The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 3)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Eliza gulped in long and large mouthfuls of air as one of her oldest and dearest friends ventured back inside the house that had been their prison for the past month. They had even begun to dare to believe that he might not come.

  But now it was over.

  The inescapable shadow that had lingered over them since their days at the Westwell Workhouse had finally lifted, but with such terrible consequences. Two of her oldest friends and her husband had died. She had missed her eldest daughter’s wedding. She could never ever return to the Black Horse or her former home.

  She knelt down beside the body of her son, as tears ran down her cheeks and fell onto his forehead. Running her fingers gently over his face, she closed his eyes.

  She was determined to have a future. To draw on the strength and spirit of the America Ground. To live out the remainder of her life as a true American.

  Epilogue

  The vice clamping down on his insides tightened as Morton entered Portsmouth. All the way here he had consciously switched his thoughts from thinking about what he was about to discover. Or not discover. His lips were parched and his throat felt dry and constricted, like it was an effort to swallow. He reached for a bottle of water, took a long swig, then tossed it back onto the empty passenger seat beside him, wishing that Juliette could have been here. She was good at calming him down, at rationalising his mind when it became turbulent, as it was fast becoming right now. He didn’t know what he would do—could do—if the looming visit to Roy Dyche failed to produce any leads.

  Stop it! he told himself. Think about something else.

  He thought about the lengthy email that he had received this morning, from Bunny. It was, in her own inimitable manner, full of exclamation marks and italics. She said that she had spent the entire night reading and re-reading the Lovekin Case file and that she had totally accepted his findings. Bunny had gone on to confirm that she was handing everything to do with the case over to East Sussex Archives, including the indentures and the America Ground flag. In a one-line postscript, she also said that she would be extending an olive branch to her siblings, then thanked Morton for his time.

  The satnav instructed Morton to turn off into Old Manor Way—Roy Dyche’s road—and the wrenching sensation inside him intensified as he slowed to check for house numbers. The road was a wide and quiet residential street populated by post-war semis, each fronted by a low brick wall and short front garden.

  ‘The destination is on your left,’ the satnav announced, without any inkling of the gravity of her words.

  Morton pulled over outside number 58 and took a deep breath.

  Reaching behind him for his bag, he stepped from the car, wondering if his weak legs would actually be able to carry him up the path.

  Come on, Morton! Get a grip! he rebuked himself.

  Another long breath and he began to walk towards the house. He rang the bell and waited.

  A woman who looked to be in her late fifties, with long brown hair, wide-rimmed glasses and a pleasant face, appeared at the door. ‘Morton Farrier?’ she asked, extending her hand out.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Susan?’ he asked, shaking her hand.

  ‘Yes, do come in. I’ve just put the kettle on. Dad’s out in the conservatory—come in,’ she said, leading the way through a hallway, of which almost every inch of wall space was occupied by family photographs. Even though he had no connection to them, it inexplicably pleased Morton that the Dyche family had clearly flourished.

  ‘Dad—this is Morton.’

  From one of four wicker chairs arranged around a small coffee table facing a small but well-tended garden stood a man in his early eighties. He was tall and slender with a slightly podgy tummy, trim white hair and matching moustache.

  ‘Roy,’ he said with a smile. ‘You found us okay, then.’

  ‘Yes, no problems. All down to the satnav.’

  Tea? Coffee?’ Susan asked.

  ‘Coffee for me, please,’ Morton answered.

  Susan disappeared off into the kitchen and Morton spotted half a dozen cardboard boxes that were on top of the dining table in the centre of the room, each labelled Mum & Dad’s bits. ‘Thank you for digging out the boxes.’

  Roy shook his head and pulled a face which suggested that it was not a problem. ‘You sounded pretty desperate. Have a seat and tell me what it is you’re looking for exactly.’

  Morton recounted his search for his father, only stopping when Susan entered the room with their drinks and a barrel of biscuits. She pulled up a dining chair and listened intently to the tail-end of Morton’s quest.

  ‘Golly,’ Susan said when Morton had finished. ‘Well I hope there’s something in one of those boxes. Before we begin, though, take a look at this.’ She leant over and plucked a black-framed photograph from a long pine dresser that was adorned with pictures, plants and ornaments. She handed the picture to Morton. ‘My grandparents—Edward and Irene Dyche.’

  Morton studied the colour photograph and could tell instantly that it had been taken outside the house on Canterbury Road. Standing proudly in front of the door, were a middle-aged couple in old-fashioned attire. There was a warmth to both of their faces and, coupled with Roy’s possibly inherited generosity and kindness, Morton imagined his biological father’s stay in their guesthouse to have been a homely pleasurable time. It was strange to think that those two people in the photo had actually met his real father and mother. And his adopted father, come to that.

  ‘They look like lovely people,’ Morton said, handing back the picture.

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Roy replied. ‘Very kind, caring parents.’

  ‘They were smashing people…’ Susan began, before being interrupted by the irritating sound of a mobile phone ringing loudly in the room.

  Morton’s mobile. He hurriedly pulled it from his pocket and looked at the caller’s name: Dad. He certainly knows how to pick his moments, Morton thought, embarrassedly declining the call. He probably has some innate sense of what I’m doing.

  ‘Sorry,’ Morton apologised.

  Susan smiled. ‘It’s okay. Shall we make a start on these boxes, then?’

  ‘Pass the first one over,’ Roy directed and Susan stood and lifted the first one down, placing it on the coffee table. Roy removed the lid and pulled out a bundle of assorted papers and yellowing envelopes.

  ‘Oh, goodness!’ he exclaimed. ‘All my old letters to them from when I was overseas. Dear, oh dear.’ He pulled one out and began to read it to himself.

  Morton smiled politely, fearing that this could be a very long day.

  ‘Maybe read that later, Dad,’ Susan suggested, pulling an apologetic face at Morton.

  Roy suddenly became aware that he had drifted off into his own past. ‘Sorry, yes.’ He set the letters to one side and continued to withdraw the contents, running an inventory as he sifted. ‘My old school records. Mum and Dad’s certificates. Newspaper cuttings. Awards. Old insurance documents…’

  Morton sipped his coffee, listening and watching closely.

  ‘They certainly liked to keep a lot of stuff, didn’t they,’ Susan quipped, eyes widening at Morton. ‘Shall I start on another box, Dad?’

  Roy looked up and took a moment to process the question. ‘Do you know what you’re looking for?’

  Susan shrugged. ‘Anything to do with the guesthouse?’ She looked at Morton quizzically. ‘Which year?’

  ‘1974. Early January.’

  Susan set her mug down and took a box from the table. ‘Do you want to have a rummage?’ she asked Morton.

  ‘If it’s okay with your dad,’ Morton answered, awaiting permission from Roy. He nodded and Susan passed him a box.

  He examined it slowly and methodically, making certain that he was not missing anything, but it contained only a haphazard collection of paperwork that seemed to span the couple’s later life. Outdated car insurance. Pay slips. Magazine cuttings. Recipes. Letters. The odd photograph. Nothing from the guesthouse years and nothing from the
1970s.

  His phone began to ring again, drawing the attention of both Roy and Susan.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, taking a brief look at the screen. His dad again. Morton declined the call and switched the phone to silent.

  Susan stood, placing her box to one side. Morton could tell from her face that she had not found anything of interest. ‘Nothing in that one. Was yours no good?’ she asked Morton.

  He shook his head. ‘No, nothing even for that decade.’

  ‘Dad, have you had any luck?’ Susan asked.

  Roy turned his nose up as he pulled out another wodge of papers. ‘Not yet.’ He screwed his face up and turned to Susan. ‘I’m sure there are some bits from the guesthouse. Unless Gloria threw them out…’

  ‘My mother,’ Susan explained to Morton. ‘A bit of a minimalist, to say the least. She would quite happily have burnt all this years ago.’

  Inwardly, Morton shuddered. How anyone could just discard such important pieces of social and family history was beyond him.

  ‘One more each,’ Susan said, passing another identical box to Morton then settling down to begin sifting through hers.

  ‘Nope!’ Roy suddenly yelled, placing the lid down on his box. ‘Next!’

  Susan looked doubtfully at Morton. ‘Last one.’ She picked it up and handed it to her father.

  Morton began to feel his father slipping away from him, as the three of them continued to search in silence.

  ‘Aha!’ Susan murmured. ‘This box could be interesting.’

  Morton placed the papers in his hand to one side and looked over at Susan.

  ‘These,’ she said, holding up a bundle of documents bound by an elastic band, as she continued to rummage in the box ‘are tax records for the guesthouse. It’s all official stuff and nothing about the people who stayed there, but…’ – she stopped talking and pulled out a thin red book with gold lettering on the front—‘guest books!’

  Morton felt like something had just attached itself to his lungs and sucked out his breath. Could it be?

  He watched and waited.

  Susan placed the bundle of tax documents down and turned to the first page. ‘1976, it starts.’ She placed the book down and took another similarly sized one from the box. ‘1974!’ she practically shouted, flicking through the pages. She suddenly stopped. ‘You should do it.’ She passed the book to Morton with an anxious look on her face.

  The clamping vice on his stomach returned.

  This was it.

  Susan and Roy watched as Morton slowly opened the guestbook and turned to the first pages. If the online conception calculator was correct, then they would have stayed in Folkestone between 2nd January and 10th January.

  Each page of the guestbook was neatly arranged in columns, allowing five entries per page. The first entry was dated 5th January 1974.

  ‘Well?’ Roy barked.

  Morton nodded. ‘I think I’ve found them.’

  Slowly—painfully slowly—Morton read across the entry. ‘Saturday 5th January 1974. Roscoe, Velda and Harley Jacklin. Boston, USA. Had a fantastic time in England. Beautiful house. Beautiful town.’

  ‘So that’s them?’ Susan asked.

  Morton studied the entry, written in his grandfather’s handwriting, with disbelief.

  Harley Jacklin, known as Jack: his father.

  Twenty minutes later, Morton was walking back to his car clutching the guestbook. He had sought permission to photograph it, but Roy and Susan had been in agreement that he could take the book on a permanent loan.

  He was in a trance, his mind overcome with what he would do next. He dismissed the urge to begin researching his biological father right now on his mobile, preferring to be in his study where he could be meticulous and thorough. Now was not the time to make silly mistakes by rushing. He had waited this long, another couple of hours wouldn’t make any difference.

  He remembered then that his adopted father had twice tried to call. Morton wasn’t in the mood to speak him, not now. He pulled out his phone and switched it off silent mode.

  Sixteen missed calls. All from his dad.

  With a reluctant sigh, he dialled him back.

  ‘Hello?’ It was Madge. Great.

  ‘Hi, it’s Morton,’ he said, not quite able to disguise his annoyance.

  ‘Oh, hello, Morton,’ Madge uttered. She sounded upset. ‘I’ve got some terrible news. It’s your dad—I’m sorry to tell you this over the phone, but he died this morning.’

  Historical Information

  As mentioned in the Author’s Note, this novel is set in a real place and a real time. The description of how The America Ground came to be is accurate; hundreds of years of storms silted up Hastings Harbour, creating a piece of land that Hastings Corporation initially felt to be outside of its jurisdiction. Rope-makers moved onto the site, making use of the great expanses of desolate land on which to lay out their ropes. Needing somewhere to stay during inclement weather, the hulks of condemned vessels began to appear on the land. At this time, building developments were springing up in Hastings and the foundations of the new seaside town of St Leonards were being built. This led to a great influx of labourers looking for cheap accommodation; by 1822 plots of land were being snatched up along the ropewalks of the Priory Ground. Buildings of brick, stone and timber were erected, alongside more humble shacks. By the mid 1820s, there were around 195 houses and businesses on the land, home to over one thousand people. Among the butchers, bakers, slaughterhouses and rope-makers, was a gin palace called the Black Horse, run by a man named Daniel Thomas.

  At some point in the 1820s, attempts were made to exert control over the lawless occupants of the Priory Ground, which were met with fierce resistance. The people of the Priory Ground reacted with hostility, hoisting the American Stars and Stripes and declaring themselves to be an independent state of America. From then on, the Priory Ground became known as the America Ground, with the occupants referring to themselves as Americans. This area of Hastings is still known by this name today.

  The America Ground was hit several times by devastating storms, which pulled down several houses, but still undaunted, the Americans continued to reside there.

  In 1826, matters came to a head when one of the Americans wanted to sell their house, but, being without any official documentation, was unable to do so, which led directly to an official inquest being conducted into the legal ownership of the America Ground.

  On the 6th December 1827, an inquest was held at the George Hotel in Battle, where five commissioners were tasked with determining the rightful ownership of this land. It took the jury of twelve men one day to reach the decision that the America Ground belonged to the Crown.

  Temporary, seven-year leases were issued to the Americans who, defiant to the end, largely refused to pay rents with only four leases being taken up. In November 1834 all occupants were served notices to leave.

  Many of the Americans, unwilling to leave their houses and businesses behind, chose to dismantle them and relocate them elsewhere. One such property was the Black Horse, which moved to Shepherd Street and was renamed The Forester’s Arms.

  The land, once cleared, stood empty until 1849 when Patrick Robertson, a London merchant rented the entire America Ground from the Crown for £500 per year. Soon after, he erected rows of fashionable Victorian streets—three of which were named after him—containing hotels, shops and houses. Holy Trinity Church was built on the site of the former Black Horse.

  The America Ground remained in the hands of the Crown until 1995, when it was sold to a London development company called Five Courts. There is no suggestion of impropriety on their part at any stage!

  The Forester’s Arms eventually closed its doors as a public house, becoming at one point an art gallery and then, as it is still used to this day, as a private residence.

  The newspaper report of Thomas Honeysett’s court case was largely based on a true account that occurred in my family tree in 1851. A Thomas Vincent Hatherley, g
overnor of the Cranbrook Union Workhouse, administered savin to Harriet Dengate and another girl, having got them both ‘in the family way’. He was sentenced by the Kent Assizes to two years’ hard labour.

  All of the records that Morton uses in his research are real, but with fictitious content.

  Acknowledgments

  I am indebted to various professionals who have offered their invaluable assistance with the technical aspects of this book—notably with police procedure and legal matters—so, my grateful thanks go to: Helen Woollven, Julia Pettman, Belinda Lewis, Kate Hughes, and Rebecca Woods.

  My thanks also go to Patrick Dengate for creating an image of the America Ground as I imagined it to have been, and to Julia Gibbs for her proof-reading services.

  Finally, my thanks go to Robert Bristow for his continuing support.

  Although The Forensic Genealogist series can be read in any order, turn the page for Morton Farrier’s next adventure.

  The Spyglass File - Prologue

  12th July 1943, Capel-le-Ferne, Kent

  Elsie Finch stood on the narrow path that rose to five hundred feet above the dramatic white cliffs, the wind coursing through her blonde unkempt hair. She cut a striking figure as she glanced down over the cliff edge. Flaps of her ripped blue dress danced gaily in the breeze and slow streams of bright red blood flowed down from the abundance of scratches on her exposed arms and legs.

  She edged forward, to the spot of flattened grass that, just seconds before, had been where her mother-in-law had stood. Elsie leaned over as far as she dared, and peered below. She gasped and stepped back in horror; the body had fallen to a ledge part way down and was now motionless, lying broken and entwined in great ringlets of rusting barbed wire.

  Elsie closed her eyes, her train of thought brittle, suddenly. The desire to flee, to escape this nightmare was overwhelming, but there was one thing left to do.