The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Thank you,’ Morton said, watching as she set the tray down and comically backed out of the room. He chased the paracetamols and glass of water down with a large glug of wine, hoping that the combination of the two would soon start to counter the intense pounding in his head.

  Turning to his computer, he began a general internet trawl for original lease and release indentures. Private companies, individuals, online auction sites and various record offices around the country housed erratic and patchy collections but, as Morton expected, none of them as far as he could tell pertained to the America Ground. If these documents existed, then they were not obviously in the public domain. Why was Kevin and whomever he worked for so certain that the original lease and release documents were still in existence? Morton wondered.

  He felt a rise of panic when he considered that he had just three days left to find them. He resolved that on the morning of the third day he would tell Juliette everything and let the police take over. As he gazed at his computer screen, he wondered if it were possible to create another, better set of fake indentures. He was certain that he could fool Kevin but it would be whomever he passed them onto that really mattered. The more he thought about it, the more he was certain that the people behind it were Riccards-Maloney. It had to be them.

  He returned to his computer and accessed the government-run Companies House website. The page loaded and Morton clicked ‘Find Company Information.’ In the search box, he entered Riccards-Maloney and, moments later a spreadsheet loaded with an alphabetised list of business. The name Riccards-Maloney was highlighted in yellow and Morton clicked the company number for more information. Beside a general summary of the company’s formation and tax status, was a hyperlink that said: Order information on this company. Morton clicked the link and was offered a chronologically ordered list of the company’s filing history. Secretary resigned. Registered office changed. Full accounts made up to 31/03/15. New director appointed. Declaration of assistance for shares acquisition. Morton could order any of it for £1 per record, but he couldn’t see the sense in just ordering anything. He scrolled down to the bottom to the company’s formation and settled on purchasing their incorporation documents.

  Morton didn’t know what he was expecting to see when the PDF file downloaded to his computer, but what he read was of limited use, largely setting out the purpose and legalities of the new company. From skimming through the document, Morton learnt that Riccards-Maloney was established in 1980 by Terry Maloney and registered to an address in London. The company’s purchase of the America Ground estate from the Crown had occurred on the 1st March 1988.

  Morton printed the file and stuck it to his study wall. He stood back and admired the array of photos, certificates and documents that he had acquired in his pursuit of the Lovekin Case. The edges were forming, but he still had large pieces of the puzzle to find, never mind fit.

  ‘Pizza for Mr Farrier,’ Juliette said in another attempt at an odd accent.

  Morton pulled open the door and Juliette entered, balancing a bottle of wine on top of two pizza boxes. ‘Thank you. I would have come down,’ Morton said.

  ‘Picnic,’ Juliette shrugged, taking a seat on the floor and tugging open the first box. ‘So, how are you getting on?’

  Morton joined her on the carpet and pulled out a slice of pepperoni pizza, not wanting to discuss the Lovekin Case with her. ‘Okay, I suppose. I heard back from Roy Dyche,’ he said enthusiastically, but read from Juliette’s blank expression that she had no clue what he was talking about. ‘The guy whose parents ran the guesthouse in Folkestone in the 70s.’

  Recognition dawned on her face. ‘Oh yes—what did he say?’

  Morton talked her through the phone conversation as they worked their way through the pizza, then the conversation changed to their burglary.

  ‘The initial CSI report came back today,’ Juliette said.

  ‘And?’

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Morton mumbled, knowing what the men were like.

  ‘Why aren’t you surprised?’ Juliette asked.

  ‘People are just more careful these days, aren’t they? I’m not a burglar but I know you need to wipe your prints off and not leave incriminating DNA at the scene.’

  ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ Juliette said, offering a lengthy explanation of police procedure that Morton was happy to listen to, as it kept the conversation away from the Lovekin Case.

  When the pizza and wine had been polished off, Juliette left the study and Morton returned to his computer.

  Either the wine, the paracetamol or both were starting to have an effect; the pain had been subdued to a dull ache.

  Looking at the Lovekin family tree, Morton’s eyes settled on the three children of Harriet and Christopher Elphick. Somewhere, amongst their descendants, he hoped to find the person who had, for some reason, made copies of the lease and release documents. It was time to use the censuses from 1841 to 1911 and the various birth, marriage and death records from 1837 onwards to trace the Elphick family tree to the present day.

  It was going to be a very long night.

  Chapter Eighteen

  God, but he was exhausted. Totally shattered. Just lifting his head from its cramped, agonising position on his study desk was too much. It would have been easier for Morton to list the places in his body that didn’t ache or hurt than those that did. He was a mess, and his study was a mess. He was surrounded by paper, printouts, downloaded wills, scribblings and a family tree that extended over four A3 sheets of paper.

  He slowly rolled his chair back and exhaled from the effort. He needed more painkillers, a shower, some breakfast and a coffee. A very large, heavily caffeinated coffee.

  He ambled down to the kitchen with the flexibility and agility of an old man and began the process of returning to the realms of the living. On the table was a note. Hope you got everything done! Don’t work too hard today. Be careful. Juliette xxx

  If only he had gotten everything done. There was still plenty to do, although he had successfully traced Eliza Lovekin’s descendants to the modern day. When he had counted up the final tally, Morton had gazed at the painting of Eliza and told her that she had produced seven generations and now had a total of sixty-seven living descendants. It was soon after finding himself talking to the painting that he fell asleep at his desk. He had no concept of what time that had been. What time was it now? He looked at the kitchen clock: almost ten past nine in the morning.

  As much as he felt like climbing into bed, he had only two days to find the lease and release indentures. Two days, he thought, as he swallowed some paracetamol. It’s impossible.

  In the bathroom, Morton stared at his reflection. He looked like he had been involved in some awful car accident: his neck slice had yet to heal, the bruising in his throat was developing and he now had a lovely black eye from the punch that he had received last night. How was Juliette not suspicious? he wondered. Maybe she was; he recalled the wording of her note. Be careful.

  Climbing gratefully into the shower, Morton thought about all the lies that he had told her: cut himself shaving and walked into a door. They really were the worst, most unbelievable excuses known to man.

  He stood for a long time under the hot water, not moving and not thinking.

  Finally, he climbed out, dried himself and put on some fresh clothes; he was starting to feel human again.

  In his study, Morton gathered up all the paperwork that he had generated last night. It all needed sorting, making sense of, and the long list of sixty-seven people needed severely whittling down. But he couldn’t face another moment in his study and decided to do the work in one of Rye’s many coffee shops.

  He chose Edith’s House, a narrow but quaint and charming place on the High Street. Having bagged up his laptop and research, he sauntered the short distance, lapping up the sunshine as he went. He was greeted by the welcome aroma of fresh coffee and a friendly smile fro
m the waitress, who directed him to a comfy chair with a large table. It was perfect for him to be left undisturbed with his work sprawled out in front of him.

  He ordered a large latte, opened his bag, set the papers down onto the table and selected the typed list of sixty-seven names. One of his first tasks last night had been to find Harriet Elphick’s death. She had died at the ripe old age of eighty-six in 1895. Morton rummaged through the paperwork and retrieved her will from among those that he had downloaded but had not yet read. This is the last will and testament of me Harriet Elphick of The Forester’s Arms in the parish of St Leonards and county of Sussex widow I appoint Daniel Elphick also of The Forester’s Arms as my sole executor… Morton read through the initial preamble to her bequests. …I give devise and bequeath to the said Daniel Elphick all the monies or securities for money which I may possess at the time of my decease and I direct that the same shall be equally divided between my daughters Maria Phillips and Eliza Coleman respectively I give my property namely The Forester’s Arms to my son Daniel Elphick for his own use and benefit…

  Morton ran a highlighter over the relevant part: the pub had passed to Daniel. Had the painting and the indentures also gone to him? he wondered, as he picked through the papers until he found the 1901 and 1911 census reports. Daniel was recorded on both as living in The Forester’s Arms with his wife, Catherine. The couple’s four children had grown up and all except for a son, John Thomas Elphick, had left home, giving Morton multiple possibilities as to the direction that the painting, the indentures and the pub had then taken. Daniel Elphick had died in 1913 and Morton delved into the pile on the table to find his will.

  ‘Here you go,’ the waitress said, finding a small island of exposed table top from amongst the sea of papers.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘This looks interesting,’ she said, indicating his work.

  Morton looked up, having found Daniel’s will and smiled. ‘Interesting and complicated.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, skipping off towards the kitchen.

  Daniel Elphick’s will was written across three neatly typed pages. Morton read through it, his highlighter, again illuminating the pertinent sections. …I appoint my son John Thomas Elphick as my sole executor…I give my executor the freehold entitlement to The Forester’s Arms situate in St Leonards I give to my daughter Mary three pairs of my best sheets four pillow slips trimmed with embroidery four good table cloths I give to my daughter Susannah my black lace mantle prayer books the contents of the lower drawer in the chest of drawers in my bedroom my wife’s silk dresses and two aprons worked by my grandmother I give to my son John Thomas my silver milk jug my china tea service the painting of Mrs Eliza Elphick and the St Leonards Church picture that belonged to Mr Joseph Elphick I give to my daughter Annie my china in my drawing room my grandfather clock and my green damask and fine handkerchiefs….

  Morton pored over the black lettering beneath the thin band that he had highlighted in yellow. The pub and the painting of Eliza had, in 1913, passed to John Thomas Elphick, which meant that all the descendants of Daniel Elphick’s other children could be eliminated.

  Except that Morton immediately saw a problem. John Thomas Elphick had died childless in 1922. He had also died without having left a will—all that existed was a grant of administration, which said that his estate had passed to his sister and her husband, Susannah and William Strickland. It was the end of the Elphick line.

  Morton took a sip of his latte and sat back in his chair, watching passers-by strolling along the street and letting his mind stew on the Lovekin Case. The wills had so far been instrumental in proving that the pub and the painting had passed through the family, but they had also provided a revealing snapshot of the lives of the final custodians of the Elphick name. Morton re-read Daniel’s will with interest, enjoying the image of his possessions, particularly those inherited from Harriet and Christopher. His eyes lingered on one line in particular. The St Leonards Church picture that belonged to Mr Joseph Elphick. Why did Joseph have a picture of St Leonards Church in Hollington? Just because that was where two of his daughters married? Or because he liked the church?

  Placing his computer onto his lap, Morton cursed himself for not having thought of it sooner: what if Joseph Lovekin originated from Hollington and that was his place of marriage to Eliza? He quickly opened his emails and tapped out a message. Dear Sally / Robin, pleeeeaase could you do me a big favour for the case I’m working on? I need a search made in the St Leonards Church registers for a marriage between a Joseph Lovekin and an Eliza Smith. It would have taken place sometime around 1800-1815. Thank you very much! Morton.

  Then the message was gone. The dates that he had given Sally were generously broad, just in case Eliza had married underage or after the birth of their children.

  Morton returned to the Lovekin family tree.

  Susannah and William Strickland had four children. Morton had ordered William’s will, proved upon his death in 1941, which gave everything to his son, James Strickland, including The Forester’s Arms. Knowing that the pub had passed to James, Morton could now begin to cut down the number of potential descendants.

  He took another swig of the latte then began the process of eliminating names from the list.

  From sixty-seven down to eighteen.

  Morton smiled, drank some more, then continued the line of descent through James Strickland’s son, Horace, through his son, Clive, to five living Strickland descendants: John, Lawrence, Tina, Norman and Angela.

  He stared at the list. An uncomfortable quantity of his research was based on the tenuous assumption that the painting of Eliza, along with the lease and release indentures, had been passed neatly down a line to one of those five people. It severely lacked documentary evidence, the painting having not been explicitly mentioned again since Daniel’s 1913 will. In over one hundred years, the painting could have ended up anywhere.

  Morton sat back and breathed out heavily. Whatever the outcome, he was one step closer to finding the whereabouts of the original indentures, but that led on to another big question: how was he going to get them from their current owners? Passing their name and address to Kevin and his bunch of heavies would not result in a good outcome for both the owners and then probably for him also. Asking the current owners to simply hand them over was highly unlikely to get him anywhere. Could he somehow replace them with the copies and hope it went unnoticed? It all seemed very dubious.

  The quietness of the coffee shop was wrecked when Morton’s mobile began to ring. He quickly picked it up and answered it. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Morton. It’s Jonathan Greenwood, here. Got some news about your lease and release.’

  ‘Go on,’ Morton encouraged, scrabbling around on the table for his notepad and pen.

  ‘Well, my old colleague seems to think that they were made approximately in the 1960s—give or take a few years either side. Something to do with the ink and vellum used. Does that help at all?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, it’s perfect. Do I owe him anything for his services?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Her, actually and no, she was happy to oblige,’ Jonathan said. ‘Plus I told her I owed you one.’

  ‘Do you?’ Morton asked, unsure of what he meant.

  ‘Yes, we’ve got a date set for the trial against the Mansfields. Our QC thinks we might have a case, but we might also be slightly bonkers to pursue it, but…well, you know what Jenny’s like.’

  Morton laughed. ‘Well, thank you and good luck. I’m sure I’ll read about it in the papers.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Cheerio.’

  ‘Thanks again, bye.’

  Morton pocketed his phone and looked at his notepad. Assuming that the fake indentures had been created in the 1960s by someone in the Strickland family, then the list was short. Very short. It had to have been either Horace Strickland who was born in 1905 and died in 1988, or his son, Clive Strickland, who was born in 1932 and died in 2014.

&
nbsp; One of those two men had to have created the fake indentures.

  The pain in his head was beginning to return and Morton was becoming tired with an abundance of names and dates swimming around his head. What did they all mean? he wondered. Did it matter if it were Clive or Horace who had created the fake indentures? The important thing now was to trace which of Clive’s five children now had them.

  He sighed, caught the attention of the waitress and prepared to pay. Despite the shortage of time left, he needed a break to stretch his legs and get some air.

  The waitress arrived with a smile. ‘Can I get you anything else?’

  Morton was about to ask for the bill when he spotted something on the family tree. It could be a coincidence. He looked up at the waitress. His desperation for fresh air and a walk suddenly subsided. ‘Another latte, please.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, picking up his empty glass and scuttling away.

  Morton reached across for his laptop and accessed Ancestry’s national death records 1916-2007. He typed Horace’s name in the search box then clicked to view the record. Horace Strickland’s death had been registered in Hastings in March 1988. The exact same month that the America Ground had been purchased from the Crown.

  Horace’s death—apparently coincidental—added some weight to Morton’s nebulous theory about the legacy of the painting and the indentures. Had Horace seen the report in the local paper, that Morton had read in Hastings Library, about the sale of the America Ground, then decided to contest it? And had been killed in the process? There was one way to find out.

  Morton made a vague gesture and mumble of gratitude to the waitress, who arrived with his second latte, as he began to place a considerable order for birth, marriage and death certificates, all of which he ordered on the twenty-four hour priority service. If he was in luck, they would arrive tomorrow—the day before his deadline with Kevin.