and put it down on an upturned V-shaped wooden desk with a lip at the bottom to prevent the volume slipping off.
‘This is the birth index file for 1879, the first quarter, January to April,’ he said, pointing to the print on the spine.
He opened the first page. Both Heather and Khan leaned in for a closer look. The page was smudged and grey from thousands of fingertips tracing down it in search of an elusive name, the bottom right-hand corner stiff and brittle from where people had wet their fingers to be better able to turn the page.
‘Luckily for us, the entries for 1879 have been typed so they all fit in one volume.’
‘There are loads of names on that page,’ Khan
said, without relish.
Nigel shrugged. ‘The entries are listed alphabetically: first the surname, then the Christian names. But the columns we are interested in are the district and page number, 1 a 1 3 7 in this case. Whenever you see that number, jot down the details and make a note of which quarter it’s in. Is that clear enough?’
‘Think so,’ Heather said. ‘Does that apply to
them all?’
‘More or less. Your death indexes have an extra bit of information: age at death. Write that down, too. DC Khan, your marriage index will be the same as this index.’
‘Hopefully with fewer names,’ Khan replied.
Three hours later, Nigel went downstairs to the canteen.
Heather and Khan were waiting for him. Both
seemed animated.
‘How did it go?’ he said, sitting down.
‘Heather’s in shock,’ Khan explained.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t believe how many kids died at birth,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘On every page, there must have been at least one where it said zero under “age at death”.
Unbelievable. God, we have it easy. I mean, my mate Claire had a kid six months ago, and she was in labour for more than forty hours. Forty! Eventually she had an emergency Caesarean. If that had been a hundred or so years ago then the baby would have died.’
‘She probably would have, too.’
Heather nodded and bit her lip. ‘Shocking. And while I was facing up to the horrific reality of infant mortality in Victorian England, Simon Schama here was jotting down all the silly names he came across.’
Khan picked up his notebook. ‘Listen to this:
Smallpiece, ShufTlebottom, Daft … Daft! Come on, if your name was Daft, you’d change it, wouldn’t you? But this is the best one: Fuchs. For Fuchs sake!’
He started to laugh. Nigel smiled. Heather’s face remained stern.
‘You’re a big bloody kid, you know that?’ she said, though a smile was playing on her lips. She turned once again to Nigel. ‘He’s like this now after less than a year as a detective. You just wait: in ten years’ time he’ll be as jaded and cynical as Foster.’
‘But I’ll have more hair.’
‘Have you finished your searches?’ Nigel asked.
Heather shook her head. ‘I’m up to September, but that’s only because the April to June file is missing.’
‘Being repaired?’
‘Yes, I asked at the information desk and they checked. It’ll be back next Monday, all being well.
Let’s hope what we need isn’t in there.’
‘That’s quite common,’ Nigel said. ‘They get
touched by a lot of grubby hands every day.’
‘So does …’
‘Don’t even think of cracking that joke, Maj,’
Heather interrupted, raising a finger in warning.
Khan adopted a mock-angelic look. ‘Would I?’
Heather ignored him.
‘I’ve nearly finished,’ he added.
‘Well, I have finished so I can give you both a hand,’ Nigel said.
Heather looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘That
was quick.’
He shrugged. Nigel did not want to tell her that he had once searched through 163 years of indexes in 5 hours; or that he had once traced a bloodline back to 1837 in a single day, relying on his speed and a few hunches.
‘Who’s going to phone them through to Southport when we’re done?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to fax them from the office
‘This is the birth index file for 1879, the first quarter, January to April,’ he said, pointing to the print on the spine.
He opened the first page. Both Heather and Khan leaned in for a closer look. The page was smudged and grey from thousands of fingertips tracing down it in search of an elusive name, the bottom right-hand corner stiff and brittle from where people had wet their fingers to be better able to turn the page.
‘Luckily for us, the entries for 1879 have been typed so they all fit in one volume.’
‘There are loads of names on that page,’ Khan
said, without relish.
Nigel shrugged. ‘The entries are listed alphabetically: first the surname, then the Christian names. But the columns we are interested in are the district and page number, 1 a 1 3 7 in this case. Whenever you see that number, jot down the details and make a note of which quarter it’s in. Is that clear enough?’
‘Think so,’ Heather said. ‘Does that apply to
them all?’
‘More or less. Your death indexes have an extra bit of information: age at death. Write that down, too. DC Khan, your marriage index will be the same as this index.’
‘Hopefully with fewer names,’ Khan replied.
Three hours later, Nigel went downstairs to the canteen.
Heather and Khan were waiting for him. Both
seemed animated.
‘How did it go?’ he said, sitting down.
‘Heather’s in shock,’ Khan explained.
‘Why?’
‘I can’t believe how many kids died at birth,’ she said, eyes wide. ‘On every page, there must have been at least one where it said zero under “age at death”.
Unbelievable. God, we have it easy. I mean, my mate Claire had a kid six months ago, and she was in labour for more than forty hours. Forty! Eventually she had an emergency Caesarean. If that had been a hundred or so years ago then the baby would have died.’
‘She probably would have, too.’
Heather nodded and bit her lip. ‘Shocking. And while I was facing up to the horrific reality of infant mortality in Victorian England, Simon Schama here was jotting down all the silly names he came across.’
Khan picked up his notebook. ‘Listen to this:
Smallpiece, ShufTlebottom, Daft … Daft! Come on, if your name was Daft, you’d change it, wouldn’t you? But this is the best one: Fuchs. For Fuchs sake!’
He started to laugh. Nigel smiled. Heather’s face remained stern.
‘You’re a big bloody kid, you know that?’ she said, though a smile was playing on her lips. She turned once again to Nigel. ‘He’s like this now after less than a year as a detective. You just wait: in ten years’ time he’ll be as jaded and cynical as Foster.’
‘But I’ll have more hair.’
‘Have you finished your searches?’ Nigel asked.
Heather shook her head. ‘I’m up to September, but that’s only because the April to June file is missing.’
‘Being repaired?’
‘Yes, I asked at the information desk and they checked. It’ll be back next Monday, all being well.
Let’s hope what we need isn’t in there.’
‘That’s quite common,’ Nigel said. ‘They get
touched by a lot of grubby hands every day.’
‘So does …’
‘Don’t even think of cracking that joke, Maj,’
Heather interrupted, raising a finger in warning.
Khan adopted a mock-angelic look. ‘Would I?’
Heather ignored him.
‘I’ve nearly finished,’ he added.
‘Well, I have finished so I can give you both a hand,’ Nigel said.
Heather looked at him, eyebrows raised. ‘That
was quick.’
He shrugged. Nigel did not want to tell her that he had once searched through 163 years of indexes in 5 hours; or that he had once traced a bloodline back to 1837 in a single day, relying on his speed and a few hunches.
‘Who’s going to phone them through to Southport when we’re done?’ he asked.
‘I’m going to fax them from the office
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