In terms of an online footprint, that twenty-first-century measure of a person’s impact on the world, she had barely existed at all.
Eventually, I find myself on the homepage of a website called Deceased Database UK, which announces itself as a central resource of burials and cremations, offered primarily to amateur genealogists researching the family tree. A rudimentary searchbox asks for first and last name, plus start and finish dates as search parameters. I fill in what I know and hit “enter,” a sand-timer icon rotating on the screen for a moment before it spits out a single result. Five lines of text at the top of the results box.
I read the text and feel a rush of certainty that this is the same person: the former owner of this house had notquiteescaped the reach of the internet. It had found her—in death.
Last name: Makepeace
First names: Elizabeth Irene
Buried on: 16 January 2002
Recorded in: Nottingham
Date of death: 27 December 2001
The information is tantalizingly sparse and doesn’t give any indication of age, next of kin, or last known address. I bookmark the page and amend my timeline, then photograph the details and send it to Maxine with a message asking if she’s heard the name before in connection with this house or her husband. It doesn’t take her long to reply.
Will check but doesn’t ring any bells.
I send another message.
Can Charlie find out how long she lived here or when she moved in? Any surviving family?
He will do some digging through RBDM. Will get back to you.
I frown.
RBDM?
Register of Births, Deaths, and Marriages.
I stare at the timeline for a moment longer then slide the paper into my back pocket, close the laptop, and go to check on Callum.
Jeremy calls before lunch to ask about the snagging list of small issues that he’d arranged to be sorted out before we moved in—some missing roof tiles, a couple of leaking taps, a boiler service—to make sure they’ve all been completed to our satisfaction. He’s nothing if not thorough and I’m not surprised he’s become the most sought-after agent in the city for high-end period properties. Before he rings off, I ask him if he’s ever come across the name Elizabeth Makepeace, but the name isn’t familiar.
I finally get started on today’s decorating tasks.
After a while I find a rhythm with the wallpaper stripping in the dining room, peeling off long sections of the old floral paper in long, satisfying rips. As each thick piece detaches from the wall, the fusty air that emerges from beneath is almost like an exhalation, this room finally breathing out after decades contained behind paper.
I’m starting on the third wall when my phone buzzes again in my pocket. A text from Maxine.
You free to meet today?
It’s not quite 11 a.m.; Jess should be back with Daisy before noon. Dom is also due to come over for some uncle-time with the kids, and I won’t leave until he’s here.
Yes can do when my wife is back. Lunchtime?
12:30 p.m. @NGC. Go to NG1 5JD, section 12 down the hill on the left.
I plug the postcode into Google Maps and it zooms down to a location less than a mile from my house.
Somewhere I’ve driven past a thousand times but never actually been inside.
43
The entrance to Nottingham General Cemetery is a handsome Victorian gatehouse, a two-story structure of creamy sandstone and black wrought iron. Walking through the cool shade by the gates gives a moment’s welcome relief from the sun before the path emerges into the cemetery itself.
It’s huge.
