Harriet flinched when his hand began to move. She leapt up and backed away towards the door. ‘I don’t be a-trusting you, Richard.’
‘Harriet!’ Richard said, looking dejected. ‘Of course you can trust me.’
‘Where did you be a-going that night of the storms?’ she confronted. ‘When you went from my house?’
‘I told you—I went to see if anyone needed help,’ he said, noticing the fiery intensity in her eyes. ‘Why?’
‘And?’
Richard shrugged. ‘There was nothing I could do—the locals had it under control. I stayed for a while then went home. Look, what is this? What’s the matter?’
‘You was seen going into Mr and Mrs Wood’s cottage,’ she accused, her voice quivering. ‘My Pa was trapped in there.’
Richard stared at the floor sullenly. ‘Yes, it’s true, Harriet. I tried to get in and save him.’ He looked up at her. ‘I wanted you to see me as a hero—the man who rescued your father. To make amends to the people of the Priory Ground.’
‘America Ground,’ Harriet corrected.
‘But I failed—again. I just couldn’t get in—the waves were too strong. I’m sorry.’ He moved slowly towards her with his hands outstretched. ‘I can understand why you’re angry, Harriet, but can you forgive me?’
‘I don’t be believing you,’ she whispered, her eyes welling.
‘I swear to you, I’m telling the truth, Harriet,’ Richard said. He reached out and took her trembling hand in his.
Harriet sniffed and fought her tears. She looked over at his desk. ‘What do you be doing all morning?’
‘Just work,’ he answered.
‘What else?’
‘Nothing, why?’
‘You ain’t been out of here?’ she queried.
‘No, why?’ he repeated, gripping her hand more tightly.
Harriet shuddered, pulled away and ran for the door. ‘I seen you at Pa’s grave! I seen you with me own eyes!’ she cried. ‘You was smiling, too.’
Richard rushed towards her and tried to close the door but he was too slow.
With a low scream, Harriet ran out into the corridor.
‘Damn it,’ Richard yelled, kicking his office door shut.
The town of Battle—six miles inland from Hastings—had been dominated by the Abbey of St Martin since the famous battle of 1066, from which the small market town derived its name. The prominent building towered over a neat triangle of grass—on which cattle, sheep and horses grazed—and the long street bounded by shops and businesses, as busy with trade now as it had been for hundreds of years. Today, however, under the awnings of the ironmongers, fruiterers, butchers and beer houses that lined the road, an unusual crowd had gathered. Talking. Gossiping. Pointing covertly towards the four-storey building that was the George Hotel.
Inquests into past murders, suicides and unusual deaths had been held in the George Hotel on many occasions, but this one was garnering special attention; for reasons of neutrality, it had been chosen to host the inquest into the rightful ownership of the America Ground and the event had drawn quite a crowd.
Richard dismounted from his horse at the green and, with trembling hands, roped it to an iron ring tether. The journey had been painfully slow, the bad memories from the Priory Ground rebellion inhibiting his pushing the horse beyond anything but a gentle canter.
He steadied himself and tried to bring his erratic breathing under control.
He checked his bicorn hat and, when he was ready, began to stride confidently down the street, knowing that he was attracting the attention of the people gathered at the sides of the road.
When Richard opened the street door of the George Hotel, he was greeted by the familiar warm waft of sawdust, ale and cigarette smoke. The odours enveloped him as he pushed his way through the crowds of labourers to get to the bar.
‘The Priory Ground inquest?’ he called.
A small, sweaty man nodded to a door at the rear of the room and, pushing it open, Richard found a large meeting room almost at full occupancy.
The short table, at which the five appointed commissioners sat upon Windsor chairs, headed the inquest. The smart, middle-aged men were scrutinising a document on the table in front of them. The twelve men of the jury were seated at a longer table, which ran perpendicular to the commissioners, and were seated whispering nervously amongst themselves. Opposite them were four long rows of fully occupied chairs and benches, at which sat members of the public and interested parties.
Richard searched among them and, having spotted who he was looking for, pressed through the crowds and sat down in a reserved spot beside him.
Alderman Honeysett, a smartly dressed senior member of the corporation, nodded his greeting. ‘I thought you weren’t coming,’ he muttered irritably.
‘Sorry.’
‘Gentlemen,’ one of the commissioners said, addressing the entire gathering; the low murmur in the room fell to silence. ‘By a warrant of the Attorney-General, we have been authorised to take evidence of witnesses worthy of credit upon their corporal oath into the rightful and legal proprietorship of certain lands near or adjoining the town of Hastings.’ He turned to the jurymen. ‘You, gentlemen, twelve honest and lawful men of the county, have been empanelled here to give just verdict on the evidence presented before you.’ He concluded his opening remarks by shuffling his papers and sitting back solemnly.
The inquest continued and evidence was heard from local landowners and representatives of the Crown, who presented arguments as to why this newly created piece of valuable land should be legally granted to their office. As the evidence was given, Richard cast his eyes over the assembled crowd to either side of him. Among the unfamiliar faces were some corporation officials and people whom he recognised from the Priory Ground. Then he saw her. Eliza Lovekin. Dressed in full mourning attire, she carefully watched the evidence being offered by Lord Cornwallis’s agents and
