The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)
Page 23
Morton stopped reading for a moment and looked at the Lovekin family tree, which was written in brief on his notepad; it suddenly dawned on him that the article was referring to Eliza junior, who would have been sixteen at the time of the trial, not her mother, who would have been around the same age as the man accused. Morton continued to read.
Mr Horne addressed the jury at some length for the defence, and urged them not to give credit to the story that had been told by the three girls who had been called to make out the case for the prosecution. He also said he should produce witnesses to speak to the good character of the prisoner. Baron Alderson said it appeared to him that in the case of a man who had acted as the prisoner had clearly done, evidence to his character would not be of very great importance. The learned Judge then summed up the case, and the jury at once returned a verdict of guilty. His Lordship having made some remarks upon the abominable character of the offence he had committed, sentenced the prisoner to be kept to hard labour for two years.
Morton was slightly stunned by the twist that the Lovekin Case had just taken. It certainly added more excitement to the painting’s provenance. Although he was sure that Bunny would be secretly thrilled, he dreaded the thought of her reaction when he told her of his latest find. He could hear it now. Oh that poor, poor creature. Imagine! Taken advantage of at such an age only to be murdered years later…
Then something clicked in Morton’s mind: what if Thomas Honeysett had murdered Eliza? Here was someone who had displayed a severe lack of morality, and who after two years of hard labour would have had sufficient motive to exact revenge.
Morton quickly re-read the article, realising that it had failed to indicate whether by administering the drugs to the girls, Thomas Honeysett’s malicious endeavour had been successful.
‘Excuse me,’ Morton turned and asked Brenda Buxton.
‘Yes, can I help you?’
‘Do you have bastardy bonds for Westwell around 1803, please?’
Without saying a word, Brenda spun around on her chair and proceeded to pull a file from the shelves behind her. With a serious look on her face, she thumbed through the file then set it down in front of Morton, an absurdly long nail pointing to a section part way down the page. Then she turned away. Charming.
Morton jotted down the key information, completed the orange request slip then made his way inside the research room where, once he had handed in his request, he waited patiently. He took the opportunity to review all of his case notes, starting back at the very beginning. It was at times like this that he really appreciated just how far the Lovekin Case had progressed from that evening sitting in his father’s lounge when he had been presented with the painting of Eliza and the lease and release documents.
He flipped the page and cursed himself as soon as he saw the notes that he had made on the indentures. How could he have been so stupid? The signatory on the lease and release was Alderman Thomas Honeysett, the same name as the man that Eliza had seen locked up. It was certainly no coincidence.
He sat back, utterly confused. At worst, Thomas Honeysett had raped Eliza. At best, he had taken advantage of her vulnerability as a sixteen-year-old girl in his care, then tried to abort their unborn child. Eliza had then, at some point prior to her marriage in July 1803, left Westwell behind her and, following her marriage to Joseph Lovekin, had moved to the America Ground. Then, in 1827, of the thousand-strong number living on the America Ground, she had been the only person to receive a parcel of freehold land, granted to her by one Thomas Honeysett. She was then murdered just seven days later.
Morton was confused. More parts of the Lovekin Case puzzle were falling into place, whilst others were categorically refusing.
The same short lady with excessive eye make-up and heavy red lipstick, who had brought him his documents on his last visit, delivered him a thick wodge of loose paperwork.
Morton thanked her then began to tackle the stack. He took a moment to familiarise himself with the documents; they were pre-typed administrative forms with gaps containing the handwritten details of the individuals involved. Arranged chronologically, they contained the names of women who had given birth illegitimately in the parish of Westwell. They named the alleged father and gave his current parish of residence, which was chargeable for the child’s maintenance. Morton flicked through to 1803, checking the names carefully as he went. He quickly found all three of the girls, filed consecutively. The first was addressed to The Constable and Borsholder of the upper half hundred of Cobshill and contained Eliza Winter’s allegation.
Whereas information hath been made unto us Nicholas Howell esquire and Edward Brett esquire two of his Majesties Justices of the Peace in and for the County of Kent one whereof is of the Quorum, and both of us residing in the Parish of Westwell in the said County as well upon the complaint of the Churchwardens and Overseers of the Poor of the said Parish of Westwell as on the oath of Eliza Winter of the Parish of Westwell aforesaid single woman, that on the second day of January last the said Eliza Winter was delivered of a male bastard child in the said Parish and that Thomas Honeysett of Westwell in the said County workhouse guardian is the Father of the said Bastard Child, and that the said Bastard Child is now living, and likely to become chargeable to the said Parish of Westwell…
Morton skimmed over the rest of the legal wording, as he digested what he had just read. Eliza had given birth to a son. And Thomas Honeysett had evidently been released from gaol after serving just one year of hard labour.
With a great eagerness, Morton turned the page. Amelia Odden had given birth to a daughter and also alleged the father to have been Thomas Honeysett. The next page was much the same as the previous two: Lydia Booth had given birth to a boy and accused Thomas Honeysett of being the boy’s father. Morton noted that all three copies bore the exact same date: 20th April 1803. He imagined the three girls, united by their shared experiences in the workhouse, together determined to see Thomas Honeysett put to justice.
Morton needed copies of the entries and of course he glanced through the glass wall to determine what Brenda Buxton was doing; she was looking at him, unflinching. He acknowledged her with a wave then carried the papers to the help desk.
‘Could I get these copied, please?’ he asked a pleasant-looking lady with a round face and short bleached hair.
She smiled. ‘Sure. Have you got more to do here today?’
‘Yes,’ Morton answered, with a nod towards the run of microfilm readers on the other side of the glass. ‘I’ve got some things to do out there.’
‘Okay, well you carry on and I’ll get these copied and you can pick them up at the end.’
‘Thanks,’ he said, heading back to his seat at the microfilm. He pulled the chair back and recoiled slightly. There was a note. Morton, time’s running out. Don’t try anything silly. He quickly scanned the room but could see nobody who looked out of the ordinary. Certainly nobody like the thugs who had been following him of late. He picked up the note. ‘Excuse me, did you happen to see who left this on my chair?’ he called to Brenda Buxton, who was watching him intently.
She shook her head, but still said nothing.
‘Thanks,’ came his sarcastic response, as he screwed the note up, hoping that whoever had delivered it was still watching. He tossed the paper to one side and returned to the task in hand: locating the baptisms for the three girls’ children. He buzzed the film onto 1803 and found them on the same page:
January 12, Richard Winter, baseborn son of Eliza Winter
March 24, Jane Odden, baseborn daughter of Amelia Odden
July 4, Charles Booth, baseborn son of Lydia Booth
Richard Winter, Morton wrote on his notepad, drawing a large circle around the name. What had happened to him? In all of his research so far, there had been no mention of him. Perhaps he had died young? Morton wondered, fixated by what was onscreen.
Seeing the names like that, so casually written by the vicar who had performed the ceremonies, carrying with it
the oblique judgement on their situation, Morton felt a pang of sympathy.
He sat back and looked at the names. If his initial hunch that perhaps Eliza had been murdered by Thomas Honeysett was correct, then surely the other two girls would also have suffered the same fate? He looked at the clock and wondered if he could justify spending time trawling through workhouse and parish registers to determine what had happened to Amelia and Lydia; he reasoned that their lives were so entwined with Eliza’s that it would be irresponsible to not. Plus, there was now a new person to add to Eliza’s family tree: Richard Winter.
The front door resisted as Morton pushed against it and, for a moment, he felt the wrench of anxiety about who or what might be behind it. He recoiled, stepping back as a creep of panic began to set in. Then he caught sight of the edge of an envelope. Several envelopes, in fact. He pushed the door, harder this time, forcing it over the huge stack of post, which Morton was very pleased to see largely comprised the brown A5 envelopes from the General Register Office. It always perplexed him that no matter how large the certificate order, they would always be posted individually.
He wasn’t expecting Juliette home for several hours, so Morton made himself a large cup of coffee—the largest cup that he could find in the cupboard—and carried the certificates upstairs to his study. The afternoon at the Kent History and Library Centre had not been as profitable as the morning had been. He had slowly picked through every workhouse record that existed for the period and checked the Westwell parish registers for traces of the three girls and their families. He had left at closing time, having not finished his work.
Morton set his coffee down on his desk and began to stick his new research onto the wall. Among the key findings this afternoon was the confirmation that Thomas Honeysett, the guardian of the Westwell Workhouse, was definitely the same man who had signed Eliza Lovekin’s indenture. From reading official correspondence to and from the workhouse, Morton had also learned that Eliza had suddenly abandoned Richard one day in 1803, leaving him to the care of the workhouse until he was old enough to fend for himself. Except the day when he could leave the workhouse of his own volition had never occurred: in late 1803, Richard had been removed from the workhouse. The name of the person who had taken him had surprised Morton greatly: it was Richard’s father, Thomas Honeysett.
Staring at the wall in front of him, which now had precious little space available, Morton was convinced that it was indeed Thomas Honeysett who had murdered Eliza. But he had yet to find out what had become of the other two girls to see if they had suffered the same fate. He had found no trace of their marriages or burials in the Westwell registers and he was hoping to have found them on the census or perhaps found a marriage or their deaths during the period of civil registration, but he had run out of time at the archive; and right now there were more pressing problems to deal with.
Morton began sifting through the abundance of certificates that had arrived. Most he had ordered to tie up loose ends and to corroborate his findings, providing a demonstrable lineage for the Lovekin family.
He reached Horace Strickland’s death certificate. He had died on the 21st March 1988 at The Forester’s Arms. The cause of his death was given as: Suicide by taking a large quantity of medication and painkillers whilst of unsound mind. The name and description of the informant was given as Tina Paine, granddaughter of 61 St George’s Road, Hastings.
Whether Morton’s suspicions about the close proximity of Horace’s death to the sale of the America Ground were true or not, there was something not quite right there. What were the chances of his killing himself just two weeks after a valuable tract of land entered the hands of a private real estate management company, for which he possibly held some kind of legal entitlement?
Morton sighed, as he stuck Horace’s death certificate to the wall.
It was now almost eight p.m. and he had just hours until Kevin and his crew would turn up for the original indentures.
Now, what he needed more than anything, was a plan.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The alarm on his iPhone was called Slow Rise. It was anything but that. Morton woke instantly to the annoyingly repetitive beating of a glockenspiel.
‘What’s that set for?’ Juliette groaned from beside him. She leant to her bedside table and squinted at the brightness as she illuminated her own phone. ‘Jesus, it’s four a.m.’
Morton sat up and switched the alarm off. ‘Surprise!’ he mumbled. ‘We’re going away for a couple of nights.’ He turned his bedside lamp on and climbed out of bed.
‘What? What do you mean?’
‘Just that, we’re going to a nice beachfront hotel for a couple of nights. Come on, get up.’
Juliette sighed and lay back down. ‘I don’t understand. I’m working for the next two days.’
‘Not to worry,’ Morton answered, disappearing from the room. He padded upstairs to his study, grabbed the suitcase that he’d packed last night and headed back into the bedroom, switching on the main light as he entered.
Juliette flinched and tugged the duvet up over her face. ‘What’s happening?’ she complained. ‘I don’t want to go away. Where are we even going?’
‘I told you, a lovely hotel. I’ve even got us a balcony overlooking the sea. Come on, get up.’ Morton stripped off his boxer shorts and t-shirt and began to pull on yesterday’s clothes.
‘Where?’ Juliette demanded.
‘You’ll soon see,’ he replied, attempting to sound cheerier than his drained mind and body felt. ‘You can still get to work from there, don’t worry.’
Through the passenger window, Juliette watched as the thin orange crust of the dawning sun broke above the smooth sea. She had been asleep for much of the journey, leaving Morton on the deserted roads alone, deep in thought. His main preoccupation had been with his grand master plan. He’d spent a good deal of time yesterday trying to think of what to do, but all he could come up with was to leave Rye undetected, hopefully buying him a few more hours to solve the case. He had then determined that he would tell Juliette everything and let the police take over.
He was as satisfied as he could be that they hadn’t been followed and he just had to hope that Juliette’s car hadn’t also had a tracker fitted. Despite her protestations, he was glad that she was working today—after all, she couldn’t be in a safer place than in a police station.
They were driving along the A259, which ran the length of Hastings seafront, passing directly over what had once been the America Ground. It was strange for him to think of those thousand people who had once called this area home, going about their daily lives right here. He turned to tell Juliette all about it, but she had gone back to sleep.
He continued a short distance along the seafront then slowed down in front of the White Rock Hotel, at the foot of what had once been called Cuckoo Hill, indicating to pull into their car park.
Juliette flashed awake and shot a disbelieving look at him. ‘Here? Hastings? This is where you’ve brought me for two nights away?’
‘Nice, isn’t it?’ Morton said, drawing into a parking space at the rear of the hotel.
‘Are you actually joking?’ she asked.
Morton shook his head.
‘Why here?’
‘I just wanted to get away, plus I’ve got a ton of research to do in town so I just thought it would be nice to have a couple of nights in a hotel.’
He made more of a meal parking her car than was strictly necessary, so that he could avoid her penetrating gaze as she attempted to work him out. ‘Why didn’t we just stay at your dad’s house, then?’
He turned and gave her an I can’t believe you just said that look.
She sighed. ‘And why’s she coming with us,’ Juliette asked, turning behind her to face Eliza Lovekin’s portrait.
‘She fancied a break, too,’ he quipped.
Juliette rolled her eyes. ‘Come on, then, let’s check in. I might be able to get a bit more sleep before work.’
‘Good morning!’ a cheery young man greeted, leaping to his feet from behind reception. He’d obviously just worked the night shift and was glad to see other human beings. He eyed the painting with interest.
‘Morning,’ Juliette said, stretching and yawning.
‘Someone’s had a long journey,’ the receptionist chirped. ‘Where have you come from?’
‘Rye,’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘Oh, right,’ he replied with a frown. ‘Rye as in-’
‘Twenty minutes up the road, Rye?’ Juliette interjected. ‘Yes, that’s the one.’ She gave a ridiculing look and gestured her hands towards Morton.
The receptionist looked confused. ‘Okay,’ he said, dragging the word out. ‘Well, if I can take a name, please?’
‘Schmidt,’ Morton answered, his cheeks flushing as he spoke. Yesterday it had seemed like a good idea to book under a false name, but now it seemed a little silly and over the top. Juliette, glancing around the lobby, did a sharp double-take and looked at him like he’d gone mad.
‘And you’re paying cash, is that right?’
‘That’s right,’ Morton said, scrabbling in his pockets then handing over the money.
‘Thank you. You’re in room twenty-two, which is a lovely premier first-floor seafront room complete with king-size beds, French windows and Juliet balcony overlooking the sea.’
Morton grinned, taking the key card for the room. ‘You like Juliet balconies, don’t you, Juliette?’