The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Oh, I am confused!’ Bunny declared, tossing her hands into the air.

  ‘I think that Richard and Thomas were about to kill Amelia, but then something happened,’ Morton said enigmatically, turning more pages in the file. ‘Have a read of this.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  28th May 1827, Hollington, Sussex

  Richard was cantering to the top of a long and winding road, unduly darkened by the high banks and canopy of old oaks overhead. He had not seen another person for some time now and the last house had been several miles back.

  As he neared the brow of the hill, the ground on either side of him quickly fell and, from his elevated position, Richard caught glimpses of the endless swathes of fields and farmland that continued into the dark obscurity of the horizon.

  A five-bar gate came into view and Richard tightened the reins, pulling Apollo to a stop. Through the nebulous shapes and silhouettes gently dancing in the night wind was a light. Nightingale Cottage. Amelia Odden’s house. The last of the three evil girls who had wrought such immeasurable destruction upon his father.

  Richard dismounted, tied Apollo to the fencepost, then leant on the gate, concentrating on the light. It was now a waiting game—just like when he had killed Eliza. He patted the sheaf knife tucked into his waist. He would have no hesitation in killing her, in completing the job.

  He exhaled slowly, wondering what life would be like after tonight, once the shadow that had been cast over his entire existence was finally lifted. It was impossible to imagine; it was all that he had ever known. His memories had only begun after she had abandoned him in the workhouse, discarded like an unwanted animal. The painted portrait of Eliza that he had seen hanging above the parlour fireplace bore no resemblance to the image of her painted in his mind—an image, he admitted, that had been created by his father’s harsh words.

  His father had wanted to accompany him tonight, to be there when the final chapter closed, but Richard had insisted that he go alone. He was getting too old for all of this. And yet somehow, Richard knew that his father thrived in the knowledge of impending revenge. It had been his sole driver ever since the brutal incarceration that had very nearly killed him.

  And it was all because of her—his mother. She had taken advantage of a man wrapped in the desperation of grief, then, having seen him sentenced, upped and left, never looking back and never wondering if her son were dead or alive. There was not one single bone in his body that felt anything more towards her than a passionate, fervent abhorrence.

  The screech of a distant owl snapped Richard back to the present.

  The light had gone off. It was almost time.

  He waited a few more minutes, giving Amelia time to fall asleep. ‘See you shortly,’ he whispered to Apollo, running the back of his fingers down his soft muzzle.

  Climbing the gate assuredly, Richard stalked across the grassy field towards a low fence that adjoined the rear garden of Nightingale Cottage. He paused and crouched down at the property boundary, taking in the back of the house. It was a small thatched cottage with four windows that faced the back garden—all in darkness. Between the two downstairs windows was a door—his entry point.

  Richard knelt patiently in the grass, the dew quickly seeping into his trousers. He waited, needing to get this right.

  Another thirty minutes passed before he stood and swung his legs over the picket fence and walked quietly to the door.

  Pressing his face to the rain-streaked window, he could just discern the outlines of a sink, table, dresser and an empty hearth. He gently placed his hand on the door latch and lifted. Mercifully, it opened without a sound.

  Richard stepped onto the flagstone floor then closed the door behind him.

  Silence.

  He carefully removed both of his boots, then moved into the room, heading towards an open door that led to a parlour.

  The embers in the hearth were dying but continued to feed the room with warmth and a muted orange glow. Richard quickly took in his surroundings—it was a simple room with modest furnishings. At the far end, he spotted the slim wooden staircase and moved towards it.

  Standing on the first step, Richard withdrew his knife from the sheath and held the handle to his chest like a dagger. Ready.

  Testing his weight under each step, his climb to the top was slow and laborious.

  At the top, he was presented with three doors: two closed and one—the first—open. From that door emanated the gentle, scarcely audible sound of breathing.

  Richard smiled and proceeded to the door.

  There she was, in exactly the same position as Eliza had been, with her back to him and a blanket hauled over her.

  Nice and easy.

  He began to tread slowly inside the room but the floorboards began to groan under his weight.

  He stopped but she didn’t stir.

  He reached the bed and prepared himself, adjusting the knife in his moist hand.

  Stooping down to listen to her breathing in order to gauge the precise position of her body, he realised that something was wrong.

  The body was not moving with the rhythm of her breathing.

  Grim, dismal clarity arrived one second before a sharp, deadly blow smashed into the back of his skull.

  Chapter Thirty

  Morton took a mouthful of the awful drink and allowed his eyes to wander from Bunny back up to the America Ground flag, as he gave her time to read and digest the copies of a report that he had discovered in the FindmyPast newspaper collection this afternoon.

  After a short while, Bunny looked up, clearly startled. ‘Golly,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘It’s unbelievable… She looked down again at the article. ‘Richard Winter, an employee of the Hastings Corporation died from falling from his horse,’ she read, glancing back up to Morton before returning to the article. ‘His friends stated that he had lost his nerve following a previous fall from which he had suffered head injuries. My goodness. His body was found outside Nightingale Cottage, the home of one Amelia Odden, who discovered the body.’ She shot another look at Morton. ‘It is believed that some disturbance caused Mr Winter’s horse and that of his colleague, Mr Honeysett to rear up and cast both men to the ground, with Mr Winter suffering fatal injuries. Mr Honeysett, meanwhile is believed to have suffered heart failure and was dragged several miles by his horse.’ Bunny read on in silence then looked up at Morton, shocked. ‘What a surprising end to Eliza’s story! So, is it a coincidence that they died close to Amelia’s house, then?’

  Morton smiled, being a firm disbeliever in coincidences. ‘I think that Amelia and Eliza were both there that night and somehow, something they did led to the deaths of Thomas and Richard. They then lived out quiet lives at Nightingale Cottage, whilst Harriet and Christopher ran the Black Horse under its new name in Shepherd Street.’

  ‘Well, I must say, I can’t blame them,’ Bunny said, ‘Poor girls, after all they’d been through together.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Morton agreed.

  Bunny picked up the file and looked impressed. ‘This is an absolutely incredible amount of research! There was me expecting a little report and possibly a family tree on my dear Eliza and then you present me with this! Amazing.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the family tree,’ Morton said, pulling a chunky roll of paper from his bag. Removing the elastic band, he began to unravel the large Lovekin tree, topped by Eliza Winter and Joseph Lovekin.

  ‘My goodness!’ Bunny exclaimed. ‘Is that the Lovekin family tree?’

  ‘Yes—seven generations from Eliza and Joseph to the modern day,’ Morton said, catching the look of surprise on Bunny’s face.

  ‘Oh, right. Well, well done you!’ Bunny said. ‘I’ll have a good read through this later on tonight—perhaps over a glass of something stronger than peppermint tea! Thank you so much for all you’ve done—you really are a treasure.’ She closed the file and stood from her stool. ‘I’d better let you get on. Thank you, again for all your efforts.’

  ‘
You haven’t asked me about the indentures, yet,’ Morton said, keenly aware that Bunny’s fidgeting was his cue to depart.

  Bunny smiled. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Worthless, I expect?’

  Morton pulled a dubious look. ‘That would probably be a matter for a court to decide. The solicitor that I showed them to did seem to think that a case against the current owners might be possible if the family could prove exceptional circumstances—perhaps compensation might be due to surviving family who could provide a good file of evidence’—Morton indicated to the folder between them—‘like that one.’

  Bunny shifted uncomfortably. ‘Are you saying that all this is more valuable to a descendant rather than a sale at auction?’ Bunny asked. ‘How utterly wonderful-’

  ‘Yes, but the indentures you found in the back of the portrait were fakes—the originals would be needed and they’re in the hands of one of these descendants,’ he said, pointing to the family tree. He squinted momentarily and located a name at the bottom of the piece of paper. ‘This person, to be precise. Tina Strickland.’

  ‘Oh, right,’ Bunny chirped.

  ‘Or Tina Paine, as she became after her first marriage. Or Tina Llewellyn as she became after her second marriage.’ Morton glanced up to the Old Town Independent Retailer of the Year 2014 award behind the till, presented to Bunny Llewellyn. ‘Or Bunny Llewellyn, as she’s known.’

  He watched as the blood drained from her face and she slumped back in her chair.

  ‘There is no auction, is there?’ he probed.

  Bunny shook her head.

  ‘You just wanted that,’ he said, tapping the file. ‘When your grandfather died, you inherited his belongings, including that flag above you, which I don’t believe to be a replica at all—it’s the original, isn’t it?’ A pathetic nod from Bunny, and Morton continued. ‘You also inherited the indentures, which your grandfather had copied in his pursuit of trying to get back what he perceived belonged to your family. But he died just a short time after the land was taken over by a private company. Then the old building that was once the Black Horse then The Forester’s Arms passed to your dad, who lived there until he died last year. Well, Bunny—you’ve got everything you need now: the original lease and release, a well-documented family tree and plenty of exceptional circumstances.’

  Finally, she met his disapproving gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, Morton—really I am. I know you must think me a truly wicked person.’

  ‘No, I just don’t understand. Why did you wait all this time? You could have found a genealogist to pursue this for you back in 1988—why wait until now?’

  Bunny took a moment to answer. ‘My dad found the original indentures hidden in my grandpa’s greenhouse just before Grandpa died, and said he’d done what should have been done a hundred years ago and burnt them. When my dad died last year, I found that he hadn’t destroyed them at all—he’d stashed them in the back of Eliza’s portrait.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just commission me to investigate it? And under your real name, not some made-up name.’

  Bunny shot a dark look at him. ‘It was my nickname from my grandpa, not some made-up name. And I didn’t ask you to investigate it because…’

  ‘Because you feared that what happened to your grandfather could happen to you—that they’d come after you. Cheers,’ Morton said with a sardonic grin, gently touching the stiches on the side of his head.

  ‘Now what?’ Bunny asked.

  Morton shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. My job’s done and I’ll be invoicing you shortly. What you do with all that research is down to you,’ he said, standing from the stool. He began to walk towards the door but stopped and turned. ‘My advice, for what it’s worth, would be to hang the portrait and the family tree proudly in your home and to hand the indentures over to East Sussex Archives. Oh, and I would go and see your siblings—none of them are quite as fortunate as you.’

  Morton continued out of the door and stepped into the late afternoon sunshine with a smile on his face. Within seconds he was absorbed into the bustling crowds of George Street.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  28th May 1827, Hollington, Sussex

  Eliza Lovekin stood over Richard, the copper warming pan that she had inherited from her mother held aloft, poised and ready to strike again. Her heart was thundering so much that it hurt her chest and her breathing was fast and fitful.

  For almost four weeks, she and Amelia had been constantly on their guard. Watching. Waiting. Knowing that he would come. Not once in that time had she set foot out of the house, lest she be discovered. Poor Ann Woods, her dear friend from the America Ground had unwittingly paid the ultimate price for Eliza, going to the grave under a false name with nobody to lament her loss. But Eliza would remember her sacrifice. Always.

  She looked down at Richard and her hands began to quiver. She tapped him lightly with her foot.

  He didn’t stir.

  ‘You can be coming out now,’ Eliza whispered, her voice cracking.

  From under the bed shimmied Amelia Odden, herself shaking and petrified. She pushed herself to the outside wall, keeping well clear of Richard’s lifeless body.

  ‘Is he dead?’ Amelia murmured.

  ‘I don’t be a-knowing,’ Eliza said breathlessly.

  Amelia crouched down and tentatively placed the side of her head on his chest. She nodded then burst into tears.

  Eliza sighed deeply. She had done it. Taken away the life that she had given to her firstborn child.

  She knelt at his side and wept uncontrollably, as a myriad of emotions pierced and punctured her thoughts. Simultaneously, her terrible childhood memories clashed with the recollection of the death of her mother, the happy arrival of the Honeysetts at the workhouse and the promise of a future at last. The horror of Mr Honeysett, drunk and heavy, pressing down onto her naked body bolted into her mind, followed by the bitter taste of savin, the drug that he had administered. Then, she recalled the shame and a flicker of the court case. The pain of giving birth and the greater pain of holding a child that she had created, yet for which she felt nothing. Of meeting Joe. Of delivering three perfect daughters, whom she loved immeasurably. Lydia’s death. Joe’s death. Seeing Richard as an adult.

  Killing him.

  She consciously began pushing the past back into the recesses of her thoughts and clearing her vision. It had to have been done. When she had arrived at Nightingale Cottage and warned Amelia of Thomas and Richard’s plans for revenge, the two had discussed at length their course of action. Amelia had wanted to flee, to start over somewhere else but she knew—they both knew—that they would spend the rest of their lives wondering when the two men might appear.

  ‘Come on,’ Eliza said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. She picked up Richard’s hands and began dragging him towards the door.

  Amelia hastily stood and instinctively grabbed his legs and together they lugged his body from the room and down the stairs into the parlour.

  ‘Stop,’ Eliza said breathlessly, setting him down. ‘Fegs, he be heavy.’ She crept to the door and guardedly pulled it open. A cold breeze blew in around her as she gaped out into the night. Nothing stirred. ‘Let’s be moving.’

  They returned to their positions at either end of Richard’s body and carried him through the door and down the garden path.

  ‘Here,’ Eliza murmured, setting down his arms. She heard the sound of an animal snorting nearby and guessed it to be Richard’s horse. Walking quickly, she found it tied to the gatepost and began to unfasten the tethering.

  ‘What are you doing?’ a deep male voice wheezed, seeming to reverberate in the trees so that the whole of Sussex could hear.

  Eliza jolted, dropping the reins and suddenly losing her composure as she whipped around to be faced with a man on horseback. She strained her eyes and knew it was him—Mr Honeysett.

  Her own shock at seeing him was nothing compared to the look of total surprise and disbelief etched on his face to see her alive.

  �
��What? I don’t…’ he began, his raspy voice faltering to an incomprehensible murmur. ‘Where’s Richard?’ he demanded, kicking the horse into action. ‘Richard! Richard!’

  Eliza hurried the short distance back towards Nightingale Cottage, close behind the horse.

  ‘What have you done?’ Mr Honeysett shouted, when he was almost upon his son’s lifeless body.

  ‘What he be deserving,’ Eliza said calmly, despite crumbling on the inside. Their plan to make Richard’s death look like he had fallen from his horse had failed. She tried to wade through her sludgy thoughts to think of what to do next, but she just couldn’t.

  ‘You two wicked, wicked girls,’ he screamed. ‘Richard!’

  Eliza watched as his hands rose dramatically to his chest, his face contorted in agony. He began to dismount, yelping in pain as he swung one leg over the horse’s back.

  A bolt of pain seemed to strike his entire body and he twitched, losing his grip on the saddle. He tumbled backwards, his left foot twisting in the stirrup, and smashed into the side of the horse then to the ground.

  ‘Help me!’ he croaked, moments before the horse jumped, reared up then began to gallop up the hill, dragging him behind.

  The deathly sound of his tortured wail, fading off into the distance rang noisily through Eliza’s ears, as she stood dumbstruck, fixed to the spot.

  Eerie silence returned.

  ‘Oh my Lord,’ Amelia mumbled. ‘What ever do we be doing now, Eliza?’

  It took Eliza several seconds to compose herself and gather her thoughts. Finally, she spoke.

  ‘We be doing what we said already—in the morning, if he ain’t found before, you be pretending to have found him and fetch help. Right?’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Yes,’ she answered breathlessly. ‘Let’s be going inside and I be fixing us a nice hussler-and-squencher to steady the nerves.’

  ‘Go ahead, I be right there,’ Eliza replied. The idea of a pot of beer with a shot of gin was exactly what she needed right now.