Without realising it, Morton had reached the end of the film block. The idea that the children may have been older when they were baptised struck him, so he continued searching right through until 1836. Nothing. Not one Smith. Not one Lovekin. The Westwell Justices hadn’t been overly harsh—there was nothing linking the girls to the parish. Had Eliza and Joseph lied to their daughters about their place of origin? Morton asked himself. If so, why?
As he rewound the microfilm, he deliberated his next course of action. There was little more to be achieved here. It was time to head home and it was time to face Bunny’s extreme histrionics when he phoned her and explained that the indentures were possibly very valuable. And that they had been stolen.
Morton thanked the man behind the desk, returned the boxed microfilm and gathered up his belongings. He headed out of the archive and, as he walked, he typed a text reply to Juliette. Great! I’m on my way home now. See you in a while. I’m thinking Vegas…Elvis impersonator officiating? No friends and family, just two random gamblers from the one-arm bandits to witness… xx
He clicked to send the message and pocketed his phone as he neared his car. In his distraction, he failed to see all four doors of a silver BMW parked beside his Mini fling open. He looked up and, when his brain had fully interpreted what his eyes were seeing, knew that he was in trouble. Of the four men—very bulky and intimidating—who were standing in front of him, one of them stepped forward. ‘Morton Farrier. Mind if we have a quiet word?’
Morton felt his insides turn to liquid. His hands began to quiver and his breathing quickened. Could he run? Was anyone around, if he yelled for help? He glanced over his shoulder; one of the four men had moved around the back of the BMW and now formed a barrier—and a solid one at that—between Morton and potential escape. He swallowed hard and knew that a cry for help would only emerge from his constrained larynx as a pathetic whimper. He needed to try and show some toughness. He nodded.
The man grinned, revealing two gold front teeth. ‘Step inside,’ he said, ushering Morton into the back of the BMW.
Morton obeyed, quickly finding himself sandwiched between two of the men. The driver started the engine and began to pull away.
In a croaky, scared and pitiable voice, Morton managed to ask, ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll soon see,’ the man with the gold teeth said, patting Morton on the leg. ‘Actually, you won’t.’ He reached down into the foot well and pulled up a black hood. ‘Sorry.’
Before he could even think about struggling, Morton’s arms were pulled behind his back and tied together and the hood slid down over his face. The last thing that he saw through the tinted windows was the archive and his Mini disappearing from view.
He was forced back into the seat as the BMW accelerated out onto the busy dual carriageway.
Morton was in total, complete darkness with no knowledge of who the men were or what they wanted.
Chapter Eleven
29th March 1827, The Town Hall, Hastings, Sussex
Richard probed the scar that ran down the left side of his head behind his ear, as he had so often done in times of contemplation since his accident. He traced the hairless gully of flesh with his forefinger, gazing out of the Town Hall door and wondering if now was really the right time. It had taken a month for him to recover from the injuries that he had sustained on the night of the Priory Ground rebellion. Having assured the Aldermen and other senior members of the corporation that the arrests would begin to weaken and eventually destabilise the God-forsaken community, Richard had returned defeated and humiliated, and had lost support for further intervention with the constables. The recollection of the night tensed his stomach and he probed his scar more deeply, so that it began to hurt. He lifted up his other hand, in which he held Harriet Lovekin’s shawl, and pressed it to his nose. It smelt clean and fresh, but a faded sanguine outline betrayed the consequences of that night. He lowered the shawl and looked out into the empty street.
Now was the right time, despite the inclement weather, to return to the Priory Ground—he refused to acknowledge the title America Ground, as the savages there had named it, despite the title having become generally accepted around the town; even corporation officials now recognised and used the new designation. The impudence of these criminals, believing that they could run a self-governing colony, outside of the laws and jurisdictions of the rest of the land, was utterly incredible to him.
He locked the door and stepped out into the cold; darkness was no more than an hour away; foul black and grey clouds writhed and scurried in the sky overhead, heralding the onset of a tempestuous night.
Richard strode insidiously through the wind—it was the kind described as bleat by the locals— harsh and cutting. He was going to walk to the Priory Ground, having not had the stomach to travel on horseback since the accident; if he were asked, he would cite his medical problems as the reason. In truth, however, he had lost his confidence—the fall and all that had happened on that night had driven him inside an introspective cocoon, from which he was now only just beginning to emerge. His current detestation of the Lovekin family had only intensified in recent days.
At the corner of the High Street, the run of Elizabethan cottages ceased and as he turned towards the open ground which led to the shore Richard was suddenly buffeted by a blast of wind that ripped Harriet’s shawl from
