He glanced up as he searched and noticed the net curtains of the house opposite twitching. Morton studied the tall grey house, daring the person to reveal themselves but there was no further movement; he needed to get on and hope that they didn’t call the police.
He was around half of the way through his search when he found it: an insipid grey memorial stone, aged and spotted with orange lichen and partially covered by an overgrown holly bush. He snapped back some of the branches in order to read it fully. The grave had suffered some damage lower down, but the name Lovekin was still plain to see. Morton smiled as he copied the inscription onto his notepad. 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. Also Eliza Lovekin, wife of the above, formerly of the parish…
Morton stopped writing, unable to ascertain any further full words; the lower quarter of the stone was suffering badly from decades of intemperate seaside weather. Blown and cracked, whole pieces had disintegrated entirely. He stooped down and carefully placed his fingers on the gaps left by the fallen masonry; fragments and shadows of letters still existed, but not enough to form whole words or to understand what they had once said. The inscription clearly stated that Eliza had originated from a different parish than that in which she had died.
‘Who murdered you?’ Morton said to the gravestone. ‘Why?’
‘Excuse me,’ a disgruntled voice suddenly called from the other side of the fence.
Morton looked up to see a short, fat man with a bald head gazing angrily in his direction. ‘Hello,’ Morton replied innocently.
‘Don’t you ‘hello’ me, young man—you’re trespassing,’ the man wheezed. ‘How did you get in there? I’m the churchwarden and I didn’t give you permission.’
Morton shot a contemptuous look at the upper window of the house opposite, composed his expression, then twisted to face the man, who was dabbing at his sweaty face with a handkerchief. He’d evidently rushed here hoping to catch Morton in the act.
‘The gate,’ Morton answered, placing his camera carefully inside his bag.
The man looked confused. ‘Impossible. There are two sets of keys: one’s with the vicar and one set’s here,’ he said, proudly dangling a large bunch of keys, as if presenting conclusive evidence to a jury. ‘So, I ask again—how did you get in there?’
‘The gate,’ Morton persisted calmly. ‘I’ll show you.’ He would have liked to finish searching the entire yard but knew that would now not be possible, so he strode confidently back towards the gate, the churchwarden pacing beside him on the other side of the fence. ‘Hold this, would you,’ Morton said, thrusting his bag over the iron railings.
The churchwarden took the bag and watched incredulously as Morton began to climb back over. ‘That’s trespassing, that is! I’ve a jolly good mind to phone the police. What right have you?’
Morton smiled. ‘What right have you to lock up the graveyard? Under those headstones there are people—not church possessions,’ Morton ranted. He indicated the nearest gravestone and continued, ‘That’s somebody’s grandparent or great grandparent. Why can’t they visit them?’
‘Vandals!’ the churchwarden exclaimed.
Morton rolled his eyes, retracted his bag from the man’s grasp. ‘Thank you. Good day.’
‘How rude,’ the sweaty man remarked, as Morton sauntered defiantly back towards his car.
Morton carried a fresh cup of coffee upstairs to his study and set it down beside his laptop. He had failed miserably with his promise to cut back on his caffeine intake. From the printer he collected photos of the Lovekin headstone which, along with the inscription, he fastened to the wall. Before he had gone downstairs to make a drink, Morton had added Joseph and Eliza’s three daughters to the basic family tree that he had constructed: finding out more about them was his next step.
Taking a sip of coffee, he sat at his desk and opened up the Ancestry website, beginning a search in the marriage indexes for the three sisters. Knowing that Joseph and Eliza had died in their forties, Morton estimated that the children were most likely to have been born within ten years either side of 1818.
The marriage results that appeared onscreen for Harriet seemed very dubious, occurring at times or in registration districts to make them highly unlikely. Still, Morton printed out the results and stuck them to the wall. However, the marriage search for Ann Lovekin produced only one likely match, taking place in Hastings in the December quarter of 1839. Morton ordered the certificate, then switched to the death indexes. When the search for Harriet’s death also failed to yield any satisfactory results, he began to suspect that she might have been the eldest—after all, she was listed first on her parents’ grave—and, therefore, it was possible that she had married prior to the commencement of civil registration in 1837 and had died under her married name. The search for Keziah Lovekin’s death was quick and easy; Morton found it in the September quarter of 1892. She had died in the Hastings district aged eighty years. Keziah’s age at death confirmed Morton’s suspicions about the girls’ relative birthdates. He ordered her death certificate, took another gulp of coffee and switched his focus to finding Keziah in the censuses.
A few minutes into his research, Morton’s mobile rang; he recognised the number as belonging to Bunny’s Emporium. He answered it, desperately hoping that he would at last get to speak to the woman herself.
‘Morton!’ a shrill, exaggerated voice called down the phone. ‘Bunny Llewellyn here. I’m so sorry for my impudence—I really am a dreadful thing! What must you think of me? Palming my dear Eliza off onto you, then ignoring your calls-’
‘Really, it’s fine,’ Morton interjected, already wondering if he could cope with an entire phone conversation with this woman.
‘Well, that’s terribly kind of you—though, from what my dear Madge has said about you, I’m not at all surprised at your benevolence! Now then, Morton, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we? What do you think of dear Eliza—delicious painting, isn’t it? Don’t you think?’
Morton was very glad to be getting down to brass tacks, although delicious was not a word he would normally have used in his assessment and description of a painting. ‘Yes, lovely. I was just wondering, how much research do you want me to put into this case? I know you only want a provenance for the painting, so-’
‘Golly, what a monster you must take me for!’ Bunny cut in. ‘Not a provenance, but rather a life story. Everything. Anything. It is true that I shall be selling the portrait, so anything that adds colour to her life and brings her out of the canvas will be marvellous.’
‘And where did you say you bought the painting?’ Morton probed, wondering if the previous owner could help shed some light on its origins.
‘Oh gosh! One of the markets on the Portobello Road—such charming treats. I tell you, I’m in the wrong job—I just want to keep everything!’
‘I don’t suppose you remember exactly which seller it came from?’
Bunny laughed sardonically. ‘Golly, now you’re asking! I’ll have a think, but I won’t make any promises! I fill my van up with enchanting delights from Portobello at least once a week.’
‘If you could give it some thought, that would be great,’ Morton replied.
‘Now, about the timescale. I’m the last person who’s in a hurry to do anything, and I certainly don’t like to pressure, but there is a pretty big auction in the town in ten days’ time and I would love to show off dear Eliza with her endearing life story. Is that achievable, do you think?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Morton replied, wanting to avoid a firm commitment, lest his own research into his biological father should suddenly accelerate.
‘Oh, you are a real superstar, you really are! Must dash.’
Bunny ended the call with what sounded like her planting a kiss into her handset, leaving Morton staring in astonishment at his phone. He had absolutely no idea how Madge could wor
k with someone so ostentatious.
Feeling somewhat unsettled by the conversation, Morton resumed his searches into Keziah Lovekin. He found her with surprising ease on every census from 1841 to 1891. He printed out the sheets and stuck them to the wall, although they shed no real light on the family. Keziah had been a spinster her whole life, working as a domestic servant for the same wealthy family on each census.
At ten-thirty a.m. that day, Morton’s email to Riccards-Maloney was read by one of the London company secretaries, Janice Farmer. Not knowing the answer to his questions, she forwarded it to the office manager, Pauline Sims. Pauline picked up the email as she sipped her late-morning cup of tea. She too, did not know the answer and clicked forward, sending the email to Steven Greg, the Field Services Manager. Steven was the first member of the company to be perturbed by the content of Morton’s email. Having been in his role for six years, it was the first time that he had ever seen such an enquiry. He didn’t know the answer, but knew who would: he ignored the usual protocol of hierarchy and sent the email directly to Liz Seymour. Liz had been running the legal department of Riccards-Maloney since the early days of the company’s creation. She had overseen large-scale multi-million pound contracts that had allowed the company to grow exponentially, with assets now worth over £1.1 billion. When the email arrived from Steven, she was having an informal discussion with one of her legal secretaries. She immediately dismissed her and closed the door to her office on the eighteenth floor of The Shard in central London. She read the email carefully then strode out of her office to personally tell Steven Greg, Pauline Sims and Janice Farmer to delete the email. Back in her office, she phoned IT support and requested that the email be permanently removed from the company servers. When the person on the other end of the phone dared to mention the fact that the email still existed on the sender’s computer, she lost her temper and told him that that was another matter. Hunched over her desk, Liz then placed an international call to the company’s New York office.
‘Good morning, Mr Maloney’s office,’ came the chirpy reply.
‘It’s Liz Seymour. Put me through to Terry—now,’ she barked.
‘Just one moment,’ the secretary said, as the line went quiet.
‘Hi, Liz—what’s up?’ Terry Maloney asked.
‘Remember Horace Strickland?’ she said, anxiously tapping her manicured nails onto her black glass desk.
‘Of course,’ Terry replied quietly.
‘It’s happening again,’ Liz said.
‘What?’ he whispered, incredulity and shock laced through the one word he uttered. ‘It can’t be. We finished it back in 1988.’
‘We finished him, yes, but we didn’t manage to get the actual documents, did we?’
Terry Maloney sighed impatiently. ‘Start from the beginning,’ he ordered.
Liz read him Morton’s email and the two of them discussed their options at length.
Two hours and forty-six minutes after Morton had clicked ‘send’ on his email, the CEO of Riccards-Maloney had made his decision: ‘Do whatever it takes to get them this time. Anything. If this Morton Farrier is intent on preventing that then…’
‘He goes the same way as Horace Strickland?’ Liz cut in.
‘Yes.’
The transatlantic call ended and Liz Seymour knew what she had to do. She requested that her PA send immediately for Kevin Addison, the head of security, then slumped back in her chair.
Chapter Seven
14th February 1827, The Priory Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
Such was the din in the heaving Black Horse that Eliza Lovekin struggled to hear the gentleman’s order. For some reason—it might have been the bitter temperature outside, for snow was threatening—the gin palace was particularly busy with labourers and fishermen tonight.
‘I don’t be hearing you, sir,’ Eliza called across the long wooden bar, as she strained to catch a passing glimpse of a man outside who had attracted her attention.
‘Old Tom, please,’ the man repeated dourly.
Eliza shuddered and focussed on the gentleman in front of her, taking a longer glance at him than she might otherwise have done; there was something unusual about him that she couldn’t quite place. To her knowledge, it was the first time that she’d ever seen him—she was sure that she would have remembered someone so striking. She poured his drink from the barrel, observing him discreetly as she did so. He was watching a drunken affray taking place between three of the fishermen: one, William Hyland had been wagered to drink a pint of periwinkles with their shells still on; such tussles were commonplace in a public house like this and not deserving of the contemptuous look on the man’s face. His countenance, smart clothing and posture suggested that he was a gentleman, yet something didn’t quite sit right. Eliza set down his drink. ‘Shilling, please,’ she said, taking the opportunity to study his face in more detail. He was young and handsome and she could see glimpses of his neat, short brown hair, protruding out from under his black top hat.
His thin eyes met hers. ‘Thank you,’ he said, handing over his money.
The man’s lips pursed and he was about to say something else, when the street door was suddenly thrown wide, clattering back on its hinges. The oil lamps flickered and conversation momentarily ebbed, as the patrons of the Black Horse turned to see the cause of the disruption. Standing in the doorway was little Ann Lovekin, her young face streaming with tears.
‘Ann! Whatever do you be doing in here?’ Eliza yelled across the bar, as conversations around the room resumed.
‘It’s Hattie—she be gone again!’ Ann sobbed. ‘I be having a terrible night, Ma!’
Eliza shot a look at her husband then darted towards her daughter.
‘That addle-headed girl! She be a-wanting a good bannicking,’ Joseph ranted. ‘Eliza, you be staying here and I be finding her.’
‘Want help, Joe?’ George Fox, one of the fishermen offered.
‘Thank you,’ Joseph answered, hurrying towards the door.
‘I be a-helping, too,’ added Walter Croft, another of the fishermen.
Eliza watched as the three men darted from the gin palace and was left cradling her sobbing daughter. Her worry for Harriet’s safety only intensified when the moments before Ann had burst into the pub sprung into her mind. She was sure that she recognised a figure loitering at the back of the gin palace. Her eyes searched him out but he was gone. It couldn’t have been him, she told herself. Not after all these years. Not Mr Honeysett. Not here.
Joseph stepped from the bright interior of the gin palace with George and Walter close behind. Tossing his head left and right, he listened intently, but could hear nothing other than the clamour coming from his own public house and the distant rumblings of the sea. He threw open the street door to his house. ‘Hattie? Hattie? You be in there?’
From the darkness of the room came Keziah’s feeble voice. ‘She don’t be here, Pa.’
‘Get up to your bed, Keziah,’ Joseph ordered.
‘George, you search the shoreline and up onto Cuckoo Hill. Walter, you search the Breeds’s yards, the tanneries and up towards the Priory Stream.’
The two men darted off, calling Harriet’s name into the cold night-time air. Joseph ran around the corner and hammered on Widow Elphick’s door. ‘Christopher Elphick—do you be in there?’ He knocked on the window shutters and repeated his call.
‘What be the problem, Mr Lovekin?’ Christopher stammered, opening the door.
‘Hattie—she be gone—do you be seeing her this night?’ Joseph questioned, his misgivings obvious from his tone.
Christopher’s face flushed and he shook his head vehemently. ‘No, no—I ain’t be seeing her since the night of Ma’s accident, surely.’
Joseph turned and headed away from the house.
‘Wait! Mr Lovekin—I be a-knowing where she might be.’
Joseph stopped and swung around. ‘Speak, Christopher.’
‘I don’t wonder if she be up on Cuckoo
-’
A bloodcurdling scream sliced through Christopher’s sentence and there was the briefest snatch of a second where joint recognition occurred in the two men’s eyes, before instinct sent them in the direction of the cry.
As adrenalin coursed through his body, like as had not happened since the French wars, Joseph knew where he would find his daughter; he only hoped that he wasn’t too late. He raced through the alleyways as another scream rose into the air—this one was curtailed and quickly stifled into silence. Joseph tore around the corner and emerged before the five tenements of ill fame. Such was his speed and concentration that he failed to see George Fox who, having also heard the cries from Cuckoo Hill, was sprinting towards Harriet. The two collided in a thump and fell to the stony ground.
As Joseph tumbled backward, his head slammed into the brick wall of the Breeds’s yard and he fell flat on his back, watching as the stars faded from the sky and darkness enveloped him. George Fox, too, had been floored by the impact and was moaning as he writhed on the floor.
Christopher, watching the collision just a few paces in front of him, veered around the two men and slowed his pace, listening for further clues as to Harriet’s whereabouts. In his peripheral vision, the shadows moved unnaturally and Christopher’s gaze concentrated on the formless black shape. It shifted again and he picked up his pace towards it. ‘Hattie? Do you be there?’ he called.
The shadows twitched and Christopher knew that Harriet was struggling against someone. Quickly and suddenly, he was upon them. Harriet was being pinned against the wall by a giant brute, one hand around her throat and the other over her mouth. Christopher knew that he was no match for the man, but he didn’t care; the only thought running through his mind was to free Harriet. With Mr Fox and Mr Lovekin out of action, Christopher knew that he needed to think fast but he also knew that a blind act of heroism could end up with both of them being seriously injured or worse. ‘Let her go—now!’ Christopher commanded breathlessly. His youthful voice shone a light on his vulnerability and he heard Harriet’s assailant laughing. Harriet squirmed again and Christopher knew that had no choice but to try and free her. Lunging noisily at the man, he launched his right foot sharply into the man’s shinbone.
The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4) Page 7