The America Ground (The Forensic Genealogist Series Book 4)

of that barn relatively unscathed. Whoever those men were, they meant business. Five of them! he thought incredulously, just to find the location of two indentures from 1827. It was ridiculous. Sitting in that barn, fearing for his life, Morton realised that the thugs holding him, even Kevin who had taken the lead, were simply henchmen. They had stolen the copies from his house last night also believing them to be genuine. Whoever they were working for had then set the record straight and sent them straight back after him in search of the originals. But for whom were they working? As far as Morton could tell, that person—or persons—fell into one of two possible categories: one was that they were a descendant of the Lovekins who stood to gain a great deal by asserting an existent claim over a parcel of land on the America Ground or second, that they were someone who stood to lose an even greater amount if the indentures were to fall into the wrong hands. The latter option seemed more reasonable. Riccards–Maloney. They would lose a small fortune if a case were proven against them. It has to be them behind this, Morton thought. Everything that had happened—the man standing in the street goading him, the burglary and his brief captivity—had occurred since his email to their offices three days ago. The more he thought about it, the more it actually didn’t matter if he did find the originals and handed them over—it was outside of his work remit from Bunny. All that she wanted was Eliza Lovekin’s life story to help sell a painting. If he didn’t tell her that the indentures weren’t original then she would be none the wiser. Morton suddenly felt all the more comfortable with the idea that he was actually working on two linked, but separately focussed cases. The Lovekin Case and The Burly Thugs Case.

He sighed, climbed inside his car and tossed the indentures onto the passenger seat. For some inexplicable reason, it helped to know who might actually be behind it all. It might just assist him in figuring a way out. But he had his work cut out: he had just promised to locate two documents within a week that he wasn’t even sure still existed.

Morton glanced down at the indentures, started his engine and went to pull away but stopped, pulled out his mobile and phoned a number from his recent calls list.

‘Hello, it’s Morton Farrier here.’

‘Oh, hello, Morton,’ Jonathan Greenwood answered. ‘I was going to give you a call in the next day or so.’

‘Go on,’ Morton said, hopefully.

‘I’m still on the case of your indentures and one of my ex-colleagues seems to think you might have a case if there was any fraudulent paperwork involved at the time or proof of foul play—even going back that far. Of course, you’d need all original paperwork.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The original indentures—I assume you have access to them?’ Jonathan asked.

‘You knew the ones that I brought to you were forgeries?’ Morton demanded, not quite believing what he was hearing.

There was a slight pause before Jonathan spoke again. ‘Yes—I said as much. I said to you that they were very good copies and that Eliza’s daughters could have made a claim if they had the originals.’

‘How did you know?’

‘Well, they’re very good copies but they’re far from perfect. One simple but glaringly obvious thing missing: every lease and release indenture had a unique wavy line cut across the top of the two parties’ copies so that they could be matched up, if it ever became necessary to prove that they were genuine. Yours have got a straight cut along the top.’

‘Right. I had no idea, you see. I don’t suppose you have any thoughts as to when the fakes might have been made?’ he ventured. If he could pinpoint the approximate period in which they were created, he could cross-reference Eliza and Joseph’s descendants to the same point. All of which was much more easily said than done.

Jonathan laughed. ‘No idea, I’m afraid—some years ago, though, I would say judging from the general wear and tear. Do you want me to see if I can find someone with a bit of experience in this area?’

‘That would be great—thank you, Jonathan.’

‘Okay. I’ll get back to you. Bye.’

‘Bye.’ Morton terminated the call and began his drive home.

‘Where have you been?’ Juliette asked, when he entered the lounge.

Morton sighed. He’d spent half of his journey home considering what his next course of action should be in the Lovekin Case and the other half trying to think up a watertight story to feed to Juliette. As hard as it would be, he had made up his mind to keep this afternoon’s drama to himself for now. He knew that PC Juliette Meade would be straight onto his case, demanding an explanation for the huge gap between his text message saying that he was coming home and his actual arrival time.

‘Sorry,’ he apologised. ‘I just needed time to think. After I texted you I got a coffee and just tried to…well, think. You know, weddings, Dad and all that.’

‘Okay,’ Juliette said, eyeing him suspiciously. ‘That sounds ominous.’

Morton smiled. ‘No, it’s all fine. Just lots of thinking. But I’m not going to let Dad and Madge get in the way of our plans. So, let’s get on with it.’

‘What happened to your neck?’ she asked.

He’d already pre-empted the questions the gaping wound on his neck would bring, so he’d stopped off at a supermarket on his way home and bought a packet of plasters and a fresh shirt with a passing resemblance to his old bloodstained one. If it were covered at least, she wouldn’t be able to see how bad it really was. ‘I cut myself shaving this morning,’ he lied.

‘Right.’

She was still looking at