18th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
Whilst her sisters were in the kitchen washing themselves, Harriet, Christopher and her mother ate breakfast at the table in the chilly parlour. Harriet had got her way: she was now able to sit at the table and eat with her mother and not with her sisters, but that privilege had come at a terrible price. She would give anything for that privilege to be unearned if it might have changed her father’s destiny. The haze of despondency that had fallen onto the house after her father’s death pervaded into every corner. It was as if the house itself was in mourning for Joseph Lovekin. The fires were seldom lit and the shutters rarely opened; the house had taken on the atmosphere of a subterranean crypt.
She nibbled her bread and cheese spiritlessly. She glanced up at Christopher, who offered her a half-smile. His foot touched hers reassuringly.
It had been over two weeks since Christopher had kissed her. The act itself had taken her by surprise, yet what had shocked her most about the incident were the unfamiliar feelings of yearning and pleasure that seemed to oscillate somewhere deep inside her—in a place that she hadn’t even known existed. But those feelings were manifestly tied to shame and guilt; her father—her father’s body to be precise—had been just a few feet away when they had shared their moment of intimacy. The certainty that she shouldn’t be feeling anything other than deep and utter sadness had meant that the kiss had not been repeated and those inexplicable flutterings inside her had been fiercely repressed. The following day, during a moment of quietness, Christopher had taken her hands in his and leant in for a kiss, but she had backed away.
‘Is it all because of him?’ Christopher had asked.
Harriet had known to whom he referred but had acted bewildered. ‘Who?’
‘Your friend from the corporation.’
‘No,’ Harriet had asserted, ‘and he don’t be no friend of mine, neither.’
Christopher had gone to leave but had stopped himself and turned back. ‘Do you be knowing that he went into Mr and Mrs Wood’s cottage during the storm? He were warned not to, but he insisted.’
Harriet had been startled by this news, yet she wasn’t sure why. Richard had told her that he was going to see if his help were required. Yet why hadn’t he returned? Or told her that he had tried to save her father?
‘Don’t that be striking you as odd, after what he were trying to do that other night, when he came with the constables?’ Christopher had asked.
She had shaken her head and watched Christopher march from the house incredulously, but the truth was that she did find it very odd.
Harriet reluctantly took another bite of bread and cheese. The sounds of the three of them chewing and swallowing, seemingly magnified in the still air, irritated her. Christopher absolved himself of the uncomfortable atmosphere by feigning to be absorbed by the food in front of him and her mother had that same vacant expression that had beset her face since the funeral and that had only worsened still since the inquest.
As good as alone in the room, her thoughts returned to yesterday’s visit to the Town Hall. She had gone ostensibly with the intention of seeking Richard’s assistance with the inquiry, but her true motive had been to determine her feelings for him. There was a connection between them, but she couldn’t work out what it was. One thing she was certain of, it felt different to the warm, comfortable feeling she felt about Christopher.
Determined to find out, Harriet had arrived at the Town Hall yesterday just as he was leaving. She had called out but he hadn’t heard her, so she had followed him. It was slightly thrilling to her, to be trailing him along the High Street, ducking into shop doorways or angling herself behind folk headed in the same direction. But there had been no need for such discretion—he had not turned around once and the journey had been short, ending quickly in a shocking bitter disappointment. That Richard had visited her father’s grave had baffled her as she had peered around the corner of the church at him. Her sense of disbelief had sharply switched to anger when she had witnessed the clear look of contempt and revulsion on his face. He had taken her for a fool all along. She had rushed inside the church vestibule and watched, sobbing as he had casually stridden back past her towards the Town Hall. Having overcome her initial desire to return home defeated, she had decided to confront him.
‘What be the matter?’ Christopher whispered, jolting her back to the present.
Harriet glanced at her mother, not wishing to add to her worries, but she was quite oblivious, nibbling perfunctorily on her bread. ‘There don’t be anything wrong, Christopher,’ she answered quietly. She smiled weakly but could see that he had not believed her.
A knock at the door reverberated noisily around the room and seemed to shake the life back into Eliza.
Harriet stood and opened the door.
‘One day! One day!’ came Mrs Woods’s shrill voice, as she stepped inside the house. She too was attired in full mourning clothes.
‘What be one day?’ Eliza questioned her friend.
‘One day were all it took for those chuckle-headed jurymen and those bettermost commissioners to be deciding. One day!’
The half-eaten bread in Eliza’s shaky fingers fell to her plate, as she rose up from her chair. ‘And what be the verdict?’ she asked.
Mrs Woods’s eyes fell to the floor. ‘The Crown. Everything under our feet—it all be belonging to King George. We’ve no right to live here.’
‘But what about this place, and the Black Horse?’ Harriet demanded.
Mrs Woods shrugged. ‘It be the king’s. And do you know, they be issuing leases for us to rent for seven years then the whole America Ground will be cleared. What use do seven-year leases be? Where do us Americans be going?’
‘Can we be appealing it?’ Christopher asked, glancing between Eliza and Mrs Woods.
Mrs Woods shook her head. ‘No appeals. It be done. Us Americans are done. Hardly seems any point in me moving in here,’ she muttered.
‘You don’t be having to,’ Eliza said.
Mrs Woods softened and offered a half-smile. ‘I be staying—it’s kind of you to give up your home. Thank you.’
Eliza smiled, sank into her chair and reverted back into her trance as Mrs Woods stepped from the house.
‘What about that Richard from the corporation—can he be a-helping?’ Harriet said to her mother, already knowing the answer.
‘Richard?’ her mother spat. ‘What do you be a-knowing about him?’ she suddenly reached across the table and grabbed at Harriet’s chin. ‘Be telling me, Hattie—what do you know about Richard?’
‘Nothing—just that he be working for the corporation is all,’ Harriet sobbed.
Eliza released her grip. ‘That man be evil and you need to keep well clear of him—do you hear?’
Harriet nodded. She recalled the physical violence that had terrified her at his office and the brutal, demonic look that had burned in his eyes.
Worse, though, had been his words.
Harriet walked calmly along the beach, clutching the American flag. Her previous immaturity and naivety had fallen away like a discarded shell and she saw her misguided infatuation with Richard as though it were someone else—some inane foolish friend.
She breathed deeply, hoping that what she was about to do would help the America Ground to heal and offer some hope to the Americans.
She took only a cursory glance at the shattered remains of the cottages destroyed by the storms. What little hadn’t been wrecked and consumed by the wind and sea had been gradually purloined and reused by the America Ground carpenters, bricklayers and stonemasons.
Harriet had reached her destination: William Vine’s workshop. It was a small stone cottage, the top floor serving as his home and the ground floor, along with the large yard at the rear, as his business. The door was open and she found William, sweating profusely in dirty brown clothes, sawing through a fat tree trunk.
‘Mr Vine,’ Harriet greeted.
William stopped cuttin
g and nodded warily. ‘What is it?’
Harriet smiled and unfurled the America Ground flag. ‘I found this, among the ruins from the storms and be wondering if you could-’
‘No, I can’t be doing nothing,’ William interrupted. ‘Now be letting me work.’ With his back turned to her, he walked back inside the workshop.
‘But, Mr Vine—I be thinking it’s what the America Ground be needing,’ Harriet persisted, following him inside.
William faced her angrily. ‘What we all be a-needing is a decent horse and cart to get out of here. Look around you, Miss Lovekin: everyone be packing up and leaving. The America Ground be finished.’
Harriet hurriedly backed out of the workshop.
‘Burn your stupid bloody flag!’ William shouted after her.
She hurried from the place, determined not to cry, running as fast as she could up Cuckoo Hill. It was the one place that offered her peace and solitude. She sank down into the long grass and looked at the flag. Was it really all over?
Then she turned and the entirety of the America Ground drew into focus. People—dozens of people were loading up carts preparing to leave.
Some were even taking their homes apart.
Chapter Seventeen
Morton was fixed to the spot in the lounge doorway, not understanding why Kevin had made a sudden return. This wasn’t the agreement. From his twitchy body language and incensed eyes, Morton could tell that something had changed. Was it just that he’d slipped the white Range Rover earlier in the day? Surely not.
Without warning, Kevin smashed the photograph of Juliette at the wall, sending glass splinters all around the room. He stood up and practically ran towards Morton, giving him no time to think. His fat hands crushed into Morton’s throat and slammed him backwards into the door.
Morton yelped, but no noise came out owing to the pressure on his larynx.
Kevin maintained his grip and Morton’s face reddened until it was an unnatural shade of purple.
Morton was running out of oxygen. His weak acquiescence had to end now. He began to thrash about and managed a sharp kick into Kevin’s left shin, followed by a knee to the groin.
It worked. Kevin released his grip and tumbled backwards.
Morton faced an instantaneous decision about what to do next. Dismissing the idea of grabbing something with which to defend himself, he opted instead to try and escape.
He ran into the kitchen towards the backdoor, aware that he had only seconds to get it open and to get out.
He reached the door and, as his hand began to turn the key, something smashed into the side of his head, knocking him to the floor.
Flittering darkness.
Then a sudden bright light.
His head throbbed painfully as he tried to open his eyes.
More darkness.
He was moving. Being hauled to his feet.
Dragged.
Flickering light and he opened his eyes.
He was sitting in the lounge. His assailant was sitting beside him.
The last few minutes, condensed neatly into a split-second clip, zapped into his mind and everything became clear.
‘What do you want?’ Morton stammered.
‘I honestly thought I’d made myself understood that you weren’t to tell anyone anything or there would be consequences.’
‘I didn’t tell anyone,’ Morton said, wincing from the pain in his head.
Kevin laughed. ‘The thing I don’t know now is whether to cut my losses where you’re concerned. By telling people, you’ve left me in quite a quandary.’
‘I swear, I haven’t told a soul. Why are you saying this? You know I haven’t—I’ve had one of your goons on my tail all bloody day long.’
‘Yes, exactly—you park your car, then skip merrily off to the library with one of the goons in tow. Then, whilst you’re out the way, one of your blokes tampers with the tracker on your car. Clever, but not that clever since we found out.’
Morton was unsurprised to learn that he had a tracker planted on his car. What he didn’t understand was who the ‘bloke’ was interfering with it this morning. It made no sense. ‘Look, I haven’t got any blokes. I haven’t told anyone. What did this man do to the tracker then?’
Kevin stretched out, ignoring Morton’s question. He blew out a puff of air. ‘It’s my inclination to remove you from this problem.’
‘Please,’ Morton begged. ‘I can find the original indentures—I’ve made good progress today in the library. Plus I’ve got a solicitor working on them. Please.’
‘This solicitor—how much does he know?’
‘Just the bare bones of the case, nothing else,’ Morton insisted.
A sound from the hallway made Morton leap up. Keys in the front door.
‘It’s Juliette,’ he whispered. ‘If she finds you here it’s over. Please, she doesn’t know. Let me finish the job.’
Kevin stood up. ‘Three days.’
‘Go through the back door in the kitchen. Quickly,’ Morton urged.
The front door opened and Juliette stepped inside, just as the man’s shadow fleeted past.
‘Hiya,’ Morton said, kissing her on the lips.
‘You alright?’ she asked, removing her boots.
Morton heard the click of the backdoor closing and prayed that she hadn’t detected it. He glanced across at her. She didn’t seem to have noticed. ‘Yeah, fine thanks.’
Juliette’s eyes narrowed as she took in his face. ‘What happened?’ she asked, touching the point of impact on his right cheek.
‘Banged it on my study door,’ Morton said, quickly regretting such a stupid excuse that she would immediately see through.
‘Oh right, looks painful.’
‘Yeah, I’m going to have a couple of painkillers in a minute,’ he said, then suddenly remembered that the lounge floor was covered in smashed glass. Another feeble lie was on the cards. ‘Why don’t you go and get changed and I’ll get us a drink and some dinner.’
Juliette kissed him. ‘Sounds good to me,’ she said, padding upstairs. ‘Red and large, please,’ she called.
Morton hurried into the kitchen, grabbed the dustpan and brush and began hastily sweeping up the glass. He slid the damaged frame under the sofa and hoped that he had done enough to hide what had happened.
‘Where’s the wine, then?’ Juliette asked, as she entered the kitchen minutes later, wearing jeans and a shirt.
Morton was rummaging in the freezer. ‘Sorry, still deciding what to eat. It needs to be something quick and easy, though, as I’ve got a long night ahead of me.’
Juliette rolled her eyes as she sat at the kitchen table. ‘No wedding planning tonight, then.’
‘Afraid not,’ he answered, closing the freezer door. ‘I’ll order a pizza.’
‘What’s so pressing with this case, Morton? Last week you weren’t even bothered to do it, now you’re working into the night?’
‘You know what I’m like,’ he replied, pulling out a take-away menu from a drawer and hoping that by being distracted, Juliette wouldn’t guess that something was wrong. ‘Once I get into a case, I really get into a case.’
Juliette stood, waltzed over to him and took the menu from his hand. ‘Let me sort it out, you go and get on.’
Morton grinned and kissed her. ‘Love you.’
‘Love you, too, Mr Farrier,’ she replied with a sigh.
Morton exhaled slowly as he pushed shut his study door. He wasn’t cut out for lying, especially not to her. He sat at his desk and started up his computer. Only then did he remember what he had been doing prior to his attack. Opening his emails, Morton clicked on the one from Roy Dyche, then began to read. Dear Morton, Thank you for your letter. I’m not great on these things—my daughter has had to help me! I do have several boxes of my parents’ things up in the loft. I haven’t been through them for years, so can’t really help with their content. I’ve asked my daughter to come over sometime and go through them with me, so I will let you
know if we find anything relevant. Kind regards, Roy.
Morton slumped back and saw his dreams of finding his father slipping from him. There had to be another way. But if there was, then Morton didn’t know it. As far as he was concerned, he had exhausted all possible avenues given the limited information of which he was in possession.
He looked back at the screen. At the bottom of the email Roy had left his home phone number. Morton didn’t want to hassle the guy, but the drive inside of him forced him to pick up his mobile and to dial.
‘Hello?’ a gravelly voice answered.
‘Hello,’ he said brightly. ‘It’s Morton Farrier, here. I’ve just got your email—thank you so much for taking the time to reply, I really appreciate it.’
‘Oh, you’re welcome—not much help, though. I will get Susan to get the boxes down at some stage—they’re a bit heavy for me, now.’
‘Yes, lovely,’ Morton said, not wanting to push the old man so that he rescinded his offer to help. ‘Look, I don’t want to pester you, but I’m truly desperate to find my dad. I’m a professional genealogist, so trying to find people is my job, but there really is no other way: you’re my last hope. Is there any way that I can come to you and help get the boxes down?’
There was a short silence from the other end of the line, then Roy cleared his throat. ‘What, all that way? You do realise that I live in Portsmouth, don’t you?’
‘Yes, yes,’ Morton said, knowing that he faced a two-and-a-half-hour journey to look through a load of boxes which might contain nothing of relevance. But he had to try.
‘Well, you are keen. What about this Sunday afternoon?’ Roy offered, seeming to sense Morton’s urgency.
‘Perfect,’ Morton responded.
‘Anytime after lunch will be fine,’ Roy said cheerfully.
‘Thank you very much. I’ll see you then.’
Roy said goodbye and ended the call.
A surge of exhilaration flushed through him. He was one step closer to finding his biological father.
The study door was gently opened with Juliette’s foot. In her hands she carried a tray containing a glass of wine, a glass of water and a box of paracetamol. ‘Room service,’ she said, putting on a vague Eastern European accent. ‘Pizza come soon.’
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4) Page 19
