He toiled up the street, a curious mix of fine stone edifices and shoddy clapboard buildings, but it was not practical to think of entering and asking at random: there had to be a more efficient way. An idea came to him. He would contact Mr Greaves, the commissioner for lands. If his uncle was in any form a landowner he would know him. Kydd brightened as he savoured the effect on his uncle of receiving a card out of the blue from a Lieutenant Kydd shortly about to call.
The land registry was a stiff walk well to the south, and Kydd set out along Barrington Street, past the elegance of St Paul’s Church. A line of soldiers was marching up and down on the large open area to his right, and when Kydd approached, the young officer in command halted his men and brought them to attention, then wheeled about and saluted. Kydd lifted his hat to him, which seemed to satisfy. With a further flourish of orders the soldiers resumed their marching.
Then an unwelcome thought struck. Supposing his uncle had fallen on hard times or was still a humble tradesman? It would make no difference to him – but if Greaves thought he was of lowly origins it might prove embarrassing . . . He would move cautiously and find out first.
‘To be sure, a Kydd,’ murmured the clerk, at the desk of the weathered timber structure near the old burying ground. ‘There was one such, resident of Sackville Street, I seem to recall, but that was some years ago. Let me see . . .’ He polished his spectacles and opened a register. ‘Ah – we have here one Matthew Kydd, bachelor, established as trader and landowner in the year 1782, property on Sackville Street . . . Hmmm – here we have a contribution to the Sambro light, er, the usual taxation receipts . . .’
It was certainly his uncle. At last! How would he greet him? He had never met the man: he had sailed from England well before Kydd had been born. Should it be ‘Uncle Matthew’ or perhaps a more formal salutation?
‘ . . . which means, sir, we have nothing later than the year 1791.’
Kydd’s face dropped. ‘So—’
‘We find no evidence at all for his continued existence after then. I’m sorry.’
‘None?’
‘No, sir. You may wish to consult the parish books of St Paul’s for record of his decease – there was fever here at the time, you understand.’
‘Thank ye, sir.’ Kydd made to leave, but another clerk was hovering nearby.
‘Sir, you may be interested in this . . .’ They moved to the other end of the office. ‘My wife admired Mr Kydd’s work,’ he said, ‘which is why she bought this for me.’ It was a handsomely carved horn of plenty, taking bold advantage of the twisted grain of the wood, and supported at the base by a pair of birds. ‘You will understand that time is on our hands in the winter. Mr Kydd used to occupy his in carving, which I think you will agree is in the highest possible taste . . .’
Kydd stroked the polished wood, something his own near relative had created: it felt alive.
‘Yes, those birds,’ the clerk mused. ‘I confess I have no knowledge of them at all – they’re not to be seen in this part of Canada. But Mr Kydd always includes them in his work. It’s a custom here, a species of signature for claiming fine work as your own.’
‘But I recognise it well enough,’ Kydd said. ‘This is y’r Cornish chough, sir. And it’s the bird you find in the coat-of-arms of our own Earl Onslow of Clandon and Guildford.’
The man looked back at him with a bemused kindliness, but there was nothing more to learn here. Kydd emerged into the day: he was not yet due back aboard so his hunt would continue.
But at St Paul’s there was no entry for Matthew Kydd, in births, deaths or marriages. A whole hour of searching in the gloom of the old church sacristy yielded only two entries in the tithe-book, and a smudged but tantalising reference to banns being called.
A mystery: at one time he had existed, now he did not. It was time to face the most unsatisfactory result of all: his uncle was not in Halifax but somewhere else in Canada – or, for that matter, he could be anywhere. And it explained why no one seemed to know of a Kydd in Halifax. He would regretfully conclude his search and write to his father accordingly.
‘If you’d be so good, Tom . . .’ Adams seemed anxious, but it did not take much imagination to grasp why he would want to absent himself from church that Sunday morning.
‘I trust she’s so charming you hold it of no account that you put your immortal soul to hazard?’ Kydd said. The captain had made it plain that he wanted an officer from Tenacious at the morning service on Sundays, and it was Adams’s turn.
Kydd had no strong feelings about religion, although he enjoyed the hearty singing of the grand old hymns. With his Methodist upbringing he was inured to sitting inactive for long periods.