Morton pulled up on the drive of the Greenwood’s smart detached bungalow in an exclusive cul-de-sac and stepped from the car clutching his bag.
‘Morton!’ came a shrill voice that he instantly recognized as belonging to Jenny Greenwood. She was standing at the front door with a large smile on her face and an even larger glass of red wine in her hand. She seemed to have lost a lot of weight since he had last seen her and had added some blonde highlights to her previously white curly hair.
‘Hello, Jenny,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Lovely to see you—you’re looking well.’
‘Thank you, and so are you. Come in,’ she said, standing back and allowing him to enter. ‘Jon’s in the conservatory reading the Express and being a pompous retired solicitor putting the world to rights.’
Morton followed her through a hallway that opened out into a large lounge, whose walls were adorned with paintings and family photographs. Open French doors fed into a bright conservatory, where he spotted Jonathan Greenwood seated at a table sipping wine.
‘Jon, this is the one and only Morton Farrier,’ Jenny announced somewhat theatrically.
Jonathan stood and offered his hand to Morton, who gave Jenny a look of mock incredulity then shook the extended hand. ‘Jonathan Greenwood,’ he said, in a deep throaty voice. ‘Nice to meet you at last. Take a seat.’
‘Would you like something to drink, Morton?’ Jenny asked. ‘Small red?’
‘Oh, go on, then,’ Morton grinned, taking a seat opposite Jonathan.
‘So,’ he began. ‘You’re the reason my wife’s on the verge of a major court case to syphon off some rich bugger’s fortune, are you?’
Morton looked across the table into his grey eyes but couldn’t determine from his intonation how he had meant the comment. ‘Well, I helped a bit, but it was her own work, really,’ Morton answered diplomatically.
Jonathan grinned, revealing a set of perfect white teeth. He certainly looked the part of a retired solicitor with his open-necked pink shirt, cream chinos and short silvery hair. ‘Thank you—it’s been a great help. Never mind the money we might one day get from the Mansfields – he raised his voice – ‘the main thing is that it’s got her out of the house doing her research trips and what have you.’
‘Hey!’ Jenny called from the kitchen.
Jonathan’s face lost its playfulness as he faced Morton. ‘So, your answerphone message mentioned an indenture of some kind that you want me to take a look at?’
‘Yes, please—if you don’t mind. I’ve read it through a dozen times and I understand the basics, but I can’t help feeling I’m missing something,’ Morton said, as he withdrew the vellums from his bag and passed them across the table.
Jonathan put on a pair of glasses that he removed from his shirt pocket and began to pore over the two documents.
Morton watched in silence as the retired solicitor’s eyebrows twitched and dived in response to what he was reading. At various intervals he reached out for his wine and, without taking his eyes off the indenture, took a sip, then set it back down again.
‘Here you go,’ Jenny said, handing Morton a glass of wine.
‘Thank you. Cheers,’ Morton said, taking a sip, all the while watching Jonathan as he continued to study the indentures. It seemed to take an age for him to reach the end and, when finally he did, he returned to a previous section and traced his fingers along something that had interested him.
At last, he placed his glasses on the table and looked at Morton. ‘Very interesting copy,’ he said with a nod. ‘What is it that you wanted to know? I mean, it’s a fairly straightforward lease and release: the most popular and widespread method of recording the sale of property or land from the seventeenth century up until about 1845.’
‘Is it normal?’ Morton queried, simply. ‘The woman who was granted the land, Eliza Lovekin, was the only person issued with any freehold rights on the America Ground—everyone else was issued with a seven year lease then no more were issued and the land was cleared.’
Jonathan frowned and nodded, as he glanced down at the indentures. ‘They are normal, yes. It’s only the context that you’ve just described which sounds abnormal.’
‘What about the price she paid, though?’ Morton questioned. ‘This is a family with little money—and she paid five pounds and three shillings for a sizeable parcel of land? That sounds cheap to me.’
Jonathan pulled a face that suggested his disagreement. ‘It could be cheap, yes, but it all depends on the circumstances. A flat in Mayfair today will set you back a few million quid but the same flat in Brixton will only set you back a couple of hundred thousand; it’s all context driven.’
Morton murmured his agreement, but still couldn’t quite get why Eliza was the only person to receive a freehold parcel of land and at such a cheap price. That was, perhaps, a question which might never be answered, but he had another burning enquiry with which he hoped Jonathan could help him. ‘One week after she signed that lease, Eliza was murdered.’
‘Oh my goodness,’ Jenny interrupted. ‘How awful.’
‘And I’m wondering if it’s a coincidence. If she had been murdered and the indentures lost or stolen, would someone else have the rights to the land?’
Jonathan drew in a long breath, exhaled loudly then sipped at his wine. ‘Did she have a husband or children?’
‘Her husband had died just before her but she had three surviving daughters.’
‘With the original indentures, then they could have inherited the land, yes.’
‘And what if the girls were unaware that their mother owned the land?’ Morton ventured, proposing a theory that had been brewing in his mind. ‘What if the person who murdered Eliza also stole the rights to the land?’
‘It doesn’t work like that,’ Jonathan answered. ‘The person who stole the rights wouldn’t have a legal entitlement to them—that’s why I asked about a husband or children.’
‘Okay,’ Morton replied, his theory suddenly dismantled before his eyes. ‘Right, so if only her descendants are entitled, would someone alive today, who could prove descent, be able to claim the land back?’
Jonathan laughed and tossed back his head. ‘Now there’s a bloody complicated question! Christ!’
‘But what’s the answer?’ Jenny pleaded. ‘Come on!’
Jonathan ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’d need to look into it more. The problem is that most claims are covered by the Limitation Act of 1980, which would mean that a claimant would have long lost their right to bring an action in most cases, unless exceptional circumstances can be proven.’
‘It’s all about the circumstances,’ Jenny chipped in.
‘But you don’t think it’s impossible?’ Morton ventured.
‘No, it’s not impossible,’ Jonathan replied, standing and reaching for the indentures. ‘Let me take a copy of it and I’ll do some digging for you—is that okay?’
‘Yes, please—that would be great,’ Morton said.
Jonathan carefully scooped up the documents and disappeared from the room.
With an uncertain look on her face, Jenny asked, ‘Are you going to try and trace Eliza’s descendants, then?’
‘Well, it’s not really within my remit, but the woman who has commissioned the research owns a painting of Eliza, which she plans to sell at an auction. I’m now wondering, though, if the item of value is not the painting at all, but the indentures.’ Morton shrugged. ‘At this stage, it’s more about digging into the reasons why she was murdered; the rights to the land are just one possible motive.’
‘Well, it’ll give him something to get his teeth into; I don’t think he’s really one for retirement after all. For years we talked about travelling the world when we’d retired, but with all my dealings with the Mansfield claim we’ve only managed three rainy nights in Bognor so far!’ she chuckled. ‘Bognor, I ask you.’
Jonathan returned and handed Morton back the documents. ‘I’ll see what I can come up with
, but no promises.’
‘That’s brilliant—thank you very much,’ Morton said, taking a last swig of wine. ‘Well, I’d better be getting back before I get into trouble at home. It was lovely to see you again, Jenny, and nice to meet you, Jonathan.’
‘You too,’ Jonathan replied.
‘Give me a shout if you need any assistance,’ Jenny said with a smile.
‘I will do.’
The three of them stood and made their way to the front door.
‘Cheerio,’ Jonathan said, shaking Morton’s hand.
‘Goodbye,’ Morton answered, pecking Jenny on the cheek, then making his way to his car. With a final wave, he pulled off the drive and headed out of the cul-de-sac, swerving around an inconveniently parked black Range Rover.
From the blaring of the television, Morton ascertained that Juliette was in the lounge. He ambled in expecting to see her curled up in her tracksuit or pyjamas catching up on one of her soap operas. What he saw instead alarmed him greatly. She was wearing one of her best (or was it the best?) black dresses and a ton of make-up. It was very un-Juliette and he was very suspicious. Had he forgotten something? Was it their anniversary? Or her birthday? He racked his brains but couldn’t come up with anything.
‘Why are you all dolled up?’ he asked, fearing the answer.
‘Hello to you, too, darling fiancé,’ she quipped, turning off the television and standing to greet him. She planted a lingering kiss on his lips.
‘Sorry—hello, darling fiancée,’ he said. ‘You look lovely.’
Juliette curtseyed. ‘Why, thank you.’
‘Have I perhaps forgotten something?’ Morton questioned uncertainly. ‘A special occasion?’
Juliette giggled. ‘Your face, Morton—it’s a picture. No, you haven’t forgotten anything. I like the way that when I get dressed up, it has to be because of a special occasion.’
‘In fairness, it usually is.’
‘Yeah, true. Anyway, I’ve booked us a table at Simply Italian. You’ve got fifteen minutes to make yourself look presentable.’
‘Have you ordered a taxi?’ Morton called, making his way up the stairs.
‘Ha ha—I’m sure even you can stagger that far home. Now hurry up.’
It took Morton fewer than five minutes to get ready and it took him and Juliette an even shorter time to walk to the restaurant, its being situated at the bottom of their street.
The restaurant—bedecked with exposed bricks and beams with a wine-bottle candle flickering on each table—had a cosy, romantic atmosphere. A handsome Italian waiter seated them at a table in the middle of the busy restaurant.
Morton ordered a bottle of house red, then asked Juliette how her day had been.
‘Usual,’ she replied, before realising from Morton’s face that her answer was a little brief. ‘Grade-one call to a house where a woman was reportedly screaming, but turned out to be a false alarm—baby crying. Then we got a call about a body floating in the sea, which turned out to be a Royal National Lifeboat Institution dummy. Then an old woman parked right across a zebra crossing. Then a domestic fight. Then a diamond ring stolen from a jewellers…’ she paused and looked into the air, as if seeking a celestial reminder. ‘Think that was it for today.’
‘Usual,’ Morton said sarcastically.
‘How about your day?’ she asked, as the waiter returned and poured the wine.
‘Not quite as exciting as yours,’ Morton said, before recounting the basics of his day.
‘So this Lovekin Case isn’t so dull after all, is it?’ Juliette said.
‘No, I suppose not. It’s keeping me occupied for the moment,’ he answered, knowing that he would happily hand everything over to Bunny right now if something—anything—came back from Roy Dyche.
‘Anyway, cheers—to you and me,’ Juliette proposed, raising her glass.
‘To you and me.’ He chinked her glass then added, ‘Am I missing some kind of anniversary?’
‘No!’ Juliette insisted.
Morton narrowed his eyes disbelievingly.
‘But…’ Juliette began, reaching down to her bag. ‘Whilst we’re here, we could discuss some things...’
Then it all fell into place for him: he had been shepherded into a confined space where he had no means of escape to discuss the wedding. ‘Do we have to do this, tonight?’ he said sulkily. ‘I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Yes, we do. Morton, do you realise that you proposed to me last Christmas and we’ve barely had a conversation about it since?’
‘Can I take your order please?’ the waiter asked, suddenly appearing at their table.
‘Rigatoni al Pasticcio, please,’ Juliette ordered, in her best attempt at an Italian accent.
‘And for you, sir?’
‘I’ll have the penne cacciatore, please,’ Morton said, making no effort whatsoever to sound Italian.
‘Lovely,’ the waiter enthused and flitted off towards the kitchens.
Morton took a gulp of wine and looked at Juliette. Her eyes were filled with exasperation. The stupid thing was, he actually wanted to talk about the wedding. He wanted to agree on a date and a venue, then happily become a nodding dog to the finer details of flower arrangements, bridesmaids and culinary choices. But something was holding him back.
Juliette exhaled. ‘Is it that your dad’s getting married—is that it?’
Morton nodded and looked her in the eyes. ‘Yes,’ he mumbled.
‘What is it about their wedding that bothers you so much?’
‘Everything,’ he mumbled vaguely.
‘But what?’ Juliette demanded, then laid her hand onto his. ‘Be specific—I can’t help if I don’t understand the problem.’
‘It’s my problem—not yours.’ He withdrew his hand from under hers and then instantly regretted it, when he saw the look of hurt in her eyes.
Several minutes of uncomfortable silence ensued, with both Morton and Juliette gazing around the restaurant, avoiding eye contact with each other.
Finally, Juliette took a long breath in and sat up sharply. Quietly, almost inaudibly she said, ‘Did you ever actually want to get married, or did you propose to shut me up, thinking we’d be one of those couples who are forever engaged and never get around to marrying?’
Morton shook his head. ‘No, that’s not true at all. I do want to marry you…’
‘But?’
‘There are no buts,’ Morton insisted, taking a large gulp of wine. ‘I just don’t want to discuss it tonight, is all.’
After another block of awkwardness, the waiter returned. ‘Penne cacciatore, sir,’ he announced, appearing at the side of the table and setting Morton’s food down in front of him. ‘And Rigatoni al Pasticcio, madam. Enjoy your meals.’
After muttering their gratitude, the pair began to half-heartedly pick at their food, neither seemed to have an appetite any longer.
For the second time that day, Morton was aware that others around him were staring at him; this time it was for the frostiness that clung to him, like an insidious fog.
With her meal only half-eaten, Juliette set down her knife and fork.
‘Shall I pay?’ Morton asked.
Juliette nodded and pulled on her coat.
‘Was there something wrong with your meal?’ the waiter asked, as he took Morton’s credit card.
‘No, it was lovely, thank you; we’re just not very hungry at the moment. Sorry.’
The silence that had dominated their meal followed them out of the restaurant and up the cobbles of Mermaid Street. They were within a few feet of their home when Juliette finally spoke.
‘Oh God,’ she uttered, standing still.
Morton stopped and followed her line of vision. ‘Shit.’
The second front door—the one which was not used—was wide open. Definitely not how they had left it.
Cautiously, the pair walked up the steps. Juliette entered the house first and switched on the hall light. ‘We’ve been burgled.’
Chapter Ten
The burglars had taken nothing, that was what Morton and Juliette had told the police last night when they had arrived home from an awful evening out and discovered that their house had been turned upside down. More specifically, Morton’s study had been turned upside down; the rest of the house was largely unaffected. The television, laptops, cameras, jewellery and cash—all left untouched.
‘Maybe they were disturbed,’ Steve, one of the police officers, had suggested at the sight of all the valuables having been left.
‘Disturbed in the mind,’ Morton had mumbled.
‘Looks like they got in through that other front door,’ Steve had added. ‘You might want to consider bricking it up.’
Morton had looked at him incredulously and realised that he was actually being serious. ‘Yeah, maybe we’ll get both front doors bricked up while we’re there,’ he had responded sarcastically.
Steve had nodded and continued with his investigation. Then a young woman from CSI had turned up and Morton and Juliette had been asked to wait outside.
‘But nothing was taken,’ Morton had said.
‘Burglary is entering with the intent to steal or commit other offences,’ Juliette had clarified, as she pulled on her coat. ‘Besides which, we still want to catch them, whether they took anything or not.’
‘Maybe they didn’t find what they were looking for,’ Steve had warned ominously.
‘Come on, let’s get a drink from the Mermaid, while they get on in here,’ Juliette had suggested.
Just before midnight the police and CSI had wrapped up their investigations, leaving Morton and Juliette to begin the tidy-up operation.
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4) Page 12
