The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Above the din from the engine, Morton could hear the murmurings of the passengers inside the car. From the foggy scraps of disjointed and fragmented memory since he had been rendered unconscious, Morton’s brain pulled on a thread: something to do with the indentures? Then he remembered that in his groggy state, he had given up the address of where he believed the documents to be held. He suddenly felt sick at the thought of what might happen to the poor owner.

  With lightning clarity, Morton realised that if Kevin got his hands on the indentures, then he had completely served his purpose. And he knew what that meant.

  He fumbled around in his pockets. Obviously, his mobile was gone. Either taken by them or left where he had fallen.

  With great difficulty, he propped himself up onto his elbow and began to search the dark space around him, his fingers probing into every corner. He didn’t know what he was looking for—just something that might be usable as a weapon. But there was nothing. The boot was entirely, deliberately empty.

  Morton considered the four men and weighed his chances of being able to fight his way out: somewhere in the region of zero. He had no hope.

  He had an idea. Maybe every time the car stopped—at traffic lights, stop signs and junctions—he could bang, kick and shout as loudly as he could in the hope that someone would hear him. It was a flimsy plan at best, but it was the only one that he could come up with.

  Before he could even think about starting his histrionics, the car lurched to a complete stop, sending him smashing into the back of the boot space, banging his head on the wheel arch. Morton screamed out, cursing their obviously deliberate attempt to cause him further injury.

  He lay prone for several seconds, wondering why the car had not continued. They couldn’t have got far from the church car park, yet. He listened intently but could only hear a mumbled conversation. There was something strange about it, though. It was heightened, agitated.

  Morton pressed his ear to the back of the boot, just as the car was flung into reverse and shot backwards, the sound of spun gravel hitting the wheel arch deafening him, as he was thrown across the confined space with a helpless yelp. What were they doing?

  The car stopped again.

  Morton could hear shouting from outside.

  His head was spinning as he tried to interpret the sounds and shouts seeping into the boot. Had he heard a door open? Running on gravel? More shouting? Another car screeching to a halt?

  A short burst of silence was broken by a loud thud, right above him. Morton flinched. Something had just landed on the outside of the boot lid. Or someone.

  He exhaled dramatically when he caught the words of a beautiful sentence: ‘…You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’

  There was a mumbled grunt of agreement from whomever was pressed to the boot above him.

  Morton hammered on the metal. ‘Help me! I’m trapped inside! Help!’ he cried loudly. ‘It’s Morton Farrier—they’ve taken me prisoner.’ He realized how dramatic he sounded, but the last thing that he wanted was to be mistaken for one of Kevin’s gang. Or worse still, forgotten about entirely.

  ‘Okay, just hold on,’ a voice called. ‘Are you alone in there?’

  ‘Yes!’

  There was a subtle, barely audible click of the boot catch being released, followed by a great blinding light as it was pulled open.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw two faces: the taxi driver—now with added police identification—and Juliette—complete with an incredulous shake of her head. They both offered him a hand and helped him from the boot.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Juliette asked, hugging him. She eyed his head injury and winced. ‘There’s an ambulance on its way.’

  Morton nodded, clinging gratefully to her. ‘Just my head hurts.’

  ‘Come and sit down,’ she ordered, leading him by the hand to a police car that was nose to nose with the BMW.

  Morton looked disbelievingly at the scene that had sprung up around him: an abundance of police personnel—uniformed and in plain clothes—swarmed the car park that, just half an hour ago, had been devoid of life barring a dog walker and a few cars. He now realized that most of those vehicles, including the white van, actually belonged to the police.

  Blocking the entrance of the car park was a police van, into which Morton watched Kevin and his men being bundled.

  ‘Sit there until the ambulance arrives,’ Juliette ordered, directing him to the backseat of the police car.

  Even though he felt fine, Morton knew better than to resist. He looked up at Juliette like a naughty schoolboy. ‘Thanks.’ The words were grossly insufficient. Somehow, she had come to his rescue and he owed her more than a trite, one-word expression of his gratitude.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked. ‘It would have saved a hell of a lot of work and probably would have saved you that nasty gash on your head. We’re supposed to be partners—engaged to be married, remember?’

  ‘I know, sorry,’ Morton replied feebly. ‘They threatened me. And you and your job, so I tried to keep you out of it. What gave it away?’

  Juliette laughed loudly, drawing the attention of some nearby officers. ‘You’ve got to be joking?’

  ‘What?’

  Juliette rolled her eyes and thought for a moment. ‘Right. First of all you had that gash on the side of you neck, which you said was from shaving. You hadn’t shaved that day. Not to mention the size of the cut—what did you shave with—an axe? The fact that you came home wearing a new t-shirt that looked vaguely like the one you had on in the morning made me suspicious—that was when I found your old t-shirt stuffed under your car seat covered in blood.’

  Morton grimaced. ‘Why didn’t you-’

  ‘I haven’t finished,’ she interjected. ‘Then I started to notice that someone, pretty well night and day, was watching our house. Then there was the burglary where all of our valuables were inexplicably left untouched. Next, I found a load of glass all around the lounge and you with a mammoth bruise on the side of your head, with you claiming to have walked into a door. I mean, really? Nobody except toddlers and the elderly walk into doors—that’s why they have handles to open them, Morton.’

  He nodded his understanding, but said nothing, allowing her rant to continue.

  ‘By this time, I know something serious is going on and assume that the reason you’re not telling me is because you feel you can’t. So, I shared my worries with my boss at work and an investigation was started. We found the tracker on your car and placed our own one alongside it to try and find out who these people were.’

  ‘Oh, well I can give you a name, right now,’ Morton said.

  ‘Kevin Addison?’ Juliette responded.

  ‘Yes, how did you…’

  ‘Well, I have my own little white lie. CSI picked up the trace of a print at our house following the burglary. It matched with another burglary years ago, when he was in his twenties. We traced him to a company called Riccards-Maloney, which I also found in your web browser history.’

  Morton blew out a long puff of air. She really was too good for him, in so many ways.

  ‘I did more digging into Riccards-Maloney and the paperwork you’ve got stuck to your study wall and found their connection to the case you’re working on for Madge’s friend—Rabbit? Bunny?—was that her name? Anyway, then you checked us into the hotel under a false name…’

  Morton stared fixedly at her, as she continued her explanation, but his thoughts were trailing off. Madge. Just before he had been chased by Kevin and his men, Morton had been trying to phone Tina Paine but had instead reached Madge. He started to mistrust his memory. It couldn’t have been her. Yet his brain was telling him that the voice sounded like hers. Where was his phone?

  ‘And that pretty well sums it up,’ Juliette finished. ‘So, to answer your question about what gav
e it away: you gave it away.’

  ‘Right,’ Morton said weakly. ‘Do you have my mobile?’

  Juliette shook her head. ‘No—maybe one of them had it,’ she said, nodding towards the police van, which was swinging around clear of an incoming ambulance.

  ‘Here’s the medics,’ Juliette said. ‘Wait here and I’ll bring them over, but I’ve got a feeling you’re headed to hospital for stiches.’

  ‘Great.’

  Sitting on the front terrace of the White Rock Hotel the following morning, overlooking the seafront, Morton swigged down his latest round of painkillers. He was with Juliette, under the giant shade of an overhead awning, having just finished his breakfast.

  ‘How’s the head?’ Juliette enquired, sipping at her glass of coke. After the incident yesterday, she had been given the day off and was making the most of it, revelling in the sunshine. She was wearing a light, sleeveless shirt, tight white jeans and dark sunglasses.

  ‘Better,’ Morton lied. It wasn’t better: it hurt like merry hell. Following a three-hour wait at Accident and Emergency yesterday, Morton was assessed by a doctor, then treated by a sweet Welsh nurse, who laced up his head injury with eight stitches.

  He could have happily stayed here all day long, just watching the world go by, but later he would need to present the Lovekin Case file to Bunny, finished. There was just one thing still to wait for: the hotel’s post.

  ‘What’s going to happen with Kevin and his men, now?’ Morton asked.

  ‘I expect they’ll all serve time. A separate investigation’s been started into the dealings of Riccards-Maloney and their connection to this case, so I expect there’ll be more arrests in due course. Anyway, guess what? I think I’ve found the perfect wedding venue.’

  Inwardly, Morton groaned, wondering at which stately home, mansion or castle she had settled on. His head was definitely not in the right place for wedding discussions. The pain on the outside was only slightly worse than the turmoil on the inside, caused by a blend of the Lovekin Case and his apprehension about visiting Roy Dyche tomorrow.

  She sipped her drink, making him wait.

  ‘Go on, then,’ he encouraged.

  ‘Rye Town Hall,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s small, it’s got the history—dating from 1742—and is registered to hold weddings. Plus it’s within walking distance of our house. And, we can even have the town crier!’

  How well she knew him. He smiled, genuinely. ‘Perfect.’ He leant across and kissed her. ‘You’d better find a date.’

  ‘Saturday the thirteenth of August—are you free?’ she grinned.

  ‘Really? You’ve booked it?’

  Juliette nodded.

  Morton raised his glass. ‘Cheers. To our wedding at Rye Town Hall on the thirteenth August!’

  Their glasses clinked above the table and they drank to their upcoming nuptials.

  As Morton drank his water, he noticed a flash of red in his peripheral vision. He turned to see a small postal van, with its hazard lights blinking, mounting the pavement. The postman jumped out and retrieved a bag from the rear doors.

  ‘Go on, off you go,’ Juliette sighed.

  ‘No, it can wait,’ Morton countered, sitting back and trying to relax.

  ‘No it can’t, just go, she repeated.

  ‘Okay. I won’t be a minute.’

  He planted a kiss on her lips, then made his way through the bar to reception, where he found a young postman in a red t-shirt and black shorts, hauling letters, parcels and packets out of a large grey sack like it was Christmas day.

  ‘That’s the lot,’ he said, turning away and leaving the receptionist with a muddled look on her face.

  ‘Morning,’ she said to Morton, beginning to stow the bigger parcels below the desk. ‘Sorry about all this.’

  ‘That’s why I’m here, actually. I’m a guest—Morton Farrier, room twenty-two—and I was expecting some post this morning.’

  The receptionist grimaced. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m up to my eyes. Could you give me half an hour or so to get it sorted out?’

  Morton mirrored her facial expression. ‘It is rather urgent,’ he persisted. ‘It’s an A5 brown envelope—two of them, actually.’ He detected a slight huff, but she obliged by sifting through the letters until she settled upon two envelopes that matched his description.

  ‘Morton Farrier, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  She handed him the envelopes with a smile. ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thank you very much,’ Morton said appreciatively, as he darted back to his seat outside in the sunshine.

  Sitting opposite Juliette, he took a swig of water then ripped into the envelopes and examined the two certificates.

  ‘Well?’ Juliette asked. ‘Do you know who killed Eliza and why?’

  Morton took a deep breath. ‘I think so, yes.’

  Later that morning, having added the new certificates and their results to his case file, Morton strolled along George Street to Bunny’s Emporium. The air was spiked with the smell of fish and chips and the sound of a chorus of cawing gulls. With his bag slung over his shoulder, under one arm he carried Eliza’s portrait, and in the other hand he carried a thick file: Eliza’s provenance, or life story as Bunny had described it.

  The shop was mercifully empty when he stepped inside, just Bunny with her back to him, bending over and titivating a display of ancient medicine bottles.

  Morton stood in the shop doorway, awaiting her reaction when she saw him.

  ‘Morton Farrier!’ she cried, the very moment she clapped eyes on him. She hurried over and kissed him on each cheek. ‘What on earth have you done to your head?’

  ‘Walked into a door,’ Morton said.

  Bunny seemed to accept the explanation then stepped back, hands on her voluptuous hips, glancing from the file to the portrait. ‘Have you done it? Please tell me you have!’ She was wearing some kind of rainbow-coloured, seersucker all-in-one outfit along with her usual abundance of bangles and neck jewellery.

  Morton nodded.

  ‘And with two days to go until the auction!’ She shook her head in amazement and mimicked raising a hat from her head. ‘Congratulations, sir. Now. Before you delight me with all the deliciousness of your findings, I’ll fetch us a nice peppermint tea. How does that sound?’

  ‘Lovely, thank you,’ he responded.

  Bunny grinned and disappeared through the curtain behind the till.

  It didn’t sound lovely: Morton wanted a moment to examine the flags that were hung on the wall.

  He heard the sound of a kettle boiling as he set the file and portrait down and pulled at the corner of the America Ground flag. It was a very good replica, Morton conceded.

  The sound of Bunny’s mutterings approaching the bead curtain sent Morton scurrying to the stool beside the till.

  ‘Here we go—lovely and fresh,’ she announced.

  ‘Thank you,’ Morton said, placing the Lovekin Case file on the desk between them, his hand guardedly placed on the top.

  ‘Golly, I’m rather nervous,’ Bunny said, with a look of excited anticipation in her eyes.

  Morton opened the file to the first page then turned it to face Bunny. ‘So, I’ll just give you a brief overview of the highlights and leave you to digest the rest of it and the finer detail in your own time.’

  Bunny nodded emphatically and Morton began. ‘This is a copy of Eliza’s baptism in 1786. It’s a bit tricky to read—it’s the highlighted entry.’

  Bunny squinted at the page. ‘Baseborn?’

  ‘Illegitimate—no known father. She was baptised in Westwell and spent her early years in the workhouse there. I can only speculate that her life there wouldn’t have been great.’

  ‘Oh, poor thing,’ Bunny lamented.

  ‘Then, when Eliza was about sixteen years old, new governors were appointed at the workhouse—Mr and Mrs Honeysett,’ Morton said, flipping the page to an article that he had found online about the coup
le’s governorship. ‘Mrs Honeysett died not long after they took over and, from what later transpires, Mr Honeysett was not a very nice man.’

  Bunny shook her head at the news and drew a finger under her left eye.

  ‘He took advantage of his position and three young girls in his care became pregnant by him—Lydia Bloom, Amelia Odden and Eliza Winter.’

  ‘Oh golly,’ Bunny exclaimed, taking a sip of her drink.

  ‘Mr Honeysett then tried to poison the girls in order to induce a miscarriage in each. But,’ Morton said, turning to the newspaper article that he had found about Eliza’s court case, ‘the three of them seem tough little things—this is a court action brought against Mr Honeysett. He lost the case and was sentenced to two years’ hard labour.’

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that,’ Bunny said, looking at the portrait and adding, ‘some justice for you, my dear.’

  ‘This next page shows baptism entries for the three girls’ children,’ Morton said, indicating Eliza’s highlighted entry.

  ‘A boy called Richard,’ Bunny read with interest. ‘So she had a son.’

  ‘And if I can just turn the page again, you will see the Bastardy Bond for all three girls, clearly stating Thomas Honeysett to be the father of their children.’

  ‘Golly—how on earth did you manage to find all this?’ she asked incredulously.

  ‘That’s my job,’ Morton responded, before continuing with his explanation, ‘Then, one day in 1803, Eliza disappeared from the workhouse, leaving her baby son, Richard behind.’

  ‘Really?’ Bunny screeched. ‘Oh dear—things must have been truly awful for her to just up and leave her child behind like that. It doesn’t even bear thinking about.’