‘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 work 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.
