‘Why are you calling me Juliette? My name’s Agatha Schmidt,’ she stated seriously.
They turned away from the mystified receptionist and headed to the lifts.
‘You do realise how weird we just looked?’ Juliette whispered.
‘Uh-huh.’
The lift doors suddenly opened with a ping. ‘Why are we going under false names and paying cash?’ Juliette demanded. ‘What’s going on, Morton?’
They entered the lift and the doors closed. He was now trapped with her interrogations. ‘You’ll see,’ he assured her, hoping that a vague hint of an upcoming mystery might be enough to stop her cross-examination.
The lift doors parted and they walked along the short corridor until they reached room twenty-two. Juliette slid the card into the door and pushed it open, heading straight to the French windows. ‘Wow.’
Morton followed her in, briefly taking in the pastel blue walls, giant bed with fresh white linen and silver-framed nautical paintings dotted around the room, before placing the portrait on the bed and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her tight to him. ‘What do you think, Agatha?’
‘Lovely, Mr Schmidt, very lovely. But still very strange.’
‘And that’s why you love me,’ he said, kissing her neck.
The sun, seemingly radiating every conceivable shade of yellow and orange, hung haughtily above the horizon, illuminating the waking town. The roads below were growing steadily busy as shops and businesses began to open for another ordinary day. For Morton, the day—as well he anticipated—was going to be anything but ordinary.
They had enjoyed a full English breakfast in the café-bar and Morton had spent the entire time feeling like a pinball machine, constantly deflecting her questions about the Lovekin Case or why they were here or how they had managed to gain entry to their room at such an unusual hour and have breakfast included. He didn’t tell her that he’d reserved the room from yesterday, instead he had steered the conversation onto her job. Then Juliette had showered and gone to work. He knew that he had done little to allay her suspicions and couldn’t wait for the moment that he could finally unload and tell her everything. He hated keeping secrets from her and he was so terribly bad at it.
With his bag slung over his shoulder, Morton was now striding confidently along the hot pavement toward his first destination of the day. He had the addresses of three of the Strickland siblings: John, Norman and Lawrence. The women, both having married, had proved much trickier to find. He was hopeful yet cautious of the outcome; he very rarely cold-called someone in connection with his cases, much preferring to write a letter and give the recipient time to fully comprehend his enquiry. Plus, he loathed doing it. He could never seem to offer the succinct, polite purpose that his visit necessitated. What was he going to say when he arrived at—he looked down at his notepad—74a Cornwallis Gardens? He had no clue and was simply hoping that the appropriate words would tumble out of his mouth when the time came.
He was leaving the crowded town centre behind and heading out into the residential periphery. The once-grand houses in Cornwallis Gardens stood in pairs around a triangle of grass and tall horse-chestnut trees. The houses, five storeys high from basement to attic rooms, had long since lost their Victorian prestige, most having been sliced up into countless bedsits and small flats; the poverty of the area was tangible.
Number 74 was painted an innocuous shade of cream with white edging around the windows and bright red front door. Morton studied the entry pad fixed to the wall, but could only see numbers 74b-e.
He glanced over the side and noticed another door down in the basement. He jumped the stairs, two at a time, then more calmly walked down the extra steps below pavement level. Sure enough, on the door in brass numbers, was 74a.
Taking a deep breath, he pressed the doorbell, hearing a fancy tune playing at length inside. Behind the two vertical obscure glass panels, he saw movement.
A man weltering in his late fifties pulled the door wide. He was gaunt and unshaven, wearing a dirty grey tracksuit with a roll-up dangling from the side of his mouth. ‘What?’
This wasn’t going to go well. He knew it before he even spoke. ‘Good morning,’ Morton hailed. ‘I’m looking for a Norman Strickland?’
His thick, unkempt eyebrows furrowed. ‘Who’s asking for him? If it’s about God, he don’t believe; if it’s about insurance, he ain’t got nothing to insure; if it’s about double-glazing, it ain’t his house; if it’s about charity, he ain’t got nothing to give.’
Morton smiled. ‘No, none of those things. I’m a forensic genealogist, Morton Farrier,’ he said, extending his hand. ‘You might have seen me in the papers?’ He heard the words as they toppled from his mouth and cringed inside. Had he actually just said that?
‘Ain’t heard of you,’ Norman said, tentatively shaking Morton’s hand.
‘I research family trees,’ he continued. ‘I’m interested in your grandfather, Horace Strickland, and what might have happened to his effects when he died in 1988?’ He hoped that by dropping in the man’s grandfather’s name and date of death that it might reinforce his credibility.
Norman snorted. ‘Stick your head in there, go on,’ he encouraged, stepping back and reaching for Morton’s arm, pulling him inside the house.
The smell of must and body odour hit his senses first, then, when his eyes had adjusted to the dark room, he took in what was before him. A grimy mattress on a balding carpet. Clothes strewn everywhere. Empty cans. Crisp packets. Filth. Morton recoiled back outside and the man laughed.
‘I ain’t got no effects, now get lost.’
The door slammed in Morton’s face. Well, that went well, he thought, heading back to the pavement and removing his notepad from his bag. He placed a pencil cross beside the name of Norman Strickland. Next up was his brother, Lawrence, who also by the look of his address resided in a flat.
It took Morton half an hour to walk to 5b Priory Road, a house which sat in the centre of a run of a dozen tall white Victorian properties overlooking the grassy slopes of the West Hill and the vast English Channel beyond. At least he’s got a decent view, Morton thought, as he strolled up to the front door, fearing a repeat of Cornwallis Gardens. The name ‘Strickland & Chivers’ was typed on a small strip of paper below the bell for flat 5b. He depressed the bell and waited.
‘Hello?’ a female voice rattled through the intercom.
‘Oh, good morning. My name’s Morton Farrier and I’m researching a-’
‘Morton Farrier the family tree man?’ she cut in.
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ Morton replied, uncertain if her prior knowledge of him was a good thing or not.
‘Come in, come in!’ the lady chirped. ‘First floor.’
The door buzzed and Morton entered the wide hallway and bound up the green-carpeted stairs, where he was met by a lady in an open doorway with a large smile on her face. She had a neat brown bob and a warm familiar face with a subtle touch of make-up.
‘Morton Farrier!’ she declared. ‘I’ve read about you in the papers—how delightful to have you gracing my doorstep. You simply must come in!’
‘Well, that’s certainly a welcome,’ Morton replied, following her into the flat. He guessed that she was Lawrence’s wife.
She led him into the lounge, which was at the front of the house overlooking the West Hill. It was a typically large Victorian room decorated simply but elegantly. It definitely had a woman’s touch. In the corner by the window, Morton spotted a man with a passing resemblance to Norman. Thankfully, though, he wore clean clothes and bore a friendlier face.
‘This is Morton Farrier,’ the lady announced.
‘Lawrence Strickland,’ he said, offering his hand to shake.
‘Oh, how rude, I’m Angela,’ the lady said, ‘Lawrence’s sister.’
‘Oh right, lovely to meet you. I must say, I’m very pleased to find you both under the same roof—it might save me some work!’ Morton said.
‘Sounds
intriguing, do take a seat,’ Angela said, rubbing her hands together with glee. ‘Can I get you a drink or anything?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’ He did want a drink, but more than that, he just wanted to get on. ‘Right, the reason I’m here is because I’m researching a case back in the early 1800s and I’ve traced the family down to living relatives in the hope of finding a document which might have passed down through the generations.’
‘How exciting!’ Angela enthused.
‘You’re that family,’ Morton added.
‘Oh, golly!’
‘And what is that you think we might have?’ Lawrence asked, not quite as excited as his sister.
‘Well, to cut a very long story short, your grandfather, Horace Strickland, was in possession of a pair of indentures—essentially the deeds to a parcel of land on the America Ground in Hastings.’
Angela looked baffled. ‘Laurie? Do you know anything about that?’
Lawrence shook his head and looked confounded. ‘Never heard of it.’
Morton nodded then quickly summarised all that he had learnt about the America Ground.
‘Why would our grandad have the deeds to land on the America Ground?’ Lawrence asked.
‘Because, somehow his great-great-great-grandmother, a lady by the name of Eliza Lovekin had lived there and managed to get a freehold entitlement. Sadly, she was murdered just a week later.’
Angela gasped. ‘How terribly awful.’
‘And you say our grandad had them?’ Lawrence asked.
‘Yes, so I believe. May I ask what happened to his effects after he passed away in 1988?’ Morton asked.
Angela and Lawrence both looked at each other and answered simultaneously. ‘Tina.’
‘Our sister. She was the favourite,’ Angela said pointedly. ‘She got practically everything when Grandad died—Dad just got the house and us two and our brothers got nothing at all.’
‘Okay,’ Morton said, making a note on his pad. ‘No chance of it having gone to your brother, John? I notice he also lives in the town, too.’ He looked down at his notepad. ‘At Humington House—if I have his address correct?’
Angela shook her head vehemently. ‘Humington House is a care home. John has severe learning difficulties and needs to be looked after twenty-four-seven. So, no—nothing went to him.’
‘Should have done,’ Lawrence chipped in. ‘He needed the money more than any of us.’
‘Sorry to hear that,’ Morton said.
Angela shrugged. ‘It’s one of those things. He’s happy in his own way and has never known anything different.’
There was a gap in the conversation, with Morton not really sure what to say next.
‘So, yes, these things you’re looking for will either be with Tina or are lost, I’m afraid. I’ve never heard of them,’ Angela said.
‘Do you happen to have her address at all? I struggled to find it.’
Lawrence snorted. ‘Which one?’
Angela nodded and grimaced. ‘She’s got several properties. Her main house is just down the road from here—21 Croft Road, though I’m not sure how helpful she’ll be.’
‘It caused a big family feud,’ Lawrence mused, gazing out of the large windows. ‘We don’t have much to do with the rest of the family, to be honest. After Angela’s husband died she moved in here with me and we get by okay, but Tina… she’s loaded.’ He faced Morton. ‘I’m not bitter about it, it just wasn’t fair and she couldn’t see that.’
‘So this case you’re working on,’ Angela began, ‘It’s for our family?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Would I be able to be cheeky and ask for a copy of the family tree—when you’re finished?’ Angela asked. ‘It’s one of those things I vowed to do upon retirement but still haven’t achieved.’
‘Certainly,’ Morton agreed. ‘No problems.’ He pushed his notepad into his bag then stood to leave. ‘Right, I need to get on. Thank you very much for your assistance—I’ll be in touch when the case is closed.’
Angela grinned. ‘Oh, did you hear that, Laurie—the case. How exciting!’
Morton shook their hands, thanked them again and left.
Outside, he gave an acknowledging wave to Lawrence, who was peering down at him from the large lounge window. Morton crossed the street and took a steep narrow path over the hill, arriving half way down Croft Road, which sliced a diagonal line through the side of the West Hill, ultimately terminating in the Old Town High Street.
Everything now relied on Tina Strickland, or Tina Paine as she had become after her marriage. If she was no longer in possession of the indentures, then it was game-over.
21 Croft Road—a smart four-storey Georgian terrace house painted storm grey—was situated directly opposite the graveyard of St Clements Church. Tina Paine, the likely current owner of the lease and release documents was living just a few yards away from her great-great-great-grandmother, Eliza Lovekin’s grave.
Morton ascended three worn stone steps and rapped the lion-head door knocker, smiling at the thought of being able to tell Tina the irony of living so close to the person who had managed to procure the documents in the first place.
He waited, then rapped again, harder this time. When there was no response, he knocked once more and stepped back, looking up at the windows. But there was no sign of life. Morton was disappointed and reluctantly accepted to return later in the day; this aspect of the Lovekin Case would have to wait.
It was time to tie up some other loose threads.
Strolling purposely beside the St Clements Church burial ground, Morton glanced across at the Lovekin grave, considering how far the case had moved on since his last visit here. With his thoughts ruminating on his next steps, he made his way along the seafront towards Hastings Library, blindly ignorant of the sharp-suited man with greased-back hair and an earpiece, who was tailing him at a discreet distance.
Oblivious, Morton entered the library.
‘Yep, got him,’ Kevin Addison confirmed to the voice in his own earpiece, as he watched Morton march inside the library. ‘You thought you’d escaped us,’ he muttered to nobody in particular. He was in the driver’s seat of the silver BMW, parked illegally with his hazard lights blinking, a short distance from the library entrance.
‘Is this it, boss?’ one of the two skinhead goons in the back asked, already bored chasing this bungling idiot.
‘His time’s up,’ Kevin answered simply.
Yesterday he had been unexpectedly summoned into Liz Seymour’s office on the eighteenth floor of The Shard. Despite his physical strength and reputation, she had always intimidated him, and so he had gone into her office with trickles of sweat running down his sides. She had greeted him in her usual no-nonsense way, cutting out small talk and directing him to sit in the leather chair in front of her desk.
‘Do you have the indentures?’ she had demanded from her high-backed chair that towered over him. She had been, as always, immaculately presented with a perfect shoulder-length brown hair and smart black skirt and jacket combination. A recent round of Botox injections had fixed her face to a permanent look of dispassionate scorn.
‘Not yet,’ Kevin had faltered. ‘I’ve given the genealogist bloke until tomorrow.’
Liz had laughed, but her face had remained unchanged and Kevin had only been able to guess at the laughter’s mocking intention until she clarified. ‘How generous of you. Get me those documents by five p.m. tomorrow and get rid of the genealogist or you won’t have a job. Leave no shred of evidence of anything connecting him to us. Am I clear?’
Kevin had nodded and then skulked from the room, taking the next train out of London.
Sitting here now outside Hastings Library, he was livid. Morton had run him a merry dance, making him look stupid at the company. Damn right it was ending today. His pathetic attempt to shake them off had only caused Kevin further irritation. The tracker on Juliette’s car had led them straight to the White Rock Hotel, where a spot
ty youth had coughed up their room number in exchange for a fifty-pound note. Fleeing at four a.m. and staying at a hotel under a false name clearly meant that Morton was not intending to comply.
After more than an hour of impatient waiting, Kevin spotted Morton stepping out of the library. ‘Here he is,’ Kevin alerted the others.
‘He’s looking for something,’ one of the men in the back said, leaning forwards to get a better look.
‘If he had half a brain, he’d see us,’ another added.
‘Damn it,’ Kevin yelled, thumping the steering wheel with his fist. ‘He’s getting into a taxi. Now where’s he going?’
Kevin gritted his teeth and started the engine.
He really was losing his patience.
‘Church in the wood?’ the taxi driver confirmed, as Morton slid into the back of the cab.
He paused momentarily before remembering that St Leonards Church was known colloquially as Church in the Wood. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
The driver, a muscular young man with an exuberant Hawaiian shirt, nodded then pulled away.
Morton looked for the meter but couldn’t spot it. Perhaps it was out of sight? Surely it had to be within the passenger’s view? A sudden wave of panic came over him as he realised that he had just climbed into a car that, with the exception of a rooftop beacon bearing the word TAXI, displayed no other markings. He was sure, too, that the driver’s credentials had to be displayed somewhere in the vehicle. Again, there was no sign of them. Should he say something and alert the driver to his suspicions, or keep quiet and hope for the best?
‘Guessing you aren’t going to a wedding or funeral,’ the driver quipped.
Morton tried to offer a polite smile. ‘No, just doing a bit of research there.’
The driver nodded again, as he pulled out onto the main road.
‘I might need to stop on the way to get some cash out—not sure I’ve got enough,’ Morton said, watching for the driver’s reaction.
Another nod. ‘No worries. I can tell you the cost already, though—we work on total mileage, so you’re not paying over the odds whilst you’re sat at the traffic lights. It’ll be six eighty. Got enough?’
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4) Page 24
