Morton nodded, a palpable sense of relief washing over him. He then noticed the identification lanyard around the driver’s neck. Jesus, but he was getting jumpy.
He breathed out slowly, looking out of the window as they sailed past the White Rock Hotel, before reviewing the paperwork in front of him. Somewhere along the course of his research into the Lovekin Case, he had made a mistake. A big mistake. Overlooked something crucial. He had to have done, as the documents in front of him, when viewed holistically, made absolutely no sense.
It had started out making sense. He had been trying to locate Harriet and Christopher’s place of burial in the St Clements Church registers. He hadn’t found them there, but he had instead found the burial of Christopher Elphick’s mother, Lydia. It had been Morton’s hunch that Lydia Elphick and Lydia Bloom, Eliza’s friend from the Westwell workhouse, were one and the same person, confirmed when he had found her marriage entry. There was something quite satisfying knowing that Lydia and Eliza had stuck together since their incarceration in the workhouse and that their children had gone on to marry each other.
‘Well, it’s lovely weather for it,’ the taxi driver muttered. ‘Think I’d rather be doing some research inside a nice cool church than driving!’
‘I’ll be outside—looking at graves,’ Morton answered.
‘Oh, right,’ the driver said, his words carrying an oblique question mark behind them, which Morton ignored, concentrating on the papers in his lap. The more he read them, the less logical they were. He really needed to be back home in his study, to view these extra pieces of the puzzle in the context of the whole Lovekin Case.
At last, the taxi pulled off the main road and began to slow down, drawing into a rectangular gravel car park.
Morton crammed the stack of paperwork into his bag, still none the wiser, and watched as the church came into view.
The driver drew to a stop beside the lych gate. ‘Here you go, mate. Six eighty then, please.’
Morton handed over the money and climbed out of the car, peering cautiously around him. There were four cars and a white van in the car park, but suspiciously, no sign of their occupants. A flicker of pink in his peripheral vision suddenly drew his attention. It was a middle-aged lady with a blonde bob, tugging on the lead of a fluffy slipper of a dog that was eagerly sniffing at the front wheel of the white van. ‘Ruby!’ she called loudly.
Dog walkers, he told himself, that’s all they are. He really needed to relax and stop being so jumpy. They hadn’t followed him here; he was safe.
He walked up the narrow tarmac path towards the church, enjoying the warmth and stillness of the place. Church in the Wood was nestled, as it had been since the thirteenth century, within the boundary of an ancient forest and packed with hundreds of years of tombs and memorial stones. Morton paused and briefly admired the early gothic style architecture of the church itself, with its clay-brown roof tiles and flint stone walls, then continued along the path. When he took in the vastness of the burial ground, which extended through fences, thickets and dense shrubbery into the far distance, he was glad not to have asked the taxi driver to wait for him.
To have conducted a thorough search of this ground, with its huge abundance of graves, would have taken days. Gratefully, he reached into his bag and pulled out a series of photocopies that he had just made in the library from a spiral-bound booklet of burials 1637-2000. One of the copies was of a plan of the churchyard, which was neatly broken into alphabetised zones. He was headed to section N, which was almost at the other end of the burial ground.
Morton wandered the grassy paths, which seemed to slice the churchyard into haphazard and nonsensical sections, appreciating the tranquillity of the place as he walked.
A green woodpecker darted from the path in front of him, splintering the silence with its shrill warning cry, as it was enveloped into the dense oak canopy just in front of Morton.
He stopped, briefly enjoying the shaded respite, to look again at the map; he was roughly in the right area. Stepping from the path, he approached the nearest grave—a headstone dating from the 1920s. On the back, in small black lettering was the grave number: OJ14.
Leaving the path, he moved between graves, checking for reference numbers as he went. He quickly reached the first grave marked with the letter N, and then began to systematically check each and every headstone.
As Morton stooped down, struggling to read the weatherworn names on the stone in front of him, he caught sight of the grave behind, the surname seeming to shout out to him. Elphick. It was one of three identical headstones in a row.
With a smile, he stepped towards them: each greened and greyed through time. He set down his bag and studied the grave.
In memory of my dear husband Christopher Elphick, who died 9th September 1894 aged 84 years. Also of Harriet, blessed wife of the above, who died 8th June 1895 aged 86 years.
Morton turned his attention to the grave two spaces along. Amelia Odden’s. It was whilst trying to tie up the loose ends of Harriet and Christopher’s burial that he had inadvertently stumbled upon Amelia.
In affectionate remembrance of Amelia Odden, who died 19th November 1866 aged 80.
That the three girls, Eliza, Lydia and Amelia had remained lifelong friends was now in no doubt. But Morton’s theory that all three had been murdered by Thomas Honeysett now looked unlikely—almost impossible. Especially when he took into account the headstone that stood between Amelia’s and the Elphicks’, completing the neat row of three.
He pulled out his mobile and photographed the graves and suddenly noticed the time: it was just gone three-thirty and he’d told Juliette that he would be back at the hotel for dinner. He wouldn’t be able to return today to Tina’s house, which was on the other side of town. Flipping back the pages in his notepad, Morton found the phone number for Lawrence Strickland and dialled.
‘Hello?’ It was Angela’s voice.
‘Hi, Angela—it’s Morton Farrier here. Sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if you had a phone number for Tina, so I can give her a ring? She wasn’t home when I called.’
‘Yes, sure. That’s a smashing idea, because she has all of her numbers, work and her various houses going to the same number, so you’re sure to catch her. One moment.’
The line went quiet and Morton could hear Angela explaining to Lawrence who was on the phone. Then there was a clattering sound as she picked up the receiver. ‘Sorry, back again. Ready?’
Morton jotted down the number, thanked her and hung up.
He dialled it and waited.
After a few rings, it was picked up. He was in luck.
‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice. Familiar.
Morton looked down at the screen and ended the call. The voice sounded like it belonged to Madge. But how could that be? He must have dialled incorrectly. He typed the number in again and raised the phone to his ear. As he did so, he looked up and saw them.
Four men, led by Kevin heading down the path towards him. Just a few yards away. Adrenalin fired through his veins as he faced the decision of fight, flight or surrender.
Flight. This time, he had a chance to flee and he was going to take it. Abandoning his bag, Morton leapt through the narrow gap between the gravestones and ran.
From the shouting behind him, he knew that the men were in pursuit.
He zipped through rows of graves, but his progress was slow; just ahead of him was a fence with a gate leading deeper into the woods.
Casting a quick glance behind him, he saw that the men were fanning out around him, gaining ground.
‘Give it up, Morton!’ Kevin yelled.
Morton defied the muscles in his legs, demanding more oxygen, demanding him to stop.
He continued to run, but could feel from the sound of footfall just behind him that he wasn’t going to make the gate.
In his hand he still clutched his mobile. If he could at least dial 999.
For the briefest second, he took his eyes off th
e path and onto his phone, failing to spot a concealed footstone protruding from the ground.
The end of Morton’s left shoe only just clipped the top of the stone, but it was enough to propel him forwards and pull him towards the ground.
With his arms flailing around him, his temple met with the hard edge of a headstone, sending him crashing to the ground.
His muscles sighed gratefully as he collapsed into a heap beside the grave that had brought him down. Morton drew himself into a foetal position, fighting to keep his eyes open.
He saw a pair of boots. Then another pair.
Some words were spoken that reached his ear but failed to be deciphered by his brain.
Blackness.
He was moving. Being moved.
More indiscernible chatter.
Blackness.
Kevin Addison could, at last, relax. He started the ignition of the BMW and wound down the window.
He had done it. Safely stowed in the boot was Morton Farrier, and on its way to him via one of his men, were the documents from the address in Croft Road, that Morton had just given up.
He could return to London and deliver Liz Seymour the news that he had achieved his goal. Maybe her tight face might even crack a smile. Maybe he’d get a bonus like he did when he had dealt with Horace Strickland all those years ago.
There was just one job left to do: deal with Morton Farrier.
He set the satnav to Coldhanger Farm, just outside Maidstone, then began to pull out of the church car park.
Chapter Twenty-Four
30th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
The Lovekin house was cocooned in a husk of grief. It felt to Harriet as though icy fingers were tightening around her very soul, constricting the life from within. She was sick to her stomach of the America Ground, convinced that the place was cursed; everything had turned bad since they had moved here. She had lost, or was about to lose so much that she had once loved.
The parlour was dark, the shutters having not been opened since Joseph Lovekin’s passing. Reed candles around the room provided feeble light and added to the sense of gloom and despondency.
Harriet was sitting at the parlour table with Christopher, Keziah and Ann, eating in cold silence. She despised the fact that she was sitting in her mother’s chair and Christopher was sitting in her father’s. She looked down at herself and her two sisters, all dressed in black, wondering if the cloak of tragedy would ever leave their lives.
‘Come on, be finishing your food,’ Harriet snapped at her sisters, instantly regretting her tone.
Ann, having not touched her breakfast of herring, cheese and bread, burst into tears. It had been the same every meal since Harriet had told them that their mother had died. ‘It don’t be fair, Hattie!’ she wailed. ‘Not Ma and Pa.’
Harriet leant across and comforted her youngest sister. She looked across the table and witnessed the struggle that Keziah was also having against her own emotions, trying as she was to be brave.
‘What’s going to be happening to us, Hattie?’ Keziah asked quietly.
‘Like I be a-saying, I don’t be knowing. We certain-sure can’t be staying here, though.’
Christopher placed his hand on Keziah’s. ‘It be alright, Keziah. Trust me. Now come on, let’s not be feeding all this to the pigs again’—he tried to laugh but it sounded exactly as forced and fake as it was—‘Them swines be eating better than us!’
‘The pigs be gone,’ Keziah mumbled. ‘Mr Colbran packed up and left, took his piggeries and all.’
The table returned to an almost painful silence, with food being picked over and pushed around on each of the four plates.
‘I want to see Ma,’ Ann murmured. ‘And say goodbye.’
Harriet shook her head. ‘No, it ain’t right. Not after what happened. No.’
Ann ran from the table, sobbing noisily, heading towards the stairs.
‘Christopher, stop her!’ Harriet cried.
Christopher jumped up and rushed to the stairs behind her. He reached out and grabbed her arm. ‘No, Ann!’
‘But I be a-wanting to see her! She be my Ma,’ Ann yowled, pulling against him.
‘Ann!’ Harriet yelled. ‘Butter-my-wig, Ma’d be seething were she seeing you like this. Stop.’
Ann yanked her arm free and rushed for the street door, pulling it wide and dramatically, hurrying outside.
Christopher hastened for the door.
‘Leave her be, Christopher,’ Harriet advised. ‘She be a-coming back when the time be right.’
Christopher nodded and was about to close the street door when a large shadow passed behind him and stopped.
It was a coffin, being carried by Mr Vine and his apprentice. They carefully stood it on end before stepping inside the parlour. The man and boy, in matching grubby linen smocks and overalls, reached for their hats.
‘Miss Lovekin. Christopher,’ Mr Vine mumbled uncomfortably, fiddling with his long black and grey beard. ‘It ain’t the best money can buy, but it be suitable enough to take your Ma to her final rest.’
Harriet strained a smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Vine. How much do I be owing you?’
‘No charge. Your Ma and Pa were great friends to me—they be fine Americans—and it be pleasing to know that Eliza Lovekin be buried in the last American coffin.’
‘The last?’ Christopher asked.
‘We’re packing up—ain’t signing no seven-year lease and paying rents to King George for a property what I built on land from the sea,’ Mr Vine ranted.
‘Fegs, there be nobody left soon,’ Christopher breathed.
‘Do you be a-knowing yet when the funeral be?’ Mr Vine asked.
Harriet shook her head. ‘Soon.’ As far as she was concerned, the sooner the better. Following Harriet’s formal identification of the body, the coroner had ruled yesterday that Eliza Lovekin had been murdered.
The news of Eliza Lovekin’s murder had spread around the America Ground like a toxic river, bubbling up in each and every parlour, shop, yard and workshop. That the constables had no clue as to the identity of the killer only hastened the mass exodus, as fear grew that the murderer was an American who worked and lived among them.
‘Right, let’s be a-getting it upstairs,’ Mr Vine instructed his apprentice.
‘No need,’ Christopher said, ‘just be putting it in here and I be doing the rest.’
Mr Vine frowned. ‘Do you be sure you want to…’—he shot a look at Harriet then lowered his voice—‘be a-doing that by yourself?’
Christopher nodded.
Mr Vine looked surprised but relieved, as he stepped outside and began to lift the coffin in.
‘Down there be fine,’ Christopher directed.
Mr Vine gently placed the coffin down. ‘Do you be certain-sure you be wanting help getting up them stairs?’
‘No, thank you, kindly.’
Mr Vine and the apprentice bowed their heads solemnly and left the house.
Christopher closed the street door. ‘Can you be a-helping me get this upstairs then I be getting her…I be doing the rest.’
Harriet smiled faintly at Keziah. ‘Then we best find that sister of ours. Why don’t you be looking for her now?’
Keziah sat, staring at the floor, unblinking.
‘Keziah?’
Without looking up, Keziah traipsed sullenly from the house.
The coffin was light and Harriet was surprised at the ease with which they guided it up the thin staircase. The door to her mother’s bedroom had remained locked since the murder; Harriet removed the key from a piece of ribbon around her neck.
She unlocked the door and swung it wide, trying not to look at the body which, apart from the examination by the coroner, had remained in exactly the same position. Just like her father’s body, Harriet couldn’t bring herself to look at the soulless face.
Harriet, unable to control her emotions, began to sob and Christopher pulled her into his embrace. In his arms, she
instantly felt safe. She relaxed and held him for several seconds before kissing him lightly on the lips.
‘What be happening to us all, Christopher?’ she whispered.
‘It be all alright in the end, it will,’ he answered, kissing her.
Harriet broke away. ‘I best be finding Ann,’ she murmured, softly running her fingers down Christopher’s cheek.
She hurried down the stairs and outside, grateful to be free from the stifling and oppressive house. The day was bright with thin patches of white cloud, peppered with a flock of high-circling herring gulls. She breathed deeply and ambled towards the beach.
For a moment, Harriet just stood and stared longingly at the gently rolling sea, wishing she could somehow make the whole sorry America Ground vanish so that she could remove the shackles of mourning and plunge into the cold water.
She managed a half-smile when the sound of laughter drew her attention. It was coming from Ann and Keziah, up on Cuckoo Hill, playing some kind of game involving running in circles around each other.
Unhurriedly and thoughtfully, Harriet climbed the grassy bank, all the while gazing out to sea.
She reached the top and felt a welcome cool breeze caressing her body, billowing gently through the folds of her dress. Wordlessly, she sat on a flat-topped chunk of sandstone and watched her sisters playing. She turned her back to them and faced the America Ground. The change since her most recent visit was startling; entire buildings had been obliterated, as if plucked from the ground by God himself, leaving no hint of their ever having existed. The complete row of cottages that had once fronted onto the sea had gone—every piece of wood, every stone, removed. Of the properties that had remained, men were now actively toiling in their destruction. Houses with roofs stripped bare like exposed ribcages, devoid of all their contents and occupants, were dotted all around. From her position on the hill, Harriet could see at least four wagons being loaded up with possessions, beasts and people.
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4) Page 25
