A gap in the conversation gave Morton time to calm down.
‘I’m sure she’ll want you to carry on with your work. I’ll get her to give you a ring when she gets back—she’s running some furniture to a customer at the moment.’
‘Okay, thanks. Bye,’ Morton said, hurriedly ending the call.
Still feeling agitated, he wandered over to the window and threw it wide open, enjoying the chilly morning air filling his lungs. He looked down at the thronged Mermaid Street below, his eyes drifting aimlessly over the crowds of people, as he consciously tried to disconnect himself from the conversation that he had just endured with his father’s fiancée. Part of his resentment, he knew, came from the very fact that his father was marrying again. It didn’t matter how many times he was told (by Juliette or by himself) that his mother had been gone a long time and that his father deserved to be happy, still the feelings burned in him. The idea of attending their wedding made him feel nauseous and had left him resenting his own wedding planning, avoiding it whenever Juliette raised the issue.
‘Snap out of it,’ he told himself, closing the window and returning to his desk. But it was no use, he was clenched and not in the right frame of mind to be staring at a computer screen. He looked down at his notepad and settled on what to do next: pay a visit to St Clements Church in Hastings Old Town.
Finding the graves of the deceased involved in Morton’s investigations had always been a haphazard undertaking with mixed results. Oftentimes, a lengthy search of a cemetery or churchyard would result in finding that the person had been buried in an unmarked common grave with no new evidence to glean for his case. However, it was an avenue that had also sometimes yielded amazing results and could not be ignored. It was this dichotomy that ran through Morton’s mind as he stared at the graveyard of St Clements Church. The large ancient building was surrounded on all sides by a narrow strip of grass and a stone wall; not one gravestone was to be found within its boundaries. It wasn’t until he was at the rear of the church that he spotted it: a collection of gravestones tucked away behind a spiked black iron fence, separated from the church by a passageway with quaint cottages. The headstones stood defiantly against an invasive mixture of holly, rhododendrons, stinging nettles, wild roses and great swathes of ivy that had made admirable efforts to consume the entire yard. He found the gate rusting and locked by a heavy-duty padlock. He rattled the gate but it held firm against his grip. Morton stepped back to take in a wider view of the ground, looking carefully for any gaps in the fence, but there were none. He considered knocking at the doors of two properties—one a small cottage and one a pre-school playgroup—that bordered the graveyard but, on closer inspection could see that neither had access; the sole entry point was through the locked gate. Surely there’s a phone number for someone with a key? Morton thought, growing increasingly frustrated, struggling to catch glimpses of surnames through the railings. Philpott…Barnes…Dibdin…Lavender was that? It was useless—he needed to get inside.
In a frustrated march, Morton headed down Church Passage and looped back around to the front of the church. On the noticeboard was a contact number for the vicar in charge. He dialled the number and waited. Morton listened as the phone rang endlessly. No answer. No answerphone. He continued to hold his mobile to his ear as he strode back towards the graveyard. Only when he reached the gate once more did he finally terminate the call.
‘Great stuff,’ he mumbled sarcastically, as he reassessed the situation. ‘I’m about to be impaled. Brilliant.’
Studying the fence and gate, he realised that the only place where he could get a foothold was on a horizontal spine that ran just below the lock. He leant over and set his bag down on the other side, took a quick glance around him to ensure that he was alone, then placed one foot on the bar and heaved himself up. He exhaled sharply when he hoisted his right leg over the gate and looked down to see the run of iron spikes just inches from his groin. Testing his foothold very carefully, he lifted his left leg over, then dropped down the other side. He picked up his bag with a grin and began to systematically check each headstone.
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
