Recognition dawned on her face. ‘Oh yes—what did he say?’
Morton talked her through the phone conversation as they worked their way through the pizza, then the conversation changed to their burglary.
‘The initial CSI report came back today,’ Juliette said.
‘And?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Morton mumbled, knowing what the men were like.
‘Why aren’t you surprised?’ Juliette asked.
‘People are just more careful these days, aren’t they? I’m not a burglar but I know you need to wipe your prints off and not leave incriminating DNA at the scene.’
‘It’s a bit more complicated than that,’ Juliette said, offering a lengthy explanation of police procedure that Morton was happy to listen to, as it kept the conversation away from the Lovekin Case.
When the pizza and wine had been polished off, Juliette left the study and Morton returned to his computer.
Either the wine, the paracetamol or both were starting to have an effect; the pain had been subdued to a dull ache.
Looking at the Lovekin family tree, Morton’s eyes settled on the three children of Harriet and Christopher Elphick. Somewhere, amongst their descendants, he hoped to find the person who had, for some reason, made copies of the lease and release documents. It was time to use the censuses from 1841 to 1911 and the various birth, marriage and death records from 1837 onwards to trace the Elphick family tree to the present day.
It was going to be a very long night.
Chapter Eighteen
God, but he was exhausted. Totally shattered. Just lifting his head from its cramped, agonising position on his study desk was too much. It would have been easier for Morton to list the places in his body that didn’t ache or hurt than those that did. He was a mess, and his study was a mess. He was surrounded by paper, printouts, downloaded wills, scribblings and a family tree that extended over four A3 sheets of paper.
He slowly rolled his chair back and exhaled from the effort. He needed more painkillers, a shower, some breakfast and a coffee. A very large, heavily caffeinated coffee.
He ambled down to the kitchen with the flexibility and agility of an old man and began the process of returning to the realms of the living. On the table was a note. Hope you got everything done! Don’t work too hard today. Be careful. Juliette xxx
If only he had gotten everything done. There was still plenty to do, although he had successfully traced Eliza Lovekin’s descendants to the modern day. When he had counted up the final tally, Morton had gazed at the painting of Eliza and told her that she had produced seven generations and now had a total of sixty-seven living descendants. It was soon after finding himself talking to the painting that he fell asleep at his desk. He had no concept of what time that had been. What time was it now? He looked at the kitchen clock: almost ten past nine in the morning.
As much as he felt like climbing into bed, he had only two days to find the lease and release indentures. Two days, he thought, as he swallowed some paracetamol. It’s impossible.
In the bathroom, Morton stared at his reflection. He looked like he had been involved in some awful car accident: his neck slice had yet to heal, the bruising in his throat was developing and he now had a lovely black eye from the punch that he had received last night. How was Juliette not suspicious? he wondered. Maybe she was; he recalled the wording of her note. Be careful.
Climbing gratefully into the shower, Morton thought about all the lies that he had told her: cut himself shaving and walked into a door. They really were the worst, most unbelievable excuses known to man.
He stood for a long time under the hot water, not moving and not thinking.
Finally, he climbed out, dried himself and put on some fresh clothes; he was starting to feel human again.
In his study, Morton gathered up all the paperwork that he had generated last night. It all needed sorting, making sense of, and the long list of sixty-seven people needed severely whittling down. But he couldn’t face another moment in his study and decided to do the work in one of Rye’s many coffee shops.
He chose Edith’s House, a narrow but quaint and charming place on the High Street. Having bagged up his laptop and research, he sauntered the short distance, lapping up the sunshine as he went. He was greeted by the welcome aroma of fresh coffee and a friendly smile from the waitress, who directed him to a comfy chair with a large table. It was perfect for him to be left undisturbed with his work sprawled out in front of him.
He ordered a large latte, opened his bag, set the papers down onto the table and selected the typed list of sixty-seven names. One of his first tasks last night had been to find Harriet Elphick’s death. She had died at the ripe old age of eighty-six in 1895. Morton rummaged through the paperwork and retrieved her will from among those that he had downloaded but had not yet read. This is the last will and testament of me Harriet Elphick of The Forester’s Arms in the parish of St Leonards and county of Sussex widow I appoint Daniel Elphick also of The Forester’s Arms as my sole executor… Morton read through the initial preamble to her bequests. …I give devise and bequeath to the said Daniel Elphick all the monies or securities for money which I may possess at the time of my decease and I direct that the same shall be equally divided between my daughters Maria Phillips and Eliza Coleman respectively I give my property namely The
