The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

‘It’s weird that they targeted your study and yet took nothing. Are you sure?’ Juliette had asked, as they began to clear the only mess in the lounge—a raked-out bureau.

  ‘Yeah, think so. My camera and laptop were the main things of value and they’re still there, thankfully.’

  ‘Just stop a minute and look around—the person, or people, weren’t after electronics or money. What if Steve was right—what if they didn’t find what they were looking for? Do you have anything non-electronic that’s of value up there?’

  Then the picture had crystallised and Morton felt stupid for not having thought of it before: the only thing of potential value in his office were the indentures.

  Morton had dashed up to his study and pulled open his bag.

  The indentures were, rather predictably, gone.

  It was the morning following the break in. Morton had done a little research into the village of Westwell and where the records for the parish were kept, but he wasn’t in the right frame of mind.

  He finished his coffee—his third of the day already—and exhaled sharply, slumping down into his study chair. His mood was low and everything that entered his mind—his own family history research, what had occurred last night with Juliette, the burglary and the loss of the indentures—was negative.

  The pictures, certificates and scraps of paper affixed to Morton’s study wall suddenly shivered as a draught blew in from outside. He stood up and closed the window, remembering then the strange man that had yesterday stared up at him, raising his glass in a provocative manner. That night they had been burgled and the indentures had been stolen. It wasn’t too much a stretch of the imagination to think that the two were connected. What could that man have wanted with the indentures? And how did he know that they were here? Morton wondered, now even more annoyed with himself for not having taken a photo of the odd man. He knew, of course, that Jonathan Greenwood had taken copies of the indentures, so they were not entirely lost, but the theft had now ruled out Morton finding living descendants to trace; there was no way photocopies would ever stand up in court.

  He should make a trip to the Kent History and Library Centre at Maidstone. He should apologise to Juliette. He should phone Bunny and tell her that the most valuable part of the items that she had entrusted to him had been stolen. But his pessimism pinned him to the chair.

  A while later, his mind in a heavy fog, an alert sounded from his phone and, hoping that it was something from Roy Dyche, Morton opened his emails. It was from Ancestry. Great news! Your AncestryDNA results are in. The moment you’ve been waiting for is here. The AncestryDNA results are ready for: Morton Farrier. With a sudden burst of energy, Morton clicked the button to see his results. A web browser pinged open and there they were. Below a title of Ethnicity Estimate for Morton Farrier, was a geographical breakdown of his DNA. According to the results, he was 100% European. His eyes darting and flicking up and down the results, he couldn’t quite believe what he was reading. His European heritage broke down as approximately 66% Western Europe, 13% Irish, 10% Scandinavian, 7% Iberian Peninsula and 3% British.

  Morton stared at the results. He was only 3% British.

  He glanced up at the crude, hand-written family tree that he had previously drawn up for himself. With absolute lucidity, the DNA results confirmed how very little he knew of his own family. That two thirds of his ancestral heritage originated from Western Europe shocked and thrilled him simultaneously. His eyes settled on his maternal grandmother, Anna Schmidt, whom he knew to be German. Other than her, he was aware of no other family connections to this geographical area. He realised then, too, that his biological father’s origins also had to be located somewhere in Europe.

  At the bottom of the family tree, beside his own name was written Juliette Meade. He looked at her name, then at theirs together. He’d been stupid and selfish these last few days. He wanted to marry her, so why should his adoptive father’s affairs stop him? He pulled out his mobile and wrote a text to her. Hi. I’ve been an idiot. Sorry. Let’s spend the evening planning the wedding. Love you xx

  Having sent the message, Morton felt the warm sensation of calmness rising from inside. He began to feel his pessimism peeling away like a constricting skin. He breathed slowly and the husk of negativity eventually fell away.

  It was time to pick up the case and move on.

  The squat oblong of glass and concrete that was the Kent History and Library Centre, just outside Maidstone town centre, had been purpose-built in 2012. It was, like many other modern archives, light and open-plan with crisp white pillars and wooden flooring throughout.

  The automatic doors silently slid open and Morton stepped inside the cool building. The room seemed to buzz with energy from the people busying themselves at the bookshelves, desks and computers. He headed straight to the family history section at the rear left of the building.

  ‘Morning,’ Morton greeted the man behind the help desk. ‘Have you got a table and microfilm reader available, please?’

  The man smiled pleasantly. ‘Yes, we’re very quiet today.’ He turned to his side and pointed to the row of microfilm readers. ‘Which one do you fancy? Over there are the old-fashioned wind-on ones, or there are two of the more modern digital ones or some ultra brand new PC-based ones which we’re trialling at the moment.’

  ‘Go on, then, I’ll give the ultra brand new ones a whirl,’ Morton answered with a grin.

  ‘Excellent—I’ll put you on number two. They haven’t even got these at the National Archives,’ he boasted. ‘Simple to use—I’ll give you a demo when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Morton said.

  ‘Can I have your library card, please?’

  Morton handed over his card and, in return, received a lanyard with an access key card to the archive reading room and a locker key. He removed his laptop, notepad and pencil, placed his bag inside the locker, then wandered over to the bank of blue folders containing an alphabetised list of Kent parishes.

  Having located the file containing parish chest information for Westwell, he completed an orange document request slip for the settlement registers, then swiped his key card to gain access to the adjacent archive reading room.

  A sullen middle-aged woman, whose name badge announced her to be Brenda Buxton, glanced up from behind the help desk as he entered. She had a tight, pinched mouth that gave the appearance that she was unable to smile.

  ‘Can I give you this, please,’ Morton asked, holding up his request slip and trying not to be drawn to the two inches of stark white roots contrasting heavily against the rest of her coal-black hair.

  Without taking her eyes off the screen, Brenda Buxton indicated a small wooden box to the side of her desk. Charming lady, Morton thought, as he deposited the slip in the box. She reminded him of Miss Latimer. Every archive must have one, he thought.

  Morton took his seat at table number two and set up his laptop. He watched as Brenda unhurriedly finished whatever was occupying her onscreen, then picked up his slip of paper and disappeared out through a door behind the desk, returning expressionlessly to her computer moments later.

  Morton waited patiently, using the time to re-read his notes taken yesterday at The Keep, until finally a small lady with letterbox-red lipstick and a thick coat of black eyeliner appeared at his table and placed a white envelope down in front of him. ‘There you go, love.’

  Morton thanked her then carefully retrieved the bundle of settlement documents from the envelope and opened them out in front of him. They were arranged haphazardly, with each settlement examination on a separate loose sheet. He began to examine the handwritten names at the top of each piece of paper and, after searching for just a few short minutes, the Lovekin name sprang out at him. He smiled, as he began to read through the paperwork, knowing that he was getting closer to finding out what had happened to the three sisters after their mother had died.

  He had read several lines before he realised that he was already familiar with this document; it was
an exact copy of the removal order that he had seen yesterday at East Sussex Record Office. Nevertheless, he withdrew his mobile and took a shot of the document, intending to run a comparison when he got home, just to be certain that there were no discrepancies.

  ‘Have you got a photography licence?’ Brenda Buxton suddenly barked, as she leapt up from her seat and headed over to Morton’s table.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You just took a photo of that document—do you have a licence?’ she demanded.

  ‘In what way?’ Morton asked curiously.

  She huffed and folded her arms. ‘It’s a licence that lets you take unlimited photographs.’

  ‘No, I don’t have one. How much are they?’ Morton asked, always exacerbated by such silly bureaucracy.

  ‘Ten pounds per day,’ Brenda answered.

  ‘No thank you,’ Morton said, putting his phone down and resuming his reading of the document.

  ‘Then you need to put your mobile in your locker,’ she explained.

  Morton slid his phone from the table and indignantly placed it in his pocket.

  With another huff, Brenda returned to her desk, angling her computer screen in such a way that Morton fell squarely into her line of vision.

  ‘That’s a beheading offence,’ a male voice behind him joked.

  Morton turned to see a researcher with a large grin poking out from under a monstrous white moustache and he reciprocated his conspiratorial smirk. Brenda Buxton looked up dourly but said nothing.

  Turning the page, Morton found the examination record for the Lovekin sisters. He quickly typed up the initial preamble, then moved onto the statement made by Harriet Lovekin. On oath, she had repeated her assertion that her parents had been married in the parish of Westwell and that, to her knowledge, she and her sisters had been born there. Having fully expected to see the settlement examination confirm the Lovekin girls’ right to assistance, the next and final paragraph startled Morton.

  Whereas it doth appear to us Walter Crouch and Joseph Hannay the Justices within named that Harriet, Keziah and Ann Lovekin, the paupers within ordered to be settled in the said Parish of Westwell have no legal right of settlement, unsuccessful searches having been made in the Parish registers for the aforementioned parents of the said Harriet, Keziah and Ann Lovekin. We do therefore hereby decline the execution of settlement in the said Parish of Westwell. Given under our hands the 1st day of May 1827.

  Declined. The three orphaned sisters, having been forcibly removed from the America Ground, were then turned away on the same day from Westwell. But why, if Eliza had originated from there? And where did they go? Morton puzzled. He knew from his research that the America Ground was entirely cleared in 1835 and that the registration districts for both Ann’s 1839 marriage and Keziah’s 1892 death were in Hastings, so it stood to reason that perhaps they might have returned there.

  As Morton typed up the entry, he began to work out his next course of action. The two Westwell Justices had failed to find any documentation in the parish records that provided the girls with any association with the village, but still, Morton needed to check for himself.

  He finished typing the entry but wasn’t happy to not have a digital copy. Looking across to the help desk, Morton found it empty. With a surreptitious glance behind him, he spotted Brenda Buxton poring over a document, her back turned to him. Seizing the opportunity, he hastily took out his mobile and took a picture of the page.

  ‘Excuse me!’ Brenda called across the room irately. ‘I told you no photography.’

  Morton tucked his mobile away as she hastened towards him.

  ‘Did you just take a photo?’ she demanded.

  Morton looked up and smiled pleasantly. ‘No,’ he lied. ‘But I’d like to; you see, I only want a copy of this one page, and ten pounds seems rather steep.’ He watched as her jaw clenched in deliberation of her response.

  ‘It’s fifty pence per copy, so you see now that ten pounds for unlimited photography is actually very good value.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Morton said sweetly, handing her the relevant page. ‘A photocopy would be lovely.’

  She wordlessly flipped around and sped through the door behind her desk.

  When she returned a few seconds later, she handed Morton back the original but held onto the photocopy. ‘You can pay for it at the end,’ she explained haughtily.

  Morton nodded, gathered up his things and returned to the main library area, taking a seat at the microfilm PC. Through the glass wall from the Archive Reading Room, he could still feel the admonishing glare of Brenda Buxton. He smiled charmingly and went to the shelves containing the parish register indexes.

  Having jotted down references for Westwell marriages and baptisms, Morton collected the relevant film reel and sat at the PC. Fortunately for him, there had not been a change of staff and the agreeable man who was behind the desk still remained.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  ‘Yep, whenever you are,’ Morton answered, then sat listening carefully to the brief explanation of how the computer worked. ‘So what can it do that the others can’t?’

  ‘High resolution printouts, removal of background colour, amazing zoom function…plus a few other bits that we haven’t worked out how to do yet,’ he chuckled. ‘Right, I’ll leave you to it.’ He patted Morton on the back as he walked away. ‘Give me a shout if you have any problems.’

  Knowing that Harriet, the eldest of the Lovekin girls, had been born around 1809, Morton zipped through the microfilm until he reached marriages 1751-1812. If ever he was going to find out about Eliza Lovekin’s early life, he needed to locate her marriage to Joseph and her baptism record. Morton wound steadily through the years, not truly believing that he would find their marriage. The village was small and, just over half an hour later, he had reached the end without success. He recalled the article from Hastings Library that had claimed that many of the America Ground residents had existed in a state of concubinage; he had just hoped that Joseph and Eliza hadn’t been among their number.

  Despite the fact that the settlement examination had pre-empted his futile search, Morton still felt a pang of disappointment. He moved the film on to baptisms 1751-1815 and began to run his index finger down the screen over the surnames. No sign of an Eliza Smith.

  A short while into his search, his mobile sounded a text alert. It was from Juliette. I know you’re an idiot xx. Morton grinned and knew that he’d been forgiven. He continued his search, then another text came in. Your text has been witnessed by two police officers—we ARE planning this wedding tonight—it’s legally binding now xx

  Without realising it, Morton had reached the end of the film block. The idea that the children may have been older when they were baptised struck him, so he continued searching right through until 1836. Nothing. Not one Smith. Not one Lovekin. The Westwell Justices hadn’t been overly harsh—there was nothing linking the girls to the parish. Had Eliza and Joseph lied to their daughters about their place of origin? Morton asked himself. If so, why?

  As he rewound the microfilm, he deliberated his next course of action. There was little more to be achieved here. It was time to head home and it was time to face Bunny’s extreme histrionics when he phoned her and explained that the indentures were possibly very valuable. And that they had been stolen.

  Morton thanked the man behind the desk, returned the boxed microfilm and gathered up his belongings. He headed out of the archive and, as he walked, he typed a text reply to Juliette. Great! I’m on my way home now. See you in a while. I’m thinking Vegas…Elvis impersonator officiating? No friends and family, just two random gamblers from the one-arm bandits to witness… xx

  He clicked to send the message and pocketed his phone as he neared his car. In his distraction, he failed to see all four doors of a silver BMW parked beside his Mini fling open. He looked up and, when his brain had fully interpreted what his eyes were seeing, knew that he was in trouble. Of the four men—very bulky and intimidating—w
ho were standing in front of him, one of them stepped forward. ‘Morton Farrier. Mind if we have a quiet word?’

  Morton felt his insides turn to liquid. His hands began to quiver and his breathing quickened. Could he run? Was anyone around, if he yelled for help? He glanced over his shoulder; one of the four men had moved around the back of the BMW and now formed a barrier—and a solid one at that—between Morton and potential escape. He swallowed hard and knew that a cry for help would only emerge from his constrained larynx as a pathetic whimper. He needed to try and show some toughness. He nodded.

  The man grinned, revealing two gold front teeth. ‘Step inside,’ he said, ushering Morton into the back of the BMW.

  Morton obeyed, quickly finding himself sandwiched between two of the men. The driver started the engine and began to pull away.

  In a croaky, scared and pitiable voice, Morton managed to ask, ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll soon see,’ the man with the gold teeth said, patting Morton on the leg. ‘Actually, you won’t.’ He reached down into the foot well and pulled up a black hood. ‘Sorry.’

  Before he could even think about struggling, Morton’s arms were pulled behind his back and tied together and the hood slid down over his face. The last thing that he saw through the tinted windows was the archive and his Mini disappearing from view.

  He was forced back into the seat as the BMW accelerated out onto the busy duel carriageway.

  Morton was in total, complete darkness with no knowledge of who the men were or what they wanted.

  Chapter Eleven

  29th March 1827, The Town Hall, Hastings, Sussex

  Richard probed the scar that ran down the left side of his head behind his ear, as he had so often done in times of contemplation since his accident. He traced the hairless gully of flesh with his forefinger, gazing out of the Town Hall door and wondering if now was really the right time. It had taken a month for him to recover from the injuries that he had sustained on the night of the Priory Ground rebellion. Having assured the Aldermen and other senior members of the corporation that the arrests would begin to weaken and eventually destabilise the God-forsaken community, Richard had returned defeated and humiliated, and had lost support for further intervention with the constables. The recollection of the night tensed his stomach and he probed his scar more deeply, so that it began to hurt. He lifted up his other hand, in which he held Harriet Lovekin’s shawl, and pressed it to his nose. It smelt clean and fresh, but a faded sanguine outline betrayed the consequences of that night. He lowered the shawl and looked out into the empty street.