He looked at the five names again.
John, Lawrence, Tina, Norman and Angela Strickland.
Morton was now more sure than ever that one of those people held the key to unlocking part of the Lovekin Case mystery. But he had no idea of the way forward. He could hardly write to them—even if he had the time to sit back and await a response—it wasn’t the kind of thing he could put in a letter. Was it appropriate to phone them? Or visit them?
It needed more thought, but time was decidedly running out.
Both his phone and his laptop simultaneously announced with a beep that a new email had arrived in his inbox. It was from Sally. Dear Batman, Found it! See—I could be your assistant! Although her name wasn’t Eliza Smith…Hope it’s what you need. Anything else, give me a shout. Sally / Robin x
Morton smiled as he opened the attachment. It was a scanned copy of the original marriage entry.
Joseph Lovekin of this Parish batchelor and Eliza Winter of the Parish of Westwell in the County of Kent spinster were married in this church by licence this twenty-third day of July in the year one thousand eight hundred and three by me Henry Clark curate.
At last, Morton had a breakthrough and found a window into Eliza’s past. They had married after all and she had been living in Westwell.
Eliza’s maiden name was given as Winter. Why, then had her daughters given Eliza’s maiden name as Smith?
Morton was sure that now he was in possession of her real maiden name, her early life might finally be revealed.
With luck, he would also find her killer.
Chapter Nineteen
20th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
The day was fading when Eliza Lovekin strode over the Priory Bridge, her black silhouette cutting through a diffuse mist that had rolled up from the sea. She was taking a chance by doing what she was about to do, but it was a chance that she had to take. Besides, if she sat back and did nothing, then very soon all that she and Joe had worked so hard to achieve would be lost. Then, if the very worst were to happen, she and the girls would be sent to the workhouse. She shuddered at the thought, as memories from her childhood swamped her mind, saturating her thoughts as she walked. Horrible, disturbing memories that she had worked hard to lock away.
Through the haze of grief, she saw her childhood in front of her once again.
She had been born in the workhouse. Her earliest memories were of seeing her ailing mother on her hands and knees scrubbing the floors, as her life had slowly ebbed away. At the age of ten, her mother had died, leaving Eliza with nothing to her name other than the clothes that she had stood in and her mother’s possessions, which amounted to a gridiron, warming pan and tea kettle. She was left entirely alone in the world until another destitute orphan, Amelia Odden, had arrived and taken the empty bed beside Eliza that had been her mother’s. The two girls had immediately gravitated towards each other and their friendship had helped them through the long and difficult days. The summer following Amelia’s arrival, Lydia Bloom had been dumped in the relieving room. Malnourished and barely clothed, Lydia was the daughter of a pair of vagrants who no longer wanted her.
Eliza recalled how unimaginably hard life had been for three girls until, at the age of fifteen, a new governor had been appointed. Mr Honeysett and his wife: kind, compassionate, God-fearing people who strived for the moral and physical betterment of their charges. Eliza had taken to them fondly and, after some time, had become aware that she and her two friends, Lydia and Amelia held elevated positions in the Honeysetts’ eyes. They had tried not to flaunt it in front of the other inmates, but the relationship between the three orphan girls and the childless couple had ripened. For the first time in their lives, Eliza, Amelia and Lydia had experienced happiness. Mrs Honeysett had begun to take them on walks through the surrounding woods, pointing out and naming the trees and flowers that they encountered. In the evenings, she had taught the girls to read and write and other skills that they would need when finally they left the workhouse—a proposition that for the first time had begun to seem less appealing. The girls had learned to stitch, make clothes and launder properly; by the time Eliza had reached her sixteenth year, she no longer considered herself to be an inmate. It was shortly after her birthday that everything had changed. Mrs Honeysett had died suddenly from tuberculosis and Eliza, Lydia and Amelia had found themselves in an unpleasant void between being a part of the grieving family and workhouse inmates. Mr Honeysett, a keen abstainer of alcohol, suddenly began to drink heavily. It was during one of his drunken stupors that he had first forced himself upon Eliza. The guilt and remorse that he had shown afterwards had not been sufficient to prevent it from happening to Lydia. Then to Amelia. Over and over again.
Eliza shivered, her thoughts pulled back to the present. She would not return to a workhouse, not all the while that she had breath left in her body.
She was approaching the High Street and slowed her step. The gloomy weather had rendered the streets all but empty, but still she kept her head down, keen to avoid being recognised.
She paced along the High Street until she reached the Town Hall. Taking a deep breath, she entered the lobby of the building. It was a simple room with two chairs, a table and an oil lamp. At the far end of the room was a door, which fed onto a long, narrow corridor. Eliza walked along it until she reached the brass plaque which read: ‘Alderman T. Honeysett’. She tapped the nameplate lightly with her knuckles.
‘Enter,’ a voice bellowed from inside.
Eliza took another long breath, then opened the door. She found it hard not to have an audible reaction to the sight before her. Sitting behind a large mahogany desk was Thomas Honeysett. He had aged considerably and was now a shrivelled cadaverous man with hollow rubicund cheeks. Tufts of white hair sprouted up at each side of his bald head. His watery eyes narrowed in disbelief.
Eliza closed the door behind her. ‘Hello, Mr Honeysett.’
‘Eliza Winter,’ he wheezed. ‘It’s been a very long time since we’ve seen each other’—his thick gnarled hands gestured towards the chair opposite his desk—‘I must say I’m surprised to see you here.’
Eliza sat. ‘Twenty-four years,’ she answered, recalling the last time that she had seen him up close, when the Kent Assizes had sentenced him to two years’ hard labour.
Thomas Honeysett chortled. ‘Is it really?’
‘But it ain’t, is it?’ Eliza retorted. ‘I be seeing you on the America Ground, ain’t I? And the inquest.’
A thin, devious smile spread across his lips. ‘I might have made a few visits to the Priory Ground, yes.’
‘What do you want?’ Eliza asked, clutching her hands together in her lap to prevent them from shaking.
‘I don’t think, Miss Winter, that asking me what I want is the reason for your visit,’ he asserted, straightening in his chair. ‘The more pertinent question is why you’re sitting at my desk. That, I think is the question that necessitates an answer.’
‘I want a lease for the Black Horse,’ she said, the quiver in her voice betraying her emotions.
Mr Honeysett laughed. ‘A lease?’ He sat forward and glowered heatedly at her. ‘And you thought that strolling in here and asking me, after what you did, that I would just hand one over?’ He shook his head, leant over the desk and snarled, ‘The sooner you ridiculous people crawl under a stone and die, the better. Now get out of my office!’
Eliza flinched, watching the saliva gather in the corners of his cracked lips. She sat up confidently. ‘No, Mr Honeysett. I ain’t be leaving here without a lease.’
Mr Honeysett laughed again, a hoarse, mocking laugh. ‘And why would I do that?’
‘Otherwise I be going along that corridor,’ she began, pointing to the door, ‘hammering on every alderman’s door a-telling them what you did.’
Mr Honeysett recoiled and Eliza knew only then that her gamble could pay off; his colleagues and superiors were in blissful ignorance of his criminal past. His ove
rsized grey eyebrows furrowed deeply. ‘Ever since you were a child you were a devious little bitch, but this...’ His voice trailed into an incredulous silence. He turned around, picked up something and tossed it to Eliza.
With a quivering hand, Eliza picked up a vellum indenture from his desk.
‘It’s a seven-year lease, then the whole Priory Ground will be cleared,’ he sneered. ‘You’ll be only the third person to sign it.’
Eliza threw it back. ‘I don’t be wanting seven years; I be wanting full rights to that land forever.’
Another laugh from Mr Honeysett. ‘Even if I wanted to comply with your wicked extortion, I simply do not have that authority. The land belongs to the Crown. Perhaps you should try King George,’ he sneered.
Eliza stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Alderman.’ She turned and waltzed confidently to the door, pulling it wide and turned into the corridor.
‘Alderman Wise,’ she yelled, rapping hard on the adjacent door. ‘Alderman Wise!’
The door swung open and a rotund man in his late fifties with a bald head and droopy eyes peered out. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s all right, Alderman Wise, I’ll sort this one out,’ Mr Honeysett called from his office door. ‘Madam, kindly step into my office and we’ll get your paperwork sorted out.’
Eliza smiled and followed Mr Honeysett back into this office.
Chapter Twenty
4th July 1803, Union Workhouse, Westwell, Kent
The Union Workhouse contained seventy inmates from Westwell and its surrounding parishes. Among their number were Eliza and her two friends, Lydia and Amelia. They, along with the other able-bodied women there, were tasked by the governor each day with the unattainable job of keeping the entire workhouse clean. The official working hours were from five a.m. to seven p.m. from Lady Day to Michaelmas and from daylight to dusk from Michaelmas to Lady Day. In reparation they received a hard bed in a cold dormitory and the monotonous diet of bread, milk, tea and cheese. Eliza received the additional reward of collecting firewood for the ovens.
It was in the woods behind the workhouse that Eliza was lying on her back on a thin wooden footbridge, her arms splayed out either side of her, her fingers fluttering softly on the surface of the languid river. She caught flashes of the late afternoon sun through the gently swaying hazel and sweet chestnut canopy above her. Today she was the wife of a wealthy landowner, taking a deserved pause from her busy life running her household. The last time that she had been here, she fancied herself as Queen Charlotte, taking a break from her botanical interests. Over time, she had imagined herself a baroness, an explorer’s wife, a governess and a host of other women who held some degree of control over their lives. Whenever she came here, she was anyone other than Eliza Winter, the girl from the workhouse. These few moments of peace, not often granted, were her only times of true salvation and solace, where she was alone and surrounded by nature. She had learned quickly where to find supplies of suitable firewood for the ovens, and so would hastily fill her baskets then pass the remaining time sitting quietly beside the river.
Eliza closed her eyes and rolled onto her front, knowing that she had just a few precious minutes left before she needed to return. It was as though time and the river were one entity, coursing through her fingers, unstoppably.
In the distance, a shrill cry that Eliza knew to belong to a skylark penetrated the stuffy air.
She suddenly flinched, sure that she heard something unusual.
Sitting up, she listened carefully.
There it was again, the unmistakable crunch of twigs snapping beneath heavy feet. She knew that it had to be him—Mr Beresford, who ran the workhouse and who, after what she had done, had made her already desperate life insufferable.
Eliza sprang to her feet and grabbed the two baskets. Why was he out here? she wondered. Was she late?
She held her breath as she waited for Mr Beresford to appear through the thicket of rhododendrons.
Then he came into view: a dashing young man with dark eyes and olive skin, stripped bare to the waist. He looked startled and took a step back, his eyes wide with fear.
‘Hello,’ Eliza said tentatively. ‘Who do you be? I ain’t seen you around these parts before.’
‘It don’t matter who I am, I just be passing through. I’ll not be bothering you, don’t worry, Miss,’ he said uncertainly, glancing around him.
Eliza noticed then the canvas bag that was slung over his back. ‘Where do you be going?’
‘Home,’ he answered.
‘And where be that?’ Eliza asked.
‘Sussex.’
‘You be a long way away.’
‘I know. Can you be a-helping me get back to the main road?’ he asked.
Eliza thought for a moment. She had already stayed here longer than she should have done. If she guided this man to the main road there was no way she would make it back to the workhouse before dark. And yet she found herself nodding, as if bedevilled by the women of her own imaginings, prodding her towards adventure. ‘Follow me,’ she said, taking the path over the bridge in the direction away from the workhouse.
‘What be your name?’ she asked, as they began to cross the woods.
‘Joe,’ he answered.
She waited for him to reciprocate the question but, when it wasn’t forthcoming, she said, ‘Mine be Eliza.’
‘How long until we reach the road, Eliza?’ he asked. ‘I been a-walking for days now.’
‘It still be another couple of mile, yet,’ she said, glancing at the sun slowly disappearing into the horizon.
Eliza’s fabricated confidence began to wane with the fading light and she realised the foolhardiness of her decision to guide a stranger through the dark countryside. A stranger who seemed jittery and nervous. She suddenly understood her vulnerability, stopped and faced him. ‘I best let you go on alone,’ she said.
Joe looked surprised. ‘Do you be certain sure you want to be going back through the woods by yourself? It be pitch black in a few minutes.’
Eliza smiled. ‘I grown up here, I be knowing these woods better than the animals that call it home.’
‘No,’ Joe insisted, ‘If you be heading back, then I be walking you. Come on, lead the way.’
Eliza looked at him, mystified. Having complained of his tiredness from walking for days on end, he was now happy to trek all the way back to the workhouse. Just for her. Apart from Mrs Honeysett, nobody had ever taken much care over her—let alone a stranger; her fear of him immediately dissolved and she suddenly knew that she would be safer with him than back at the workhouse. ‘No, let’s carry on.’
‘Do you be sure?’ he puzzled, setting his canvas bag to the ground. ‘What about your home?’
Eliza shrugged. ‘It still be there tomorrow.’
‘Won’t nobody be missing you?’
Eliza thought about the workhouse and all the people inside it. After all the trouble and bad attention that she had brought to the place, most of them would be glad that she had gone. She thought of her friendship with Lydia and Amelia, their shared bond and their awful shared experiences. They would miss her. Just yesterday, she had spent the day in the infirmary, helping Lydia to deliver her baby boy. She was now in confinement, on a diet of beef boiled to a rag, toast and water. She would certainly miss her.
‘No,’ she breathed quietly, then began to move off. She stopped again and turned. ‘Do you be a-coming or not?’
Joe picked up his bag and followed her.
‘I be knowing of somewhere we can sleep tonight not far from here: Farmer Willis’s barn. It be away from the farmhouse and there’s sure to be left over hay to lie on.’
Joe exhaled. ‘A lie down be just what I need.’
The path terminated at the edge of the wood, giving out onto a cornfield. Just above the tall sheaves the last vestiges of the sun were manifest in a broken sweep of orange and pink lines.
Eliza led them along a narrow track that cut through the field, wanting to reach
the barn before full darkness set in.
‘Can I be asking you, Eliza,’ Joe began, ‘why you want to be helping a stranger like this? It be very trusting of you.’
Eliza tried to evoke one of the women that she had so often pretended to be, to give an answer that told of adventure and risk, but instead she gave the honest answer: ‘To escape, just for a moment.’ Inexplicably, hearing her own words surprised Eliza. She was escaping the only home that she had ever known. But it was a bad home where awful things happened.
Eliza suddenly stopped, turned and placed her finger on her lips. They had reached the end of the field. She cautiously parted the long tendrils of corn and looked out onto the road. With darkness almost completely settled, Eliza was as certain as she could be that nobody was around. Facing Joe, she nodded and led him across the road to a large barn on the outskirts of the Willis’s farm.
Silently, Eliza crept inside with Joe close behind. She looked around the barn and was thankful that it would be a warm night; it had three wooden sides and a roof but the front was entirely open. Just as she had thought, at the back was a small stack of hay.
‘How do this fine hotel be meeting your expectations, sir?’ Eliza joked. Despite the darkness, she knew that Joe was smiling.
‘I think it be doing very nicely,’ he replied in a well spoken voice. ‘Which bedroom will be mine?’
‘Please, allow me,’ Eliza said, taking him by the hand and walking him towards the hay. ‘Here, sir.’
‘Why, thank you, madam,’ Joe said, dropping his canvas bag and collapsing into the hay. He sighed noisily and shuffled to get comfy.
Eliza scanned the dark barn for her own suitable place to sleep. It was inappropriate for her to be sleeping in any close proximity to a man—she knew that—but there was nowhere else. It would be a fine night, so she decided to sleep outside. It wouldn’t have been the first time. After all the trouble at the workhouse last year she had run away and spent three nights sleeping in a field. And then Mr Honeysett had found her and dragged her back.
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3) Page 21