In memory of my dear husband Christopher Elphick, who died 9th September 1894 aged 84 years. Also of Harriet, blessed wife of the above, who died 8th June 1895 aged 86 years.
Morton turned his attention to the grave two spaces along. Amelia Odden’s. It was whilst trying to tie up the loose ends of Harriet and Christopher’s burial that he had inadvertently stumbled upon Amelia.
In affectionate remembrance of Amelia Odden, who died 19th November 1866 aged 80.
That the three girls, Eliza, Lydia and Amelia had remained lifelong friends was now in no doubt. But Morton’s theory that all three had been murdered by Thomas Honeysett now looked unlikely—almost impossible. Especially when he took into account the headstone that stood between Amelia’s and the Elphicks’, completing the neat row of three.
He pulled out his mobile and photographed the graves and suddenly noticed the time: it was just gone three-thirty and he’d told Juliette that he would be back at the hotel for dinner. He wouldn’t be able to return today to Tina’s house, which was on the other side of town. Flipping back the pages in his notepad, Morton found the phone number for Lawrence Strickland and dialled.
‘Hello?’ It was Angela’s voice.
‘Hi, Angela—it’s Morton Farrier here. Sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if you had a phone number for Tina, so I can give her a ring? She wasn’t home when I called.’
‘Yes, sure. That’s a smashing idea, because she has all of her numbers, work and her various houses going to the same number, so you’re sure to catch her. One moment.’
The line went quiet and Morton could hear Angela explaining to Lawrence who was on the phone. Then there was a clattering sound as she picked up the receiver. ‘Sorry, back again. Ready?’
Morton jotted down the number, thanked her and hung up.
He dialled it and waited.
After a few rings, it was picked up. He was in luck.
‘Hello?’ It was a woman’s voice. Familiar.
Morton looked down at the screen and ended the call. The voice sounded like it belonged to Madge. But how could that be? He must have dialled incorrectly. He typed the number in again and raised the phone to his ear. As he did so, he looked up and saw them.
Four men, led by Kevin heading down the path towards him. Just a few yards away. Adrenalin fired through his veins as he faced the decision of fight, flight or surrender.
Flight. This time, he had a chance to flee and he was going to take it. Abandoning his bag, Morton leapt through the narrow gap between the gravestones and ran.
From the shouting behind him, he knew that the men were in pursuit.
He zipped through rows of graves, but his progress was slow; just ahead of him was a fence with a gate leading deeper into the woods.
Casting a quick glance behind him, he saw that the men were fanning out around him, gaining ground.
‘Give it up, Morton!’ Kevin yelled.
Morton defied the muscles in his legs, demanding more oxygen, demanding him to stop.
He continued to run, but could feel from the sound of footfall just behind him that he wasn’t going to make the gate.
In his hand he still clutched his mobile. If he could at least dial 999.
For the briefest second, he took his eyes off the path and onto his phone, failing to spot a concealed footstone protruding from the ground.
The end of Morton’s left shoe only just clipped the top of the stone, but it was enough to propel him forwards and pull him towards the ground.
With his arms flailing around him, his temple met with the hard edge of a headstone, sending him crashing to the ground.
His muscles sighed gratefully as he collapsed into a heap beside the grave that had brought him down. Morton drew himself into a foetal position, fighting to keep his eyes open.
He saw a pair of boots. Then another pair.
Some words were spoken that reached his ear but failed to be deciphered by his brain.
Blackness.
He was moving. Being moved.
More indiscernible chatter.
Blackness.
Kevin Addison could, at last, relax. He started the ignition of the BMW and wound down the window.
He had done it. Safely stowed in the boot was Morton Farrier, and on its way to him via one of his men, were the documents from the address in Croft Road, that Morton had just given up.
He could return to London and deliver Liz Seymour the news that he had achieved his goal. Maybe her tight face might even crack a smile. Maybe he’d get a bonus like he did when he had dealt with Horace Strickland all those years ago.
There was just one job left to do: deal with Morton Farrier.
He set the satnav to Coldhanger Farm, just outside Maidstone, then began to pull out of the church car park.
Chapter Twenty-Four
30th April 1827, The America Ground, outside Hastings, Sussex
The Lovekin house was cocooned in a husk of grief. It felt to Harriet as though icy fingers were tightening around her very soul, constricting the life from within. She was sick to her stomach of the America Ground, convinced that the place was cursed; everything had turned bad since they had moved here. She had lost, or was about to lose so much that she had once loved.
The parlour was dark, the shutters having not been opened since Joseph Lovekin’s passing. Reed candles around the room provided feeble light and added to the sense of gloom and despondency.
Harriet was sitting at the parlour table with Christopher, Keziah and Ann, eating in cold silence. She despised the fact that she was sitting in her mother’s chair and Christopher
