Where there was a will, there was often a way to overcome a dead end.
Horton died intestate. But from online calendar indexes Nigel had discovered that his widow had left a will upon her death in 1913. It might contain very little, but it was worth a try. He hurried across the street during a break in the rain, made his way up the stairs to a brightly lit, spartan room decked out in calming neutral colours like the rest of the building. The place might house the wishes and last words of the dead, the physical debris left from their brief time on the planet, but none of that grave mystique was reflected in the sterile surroundings of the probate search rooms. A few other family historians had beaten him up the stairs. How the chattels of the dead were divided often gave a fascinating glimpse into family hierarchies, as well as offering an indication of how our ancestors lived, both rich and poor. The lord of the manor might bequeath half of Surrey to his children, but more evocative pickings were often gleaned from those with the least to pass on, but who still thought it right and proper to pass on their favourite fiat cap or best milking cow.
He grabbed an order form and filled out the date of the will made by Sarah Rowley. While that was being found, he returned to his seat in the cafe for another coffee, taking time to watch the daytime television comings and goings outside the family court, before returning to collect a copy of the will. As he expected, it was hardly brimming with bequests. The deceased's wedding band was left to their elder daughter. Elizabeth inherited an oak table, while Isaac received a set of carpentry tools Nigel assumed had belonged to Horton. Sarah also asked, intriguingly, that a locked metal box inscribed with her initials be buried with her. Those were the only possessions listed. A sum of ten pounds was left to 'the parish of St Bertram, East Ham'.
While there was no genealogical information that explained the Rowleys' obliteration from all records pre1891, at least there was a trail that Nigel could follow.
Perhaps Sarah Rowley did not want to divide a small sum between her children; maybe she felt they didn't deserve it." Whatever her reasons, the act of giving the money should have been recorded by the church, and if she was an active member of the congregation then there might be further records that could offer details about her and her husband.
He put in a call to the London Metropolitan Archives, where most of the records belonging to London churches were held. They had nothing for St Bertram's in East Ham. They suggested he try the Essex Records Office.
He phoned them but was given a similar answer: they had no records. Anything the church had was still held in its own archive.
St Bertram's was a ten-minute walk from East Ham tube station, nestled away in a warren of Victorian terraced artisan houses. The church, as Nigel deduced from the lack of records in the LMA, was relatively modern.
Perhaps no more than a century old, redbrick and functional unlike the Gothic splendours that decorated much of the capital. He wandered aimlessly around it a few times looking for an entrance, eventually discovering it in a modern wing of the church, a few years old at most, which appeared to act as a sort of community centre.
Mothers and children milled around, either leaving or attending an afternoon playgroup.
He asked at a small reception area if he could see the vicar. A few minutes later he arrived, smiling broadly, not much older than Nigel, with a jolly, rubicund face. Nigel returned his handshake, made profuse apologies for not calling in advance and explained the reason for his visit, leaving out any mention of the murder and abduction inquiry.
'We have quite a few genealogical inquiries,' the vicar explained. 'Many of them from abroad. We're usually happy to help. What are you after?'
Nigel explained Sarah Rowley's will.
When did she die?' the vicar asked.
'1913.'
'Really? That was only five years after the parish was formed and the church opened. She'd be among the first parishioners. What was the name again?'
'Sarah Rowley. Her husband died four years before. He was called Horton.'
The vicar glanced down at the floor. 'Something about that name rings a bell,' he said. 'I've only been here for a couple of years, so I haven't been able to familiarize myself completely with the church's history. But if you come with me to the vestry we can see if there's anything that can help you.'
Nigel followed the vicar through the main church, which also appeared to have benefited from a recent facelift. There was none of the mustiness - the smell of history, as he liked to think of it - which characterized the rare occasions he'd been allowed to rummage through the parish chest. He was led to a door to one side of the altar.
The vicar produced a set of keys and unlocked three bolts.
'Some of our parishioners think the Lord turns a blind eye to breaking and entering,' he said with a wink. Inside he switched on a light, revealing a large room crammed with all sorts of church items. Old altarpieces, vestments, stacks of hymn books and pew cushions. 'Sorry, it's a bit more chaotic than you're probably used to. The archiving is pretty haphazard.' He pointed to a shelf at the back of the room, where several huge volumes of books were laid against each other. 'You can start there. Those are the parish registers. Sorry there's nowhere comfortable to sit.'
Nigel waved away the apology. He picked up the first ledger. It was the original, the spine battered and frayed, some pages becoming loose. 'Far be it from me to tell you how to run this place, vicar, but you really should think about getting these registers preserved in a local record office. There'll be a local family history federation or society that would probably be willing to transcribe the information from these books, so they don't even have to be touched any more.' He flipped it over for further examination.
'I'm not sure how long these will last otherwise.'
'You're quite right,' the vicar explained. 'It's on my to-do list.'
Nigel sat on a small wooden chair. Carefully he opened the first volume, beginning in 1908. Almost immediately he came across the burial entry for Horton Rowley in 1909. Simply the bare details, his name, age and date of burial. He continued through the volume and sure enough, in 1913, he found details of Sarah Rowley's burial. But the information gave him nothing new.
'You don't have a graveyard here. Where would these people have been buried?'
It might be worth a trip to see if there was anything interesting inscribed on the grave - but the weather and time might have claimed it, and he was not carrying the necessary materials to render epitaphs decipherable.
'East Ham cemetery on Marlowe Road. They have a register there, too.'
Nigel made a note of the address. Closed the volume.
'Do you have any copies of the vestry minutes?' These were the details of parish meetings; like many of their kind they recorded only the salient points, though they did occasionally yield a genealogical jewel.
The vicar shrugged. "I think they're kept elsewhere, but I really must be honest and say that I have no idea where,'
he said, face reddening. 'Our verger Audrey Cantrell might be able to help. Unfortunately, she's away on holiday with her family at the moment. Sorry about that.'
This appeared to be another cul-de-sac.
'However, there is one thing,' the vicar added. 'He stepped over a few boxes and pulled away a piece of dark blue cloth, of the type that might cover an altar. Beneath it was a large wooden chest. "In here is a number of documents and packets of papers that belonged to my predecessors, going right back to George Burch, the first vicar of this parish. I haven't gone through it in any exhaustive detail but there are all sorts in there. Feel free to have a look.'