After almost an hour and a half of diligent reading, Morton reached 1834 when the register terminated. As he had suspected, there was no mention of the three Lovekin sisters. From his earlier research, he knew that the workhouse was closed at this point under the Poor Law Amendment Act and a new Hastings Union Workhouse built, opening its doors in 1836.
Morton closed the ledger and carried it back to the help desk.
‘Ready for the next one?’ Oliver asked, standing to receive the document from him.
‘Yes please,’ Morton said, watching Oliver go to the holding room. ‘Think it’s going to be a long one today.’
‘Sounds exciting,’ Oliver called from out of sight.
‘Yeah, kind of,’ Morton answered vaguely. Having heard, on numerous occasions, researchers recounting what seemed like their entire family history to the poor archivists behind the desk, he summarised the case to its most succinct points: ‘Woman murdered in 1827. Husband drowned month before. Three orphans left—trying to find out what happened to them.’
Oliver’s head suddenly popped up in the doorway. ‘Gruesomely fascinating,’ he said then disappeared from view again. Moments later he returned and handed Morton another ledger. ‘Not sure they’re going to turn up here, though,’ he said with a grimace.
Morton took the book and looked at the accompanying reference paper. ‘Workhouse financial records. Yeah, I am clutching at straws, but you never know.’
‘Well, good luck.’
Morton thanked him, returned to his desk and began to wade through the first pages. It quickly became apparent to him that there was almost zero chance of the Lovekin girls’ being mentioned: it simply served as a record of the workhouse expenditure and, where spending occurred on inmates, it was only noted in the most general terms. Despite not a single inmate’s name appearing in the volume, Morton continued reading until the very end; it was that kind of diligence that so often had paid off in the past. He then returned the document in exchange for the next in his wishlist: a packet of workhouse correspondence, which spanned the years of the girls’ potential incarceration.
It took Morton almost an hour to plough through the stack of letters. Inmates were mentioned on a regular basis, but the name Lovekin did not appear once. He was beginning to lose hope of finding them when he returned the papers.
‘Nothing?’ Oliver asked.
Morton shook his head. ‘Nope. I’ll keep going, though. Think I’ve got Officers of the Board next.’
‘Just a second,’ Oliver muttered, turning to his computer. Squinting at the screen, he began quickly tapping at the keyboard. After a few seconds, he turned to face Morton. ‘Have you tried the pauper register for St Clements parish? It was taken in 1834—your orphans might still be there.’
‘No, I haven’t tried it, but it sounds hopeful—thanks,’ Morton said, dashing off to his computer to order it.
Fifteen minutes later and the cream leather-bound volume was waiting on the desk in front of him. With a slight trepidation, he opened it and found that on each off-white page was written, in dark sepia ink, the name and age of the parish paupers, along with a simple summary of the their condition. He turned to the first entry. Thomas Evenden, 70, is totally disabled from work – has been condemned to be deranged. Next page. Lucy Ballard, 25, a blind girl. Lives in the workhouse. Next page. Edward Dungate, 60, lives in Hill Street, is employed breaking boulders. Next page. George Stidolph, 37, a cabinet maker, a very drunken man. Next page. James Campbell, 36 and Ann, 34, his wife. He is a bricklayer, now confined in Horsham for smuggling.
And so Morton continued through the register until he turned the final page. No Lovekins. He was disappointed, but he knew that this record represented just one parish at one particular moment in time. Perhaps other registers existed.
‘Find anything?’ Oliver asked, when Morton returned to the desk.
Morton frowned. ‘No, nothing. I don’t suppose this type of document exists for any other parishes or any other periods, does it?’
Oliver shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. It’s lucky that this one has survived. Maybe the girls went to stay with family?’ he ventured. ‘Remember, the workhouse was a definite last resort.’
Morton nodded. ‘It’s possible, but I don’t think they originated from Hastings, so I don’t think there are any family members around.’
There was a sudden widening of Oliver’s eyes as he said, ‘Then they likely wouldn’t have gone to the local workhouse at all…’
‘Removal orders!’ Morton interjected. ‘Of course. How stupid of me—they would have been sent back to their parish of origin if they needed help.’
‘Exactly!’ Oliver said.
Morton hurried to his laptop, calling back his gratitude as he went.
Accessing The Keep’s online catalogue, Morton quickly found the removal orders for the Hastings parishes and requested them.
Time seemed to drag as he waited for the file status to change from ‘In transit’ to ‘Available’.
He looked at the clock: five past three. Although the archive did not shut until five p.m., he had just fifty-five minutes to order any further documents. He sighed and refreshed the webpage. In Transit. He looked down at his notepad—he still had the crucial issue of Eliza Lovekin’s murder to investigate. Bunny was almost certain to spin the entire story of the painting around this single sad moment in the family’s history when she put the painting up for auction in a few days’ time. What became of the children would be a simple footnote over which a wealthy collector would pull a supercilious face, then never think about again.
The page auto-refreshed and the removal orders suddenly switched to ‘Available’. Finally. Morton sprang up and collected them from Oliver.
‘You’re running out of time,’ Oliver stated, glancing up at the large clock behind him.
‘I know,’ Morton replied, a little too brusquely, as he hurried back to
