‘Hi, Morton. It’s Jonathan Greenwood, here. Got some news about your lease and release.’
‘Go on,’ Morton encouraged, scrabbling around on the table for his notepad and pen.
‘Well, my old colleague seems to think that they were made approximately in the 1960s—give or take a few years either side. Something to do with the ink and vellum used. Does that help at all?’ he asked.
‘Yes, it’s perfect. Do I owe him anything for his services?’ Morton asked.
‘Her, actually and no, she was happy to oblige,’ Jonathan said. ‘Plus I told her I owed you one.’
‘Do you?’ Morton asked, unsure of what he meant.
‘Yes, we’ve got a date set for the trial against the Mansfields. Our QC thinks we might have a case, but we might also be slightly bonkers to pursue it, but…well, you know what Jenny’s like.’
Morton laughed. ‘Well, thank you and good luck. I’m sure I’ll read about it in the papers.’
‘I’m sure you will. Cheerio.’
‘Thanks again, bye.’
Morton pocketed his phone and looked at his notepad. Assuming that the fake indentures had been created in the 1960s by someone in the Strickland family, then the list was short. Very short. It had to have been either Horace Strickland who was born in 1905 and died in 1988, or his son, Clive Strickland, who was born in 1932 and died in 2014.
One of those two men had to have created the fake indentures.
The pain in his head was beginning to return and Morton was becoming tired with an abundance of names and dates swimming around his head. What did they all mean? he wondered. Did it matter if it were Clive or Horace who had created the fake indentures? The important thing now was to trace which of Clive’s five children now had them.
He sighed, caught the attention of the waitress and prepared to pay. Despite the shortage of time left, he needed a break to stretch his legs and get some air.
The waitress arrived with a smile. ‘Can I get you anything else?’
Morton was about to ask for the bill when he spotted something on the family tree. It could be a coincidence. He looked up at the waitress. His desperation for fresh air and a walk suddenly subsided. ‘Another latte, please.’
‘Lovely,’ she said, picking up his empty glass and scuttling away.
Morton reached across for his laptop and accessed Ancestry’s national death records 1916-2007. He typed Horace’s name in the search box then clicked to view the record. Horace Strickland’s death had been registered in Hastings in March 1988. The exact same month that the America Ground had been purchased from the Crown.
Horace’s death—apparently coincidental—added some weight to Morton’s nebulous theory about the legacy of the painting and the indentures. Had Horace seen the report in the local paper, that Morton had read in Hastings Library, about the sale of the America Ground, then decided to contest it? And had been killed in the process? There was one way to find out.
Morton made a vague gesture and mumble of gratitude to the waitress, who arrived with his second latte, as he began to place a considerable order for birth, marriage and death certificates, all of which he ordered on the twenty-four hour priority service. If he was in luck, they would arrive tomorrow—the day before his deadline with Kevin.
He looked at the five names again.
John, Lawrence, Tina, Norman and Angela Strickland.
Morton was now more sure than ever that one of those people held the key to unlocking part of the Lovekin Case mystery. But he had no idea of the way forward. He could hardly write to them—even if he had the time to sit back and await a response—it wasn’t the kind of thing he could put in a letter. Was it appropriate to phone them? Or visit them?
It needed more thought, but time was decidedly running out.
Both his phone and his laptop simultaneously announced with a beep that a new email had arrived in his inbox. It was from Sally. Dear Batman, Found it! See—I could be your assistant! Although her name wasn’t Eliza Smith…Hope it’s what you need. Anything else, give me a shout. Sally / Robin x
Morton smiled as he opened the attachment. It was a scanned copy of the original marriage entry.
Joseph Lovekin of this Parish batchelor and Eliza Winter of the Parish of Westwell in the County of Kent spinster were married in this church by licence this twenty-third day of July in the year one thousand eight hundred and three by me Henry Clark curate.
At last, Morton had a breakthrough and found a window into Eliza’s past. They had married after all and she had been living in Westwell.
Eliza’s maiden name was given as Winter. Why, then had her daughters given Eliza’s maiden name as Smith?
Morton was sure that now he was in possession of her real maiden name, her early life might finally be revealed.
With luck, he would also find her killer.
Chapter Nineteen
20th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
The day was fading when Eliza Lovekin strode over the Priory Bridge, her black silhouette cutting through a diffuse mist that had rolled up from the sea. She was taking a chance by doing what she was about to do, but it was a chance that she had to take. Besides, if she sat back and did nothing, then very soon all that she and Joe had worked so hard to achieve would be lost. Then, if the very worst were to happen, she and the girls would be sent to the workhouse. She shuddered at the thought, as memories from her childhood swamped her mind, saturating her thoughts as she walked. Horrible, disturbing memories that she had worked hard to lock away.
Through the haze of grief, she
