Morton ran a highlighter over the relevant part: the pub had passed to Daniel. Had the painting and the indentures also gone to him? he wondered, as he picked through the papers until he found the 1901 and 1911 census reports. Daniel was recorded on both as living in The Forester’s Arms with his wife, Catherine. The couple’s four children had grown up and all except for a son, John Thomas Elphick, had left home, giving Morton multiple possibilities as to the direction that the painting, the indentures and the pub had then taken. Daniel Elphick had died in 1913 and Morton delved into the pile on the table to find his will.
‘Here you go,’ the waitress said, finding a small island of exposed table top from amongst the sea of papers.
‘Thanks.’
‘This looks interesting,’ she said, indicating his work.
Morton looked up, having found Daniel’s will and smiled. ‘Interesting and complicated.’
‘Well, I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, skipping off towards the kitchen.
Daniel Elphick’s will was written across three neatly typed pages. Morton read through it, his highlighter, again illuminating the pertinent sections. …I appoint my son John Thomas Elphick as my sole executor…I give my executor the freehold entitlement to The Forester’s Arms situate in St Leonards I give to my daughter Mary three pairs of my best sheets four pillow slips trimmed with embroidery four good table cloths I give to my daughter Susannah my black lace mantle prayer books the contents of the lower drawer in the chest of drawers in my bedroom my wife’s silk dresses and two aprons worked by my grandmother I give to my son John Thomas my silver milk jug my china tea service the painting of Mrs Eliza Elphick and the St Leonards Church picture that belonged to Mr Joseph Elphick I give to my daughter Annie my china in my drawing room my grandfather clock and my green damask and fine handkerchiefs….
Morton pored over the black lettering beneath the thin band that he had highlighted in yellow. The pub and the painting of Eliza had, in 1913, passed to John Thomas Elphick, which meant that all the descendants of Daniel Elphick’s other children could be eliminated.
Except that Morton immediately saw a problem. John Thomas Elphick had died childless in 1922. He had also died without having left a will—all that existed was a grant of administration, which said that his estate had passed to his sister and her husband, Susannah and William Strickland. It was the end of the Elphick line.
Morton took a sip of his latte and sat back in his chair, watching passers-by strolling along the street and letting his mind stew on the Lovekin Case. The wills had so far been instrumental in proving that the pub and the painting had passed through the family, but they had also provided a revealing snapshot of the lives of the final custodians of the Elphick name. Morton re-read Daniel’s will with interest, enjoying the image of his possessions, particularly those inherited from Harriet and Christopher. His eyes lingered on one line in particular. The St Leonards Church picture that belonged to Mr Joseph Elphick. Why did Joseph have a picture of St Leonards Church in Hollington? Just because that was where two of his daughters married? Or because he liked the church?
Placing his computer onto his lap, Morton cursed himself for not having thought of it sooner: what if Joseph Lovekin originated from Hollington and that was his place of marriage to Eliza? He quickly opened his emails and tapped out a message. Dear Sally / Robin, pleeeeaase could you do me a big favour for the case I’m working on? I need a search made in the St Leonards Church registers for a marriage between a Joseph Lovekin and an Eliza Smith. It would have taken place sometime around 1800-1815. Thank you very much! Morton.
Then the message was gone. The dates that he had given Sally were generously broad, just in case Eliza had married underage or after the birth of their children.
Morton returned to the Lovekin family tree.
Susannah and William Strickland had four children. Morton had ordered William’s will, proved upon his death in 1941, which gave everything to his son, James Strickland, including The Forester’s Arms. Knowing that the pub had passed to James, Morton could now begin to cut down the number of potential descendants.
He took another swig of the latte then began the process of eliminating names from the list.
From sixty-seven down to eighteen.
Morton smiled, drank some more, then continued the line of descent through James Strickland’s son, Horace, through his son, Clive, to five living Strickland descendants: John, Lawrence, Tina, Norman and Angela.
He stared at the list. An uncomfortable quantity of his research was based on the tenuous assumption that the painting of Eliza, along with the lease and release indentures, had been passed neatly down a line to one of those five people. It severely lacked documentary evidence, the painting having not been explicitly mentioned again since Daniel’s 1913 will. In over one hundred years, the painting could have ended up anywhere.
Morton sat back and breathed out heavily. Whatever the outcome, he was one step closer to finding the whereabouts of the original indentures, but that led on to another big question: how was he going to get them from their current owners? Passing their name and address to Kevin and his bunch of heavies would not result in a good outcome for both the owners and then probably for him also. Asking the current owners to simply hand them over was highly unlikely to get him anywhere. Could he somehow replace them with the copies and hope it went unnoticed? It all seemed very dubious.
The quietness of the coffee shop was wrecked when Morton’s mobile began to ring. He quickly
