The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Indeed,’ she said.

  ‘Do you mind if I take a picture of it?’

  ‘By all means—I’d be delighted!’ Bunny exclaimed.

  Morton pulled out his phone and took a close-up of the flag, then a wider view. ‘Thanks.’

  Bunny let go of the flag and sat down, her bracelets rattling as she placed her hands down on the counter. ‘So, where are we at—are we on track for the auction next week?’ she asked.

  Morton sipped the tea and tried not to wince. He saw no point in drinking it: it tasted of gardens and contained no caffeine. He set the mug down and began to narrate through the Lovekin Case so far, omitting all references to the indentures and his escapade with the hooligans in the barn. He ended by telling her of this morning’s research and subsequent visit to Shepherd Street.

  ‘So they actually took the place apart and moved it along the road?’ Bunny asked incredulously. ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘Yes, so I was told.’

  ‘Fascinating! Well, good on them, that’s what I say! They sound a lovely family, those Lovekin girls. You will find out more about what happened to them, won’t you?’

  ‘Well that’s kind of why I’m here—how much more do you want me to do?’

  Bunny raised her hands into the air. ‘Everything! Never mind the ruddy auction, you’ve got me desperate—desperate to know more about this family! And what about the awful business of the murder? Are you any closer to finding out who killed the poor thing?’

  ‘If only it were that simple,’ Morton answered. ‘At the moment I’m none the wiser. I need to do more research into Eliza’s early life—I think that’s where the answer might lie.’

  Bunny shook her head theatrically. ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would want to kill her. Could it have been something to do with those land document things?’

  ‘It’s possible, yes. It would really help me, Bunny, if you could remember where you bought the painting.’

  Bunny exhaled noisily and pulled a face that said she had absolutely no idea. ‘Morton, it could have been any of those fabulous stalls. If I’d known then what I know now, then of course I would have paid much closer attention! Besides which, they’re all dealers and buyers themselves—heaven only knows where they would have got it from.’

  Morton nodded absentmindedly as the door clattered open behind him and a large group of pensioners began to throng through the door.

  ‘I’d better leave you to it,’ Morton said, glad for an excuse to leave.

  ‘Oh, you haven’t finished your tea,’ Bunny squealed, leaping up from her stool.

  Morton smiled and downed the drink, inwardly shuddering. ‘Lovely, thank you. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Only with good news, darling!’ she called after him, as she approached the gaggle of old ladies with a histrionic welcome.

  Morton turned and smiled as he gratefully stepped out of the shop. George Street was now bustling with lunchtime trade and he was tempted to find a café and get something—preferably appetising and caffeinated—to take away the awful taste in his mouth, but he opted instead to head straight home. Now that he had pulled the Lovekin family into the period of civil registration and the census, there was a great deal that he could achieve in the comfort of his own study.

  Morton had dropped the two indentures off at Jonathan Greenwood’s house on his way home. Somewhere between Hastings and Rye, he had mercifully managed to shake off the white Range Rover that had been tailing him all day. Not that they were bothering him particularly—it just served as a constant reminder that the clock was ticking on a task that he now considered virtually impossible.

  He closed the front door, placed his bag down at the foot of the stairs and headed into the kitchen to make a coffee and some lunch.

  He carried the kettle over to the sink and filled it with water, checking his emails on his mobile as he did so. One new message.

  He switched on the kettle as the email downloaded. He gaped at the sender’s name: Roy Dyche.

  Morton continued to stare at his phone, unable to open the message, knowing that it was a pivotal moment in his family history journey. This man held the only known key to unlocking the door that led to his biological father.

  The kettle began to whistle furiously as it neared boiling point, yet above that Morton heard a light tapping sound coming from the lounge. The house was old and seemed to continuously creak and groan, but there was nothing to Morton’s knowledge in the lounge that could create the rhythmical sound that was now emanating from there.

  A final growl from the kettle and it switched itself off.

  The tapping continued.

  Morton set down his phone and crept into the hallway. His heart began to beat faster and he held his breath as he stepped into the lounge. He gasped. Sitting on the sofa, as if he owned the place, was Kevin, the thug who had goaded him from the street and led his kidnap. The stubby fingers of one hand were drumming on the table beside him, whilst the other hand held the photo of Juliette on her first day in police uniform.

  Kevin pulled a mock-sorrowful face as he looked at the photo. ‘Such a shame…’

  Chapter Fifteen

  16th April 1827, St Clements Church, Hastings, Sussex

  The fleecy wisps of white cloud that lingered indifferently above the coast did nothing to reduce the intensity of the midday sun. St Clements Church, nestled in the lee of the cliff, greedily drank the heat through its thick sandstone skin.

  In the cooler shadow of the adjacent churchyard, a faint smile appeared on Richard’s face. He was standing in front of the grave of Joseph Lovekin. He read the freshly chiselled lettering on the headstone and his smile turned to contempt. Sacred to the memory of Joseph Lovekin who departed this life 29th March 1827 aged 45 years, leaving an affectionate widow and three daughters viz: Harriet, Keziah and Ann.

  The family, like the Priory Ground community, was falling apart.

  It was the beginning of the end.

  His green eyes narrowed at the void left below Joseph’s name. Space for his dear wife, Eliza, to be added.

  Not long, Richard thought, as he turned and sauntered from the graveyard onto the bustling High Street. He cut a striking figure in his sand-coloured buckskin trousers, navy tailcoat, cream silk cravat and black bicorn hat. He strolled through the locals going about their daily lives—fishermen barrowing their freshly caught wares, washerwomen with baskets of laundry under their arms, labourers hurrying to a job, young children playing in the street—until he reached the Town Hall.

  He entered the building, closed the street door and walked a narrow corridor to his office. It was a small, windowless and permanently chilly room at the back of the building, which he had fought to secure when he had gained employment as a junior clerk. The office was sparsely furnished—just a desk, two chairs and a bureau. It wasn’t much, but it was sufficient.

  Richard removed his hat, lit the oil lamp on his desk and then began to pore over the stack of paperwork that he had been working on: documents to present at the inquest into the rightful ownership of the Priory Ground. It was the moment that he had been preparing for ever since his father had first informed him that a vacancy had arisen at the corporation. The job had made no mention of the Priory Ground, indeed the position offered to him had nothing to do with it; Richard’s charm, hard work and powers of persuasion had played well with senior officials and his request to scrutinise—in his own time and at his own expense—the legalities of the settlement of the Priory Ground had been granted.

  Thumbing carefully through the papers, he stopped at the duplicate copy of the letter, which he had had sent to Widow Elphick, informing her that she was not legally entitled to sell her house. It was he who had forwarded the case to the Corporation Law Officers, who had then sent the case to the Commissioners for Woods, Forests and Land Revenues.

  There was a light, almost imperceptible knock on his door.

  Richard looked up curiously, not expecting any visitors.
‘Enter.’

  The door opened and he was surprised by who was standing there.

  He stood, slightly awkwardly and smiled. ‘Come in.’

  He wasn’t prepared for this and he surreptitiously rearranged what papers he could reach to obscure any vital information.

  Harriet Lovekin entered his office.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, pointing to the chair opposite his desk.

  She sat timidly, barely able to look him in the eyes. Her face was flushed and she had evidently been crying. Still in full mourning, she wore a black poke bonnet and a simple black dress.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Harriet,’ Richard said. ‘Pleasantly surprised, that is.’ His playful smile was unexpectedly met with a detached look. ‘Is everything alright?’

  Harriet nodded and glanced around the room. ‘I be here about the inquest,’ she mumbled, finally meeting his gaze. ‘Is there anything you can be a-doing to help us? We might be losing our homes and livelihoods. Blame me, everyone on the America Ground be as worried as I ever did see them.’

  Richard suppressed his deep longing to sneer; instead he placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it gently. ‘My dear Harriet, I wish there were something I could do, but it’s nothing to do with me. The inquest is being undertaken by the Crown Commissioners—I have absolutely no authority.’

  Harriet turned to look at him; the subdued glow from the oil lamp giving her face a haunting, ethereal look. ‘Do you be a-going to the inquest yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I shall be there.’

  ‘And what will you be saying?’ she asked.

  ‘The truth, Harriet,’ he answered. ‘And here’s another truth’ – he crouched down beside her and stroked her thigh – ‘you’re a very beautiful young girl.’

  Harriet stiffened and brushed off his hand. ‘Why do you be acting so nice toward me now? And bringing my shawl back on such a terrible night as was? I been thinking on it and it don’t be a-making much sense; the time before that, you was trying to have me thrown into the watch house as a draggle-tail.’

  Richard smiled. ‘It was a ploy—an act—I wanted to see you. Do you not remember the first moments that we saw each other? First at the Priory Stream then again in the Black Horse. Do you not remember?’

  Harriet nodded.

  ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off away from you,’ Richard laughed. ‘I’m such a fool, going about it in the way that I did—I deserved to be thrown from my horse.’ He smiled and returned his hand to her thigh.

  Harriet flinched when his hand began to move. She leapt up and backed away towards the door. ‘I don’t be a-trusting you, Richard.’

  ‘Harriet!’ Richard said, looking dejected. ‘Of course you can trust me.’

  ‘Where did you be a-going that night of the storms?’ she confronted. ‘When you went from my house?’

  ‘I told you—I went to see if anyone needed help,’ he said, noticing the fiery intensity in her eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘And?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘There was nothing I could do—the locals had it under control. I stayed for a while then went home. Look, what is this? What’s the matter?’

  ‘You was seen going into Mr and Mrs Wood’s cottage,’ she accused, her voice quivering. ‘My Pa was trapped in there.’

  Richard stared at the floor sullenly. ‘Yes, it’s true, Harriet. I tried to get in and save him.’ He looked up at her. ‘I wanted you to see me as a hero—the man who rescued your father. To make amends to the people of the Priory Ground.’

  ‘America Ground,’ Harriet corrected.

  ‘But I failed—again. I just couldn’t get in—the waves were too strong. I’m sorry.’ He moved slowly towards her with his hands outstretched. ‘I can understand why you’re angry, Harriet, but can you forgive me?’

  ‘I don’t be believing you,’ she whispered, her eyes welling.

  ‘I swear to you, I’m telling the truth, Harriet,’ Richard said. He reached out and took her trembling hand in his.

  Harriet sniffed and fought her tears. She looked over at his desk. ‘What do you be doing all morning?’

  ‘Just work,’ he answered.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Nothing, why?’

  ‘You ain’t been out of here?’ she queried.

  ‘No, why?’ he repeated, gripping her hand more tightly.

  Harriet shuddered, pulled away and ran for the door. ‘I seen you at Pa’s grave! I seen you with me own eyes!’ she cried. ‘You was smiling, too.’

  Richard rushed towards her and tried to close the door but he was too slow.

  With a low scream, Harriet ran out into the corridor.

  ‘Damn it,’ Richard yelled, kicking his office door shut.

  The town of Battle—six miles inland from Hastings—had been dominated by the Abbey of St Martin since the famous battle of 1066, from which the small market town derived its name. The prominent building towered over a neat triangle of grass—on which cattle, sheep and horses grazed—and the long street bounded by shops and businesses, as busy with trade now as it had been for hundreds of years. Today, however, under the awnings of the ironmongers, fruiterers, butchers and beer houses that lined the road, an unusual crowd had gathered. Talking. Gossiping. Pointing covertly towards the four-storey building that was the George Hotel.

  Inquests into past murders, suicides and unusual deaths had been held in the George Hotel on many occasions, but this one was garnering special attention; for reasons of neutrality, it had been chosen to host the inquest into the rightful ownership of the America Ground and the event had drawn quite a crowd.

  Richard dismounted from his horse at the green and, with trembling hands, roped it to an iron ring tether. The journey had been painfully slow, the bad memories from the Priory Ground rebellion inhibiting his pushing the horse beyond anything but a gentle canter.

  He steadied himself and tried to bring his erratic breathing under control.

  He checked his bicorn hat and, when he was ready, began to stride confidently down the street, knowing that he was attracting the attention of the people gathered at the sides of the road.

  When Richard opened the street door of the George Hotel, he was greeted by the familiar warm waft of sawdust, ale and cigarette smoke. The odours enveloped him as he pushed his way through the crowds of labourers to get to the bar.

  ‘The Priory Ground inquest?’ he called.

  A small, sweaty man nodded to a door at the rear of the room and, pushing it open, Richard found a large meeting room almost at full occupancy.

  The short table, at which the five appointed commissioners sat upon Windsor chairs, headed the inquest. The smart, middle-aged men were scrutinising a document on the table in front of them. The twelve men of the jury were seated at a longer table, which ran perpendicular to the commissioners, and were seated whispering nervously amongst themselves. Opposite them were four long rows of fully occupied chairs and benches, at which sat members of the public and interested parties.

  Richard searched among them and, having spotted who he was looking for, pressed through the crowds and sat down in a reserved spot beside him.

  Alderman Honeysett, a smartly dressed senior member of the corporation, nodded his greeting. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he muttered irritably.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ one of the commissioners said, addressing the entire gathering; the low murmur in the room fell to silence. ‘By a warrant of the Attorney-General, we have been authorised to take evidence of witnesses worthy of credit upon their corporal oath into the rightful and legal proprietorship of certain lands near or adjoining the town of Hastings.’ He turned to the jurymen. ‘You, gentlemen, twelve honest and lawful men of the county, have been empanelled here to give just verdict on the evidence presented before you.’ He concluded his opening remarks by shuffling his papers and sitting back solemnly.

  The inquest continued and evidence was heard from local landowners and representat
ives of the Crown, who presented arguments as to why this newly created piece of valuable land should be legally granted to their office. As the evidence was given, Richard cast his eyes over the assembled crowd to either side of him. Among the unfamiliar faces were some corporation officials and people whom he recognised from the Priory Ground. Then he saw her. Eliza Lovekin. Dressed in full mourning attire, she carefully watched the evidence being offered by Lord Cornwallis’s agents and lawyers.

  Richard suddenly felt nauseous as he recalled the night of the rebellion and the humiliation that she had brought upon him. From the surreptitious glances and covert whispering that he had encountered in the streets afterwards, he knew that word of his degradation had been spread by the gossipers—or nabblers—as they called themselves.

  His breathing became faster and he began to sweat.

  The temperature of the room seemed to have risen dramatically in seconds.

  He fanned his clammy face with his stack of documents and looked at the people around the room. Nobody else was sweating or suffering under the heat. Just him.

  Richard closed his eyes and let the seat behind him take his full weight, as he fought with his own memories. He was there again, on the Priory Ground, feeling everything that he had felt in those few seconds when he was assaulted by her, then flung unceremoniously from his horse. He couldn’t control it, couldn’t suppress it.

  He sat up, wiped his brow and tried to concentrate.

  He was back in the hot silent room.

  He gaped at the five commissioners.

  ‘We call Alderman Thomas Honeysett to present evidence for the town and corporation of Hastings,’ one of the commissioners appealed.

  ‘Good luck,’ Richard said, pressing the documents into Thomas’s expectant hands.

  Richard watched as he began to make his way forwards to present his case.

  Then, with a weak smile, he noticed the look of horror in Eliza Lovekin’s eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  18th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex