‘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
