back to the present and with great effort she
simply said, ‘Harringtons, use Harringtons, they’re good.’

‘But mother, was Henry your son?’

She didn’t answer.

Harry watched as his mother closed her eyes. A few moments
later, her breathing faltered and after a final exhalation, she passed away.

Peter left home early, aiming to be in Leyton by half past nine.
He’d rung the reference library, to see if they offered a facility whereby he
could pay a researcher to look up the information he needed. Unfortunately,
that was not the case.

He’d asked how far back their collection of the local
newspaper went, and was told that there was a complete set of the
Leyton
Chronicle
available to the public, for the period 1901–1991, but only on
microfilm. After that date, they had physical copies for reference. Prior to
1901, the library had no records of the newspaper. That meant no chance of
looking for any announcement of John and Louisa’s wedding in 1900, but it did
give him the chance to look for death notices for young Henry Williams in 1902
and Louisa Williams in 1962.

Peter made good time and had parked by just after
nine-thirty. He locked the car and taking his notepad, he headed off in the
direction of the library. Annoyingly, he had to wait until it opened at ten
o’clock, so he popped into a coffee shop for a doughnut and cup of tea.

As soon as the library opened, Peter went straight to the
reference section. He explained to the librarian that he needed to research the
Leyton Chronicle
, starting with 1962. She showed him the drawers
containing the microfilm and demonstrated how to load the reel of film and use
the viewer. Once he’d located the issues of the newspaper for mid to late
December 1962, he scrolled through the newspaper, column by column. He was
disappointed not to find any death notice concerning Louisa. He returned the
film to its drawer and then took out the microfilm for 1902 and wound it on to
the viewer.

The 1902
Leyton Chronicle
had a completely different
format to the modern version. Patent remedies dominated the advertisements and
the front page consisted mainly of what one might refer to today as ‘small
ads’. The news itself began on page two. Peter found it fascinating, and it was
easy to get distracted from his task. There were some interesting reports and
it brought home to him how much times had changed. Personal notices, death
notices, and obituaries were printed on page five.

Henry Williams had died on 8 October 1902 – a Wednesday. The
newspaper came out each Friday, so Peter reckoned that any death notice or
funeral report ought to be found in one of the three issues immediately
following Henry’s death. He found nothing in the edition published the day
after Henry died, but in the next issue, the one for 17 October 1902, he struck
gold. Midway down the third column on page five, he found just what he had been
hoping for.

Funeral of Henry
Williams.

The funeral took place
on the fifteenth October at St Martin’s Parish Church, Leyton, of Henry
Williams, only son of Mr and Mrs J Williams of 46 Apsley St, Leyton. The
service was conducted by Reverend T. Walter. The mourners were Mr and Mrs J
Williams (parents), Thomas Crockford (grandfather), Mr and Mrs G Corbett
(godparents), Miss R Ince (friend) and Mrs G Robins representing the staff of
Crockford’s Drapery Emporium. Floral tributes were sent by the Parents, the
Godparents, Miss Ince, and the Staff of Crockford’s Drapery Emporium.

Peter was delighted. He now had proof that Rosetta had
attended the funeral of Henry. However, any elation was dampened by the
knowledge of what awaited poor Rosetta on her return journey to Ventnor. Two
days after the funeral, on the very date of the newspaper he was reading, he
knew that she would be killed at Dunley Bottom, leaving her children, Edith and
Harold, orphaned.

Peter asked whether it was possible to have a copy of the
funeral notice.

‘Yes we can copy individual pages. We have the original
newspapers here, but they’re not for public access. If you give me the details,
I’ll go down to the basement and make a copy of that part of page five for you.
It will only take a few minutes. I’m afraid we have to make a charge of three
pounds.’

‘That’s fine,’ replied Peter.

When the librarian returned with a copy of the death notice,
Peter checked to make sure it was what he wanted, and then paid the fee. Ten
minutes later, he was back in the car and easing his way out into the busy
traffic. Rather than returning home directly, he felt he had time to find the
address in Moses Street where John, Louisa, and Harry were living in 1911. When
he got there, he could see that it had been redeveloped. The Victorian houses
had all but disappeared, replaced by three shabby concrete high-rise buildings,
with interconnecting walkways.
No point lingering here
, Peter thought
and just before two o’clock in the afternoon he was back home.

Opening the front door, he stepped over the day’s post.
There was more than usual scattered on the carpet. He spotted at least four
white envelopes, which by their familiar shape and marking, he recognised as
coming from the GRO. He shot upstairs to check the stock market on his
computer, and then returned to the kitchen put the kettle on. He sat down at
the table to open the post.

The first envelope contained the birth certificates of Joan
and Margaret Trigg, confirming their father as Charles Trigg and their mother
as Edith Trigg, formerly Ince.
Excellent
, he thought. The second
envelope held the death certificates of Charles and Edith. He noticed that
Edith’s address, when she died, was the current address in Lymington of Joan
and Margaret.

When he opened the next envelope, he found it contained the
marriage certificate of Charles Trigg and Edith Ince. He didn’t expect to find
anything out of the ordinary, but it was the entry in the column for Edith’s
‘Father’s Name and Surname’ that made him sit up and grin. Edith’s father was
not named on her birth certificate, but here on her marriage certificate it
said:

Father’s Name and
Surname: Frank Williams (deceased)

Rank or Profession of
Father: Cpl. City Imperial Volunteers

Peter had heard of this before, where an illegitimate child
puts the father’s name on a marriage certificate. Somebody, perhaps George or
Charlotte, or Edith’s grandmother Florence, had told Edith whom her father was
and she had taken the opportunity of her marriage to record his name on the
certificate. Peter wasn’t certain of her motives. It may have been connected
with some form of pride and she wanted to see her father’s name recognised.
Alternatively, Edith may have felt embarrassed by leaving the entry blank and
had entered Frank’s name as a way of avoiding embarrassment. He would never
know, but one way or another, this was a very significant discovery.

Peter now had a degree of proof that Frank Williams
was the father of Edith Ince, which meant, of course, that he was the father of
her twin Harold Ince. Providing Peter could convince the Treasury Solicitor
that Harry Williams was born Harold Ince, then any descendants of Edith, his
full blood sister, would be his entitled relatives.

Peter’s run of success, however, wasn’t finished. The last
envelope from the GRO gave him the death certificate of a Corporal F Williams,
the one he’d ordered nearly three weeks before. The details were taken from the
‘Casualty Lists of the Natal and South African Field Forces 1899-1902’. It
confirmed that he died of disease at Bloemfontein on 5 October 1902. Peter just
needed Frank’s will, to show that he had no other children. He’d ordered it the
same day as his death certificate, so it had to be due any day.

Peter made himself a coffee and took it upstairs to his
desk. He stared absent-mindedly out of the window while he considered his
options to getting in touch with the Trigg sisters. He couldn’t put off making
some form of contact with them, not if he wished to see this project through.
He didn’t want to just drive down to Lymington and knock on their door with a
cold-call. They might not be at home and if they were, it’s unlikely they would
be receptive to what he wanted to talk them about. Much better, he decided, to
write to them first. If he couched his letter in a sincere and non-threatening
manner, there was a reasonable chance that they would treat it seriously and
agree to a meeting.

He gave some serious thought as to how he might phrase his
letter of introduction. He didn’t want to frighten them or give them any
grounds for thinking that he might be some type of confidence trickster. He
didn’t want them to think that he was going to ask them for confidential
information. He needed to assure them that initially he merely wanted to
confirm some names and facts, in order to satisfy himself that the Trigg
sisters were, as he believed, entitled relatives to an unclaimed estate. With
these points in mind, Peter wrote his letter.

As he was about to pop it into the post box later that
afternoon, he wondered to himself whether or not it would have the desired
effect and if so, how long he would have to wait for a reply?
Fingers
crossed
, he thought,
here goes
.