‘You two share it, I don’t be hungry,’ she lied, as she took a seat beside them.
Now, they just had to sit and wait.
A cold moonless dusk descended quickly upon Westwell. The three Lovekin girls, only visible as indefinable silhouettes, were huddled under the yew tree outside the church.
Harriet suddenly sat up sharply. Movement. Something was cutting through the twilight. She leapt up and smiled as the vague shape formed into a pair of horses, behind which was a curricle.
He had come for them, just as planned.
The carriage drew to a halt and Christopher jumped down, drawing Harriet into an impassioned embrace. He kissed her then she simply clung to him.
‘Do you be ready?’ he whispered.
‘Yes. Girls, come here,’ Harriet called into the darkness.
Keziah and Ann appeared and were helped into the carriage, followed by Harriet. Christopher clambered onto the back. ‘To Hollington, then,’ he said.
Harriet breathed deeply. They were on their way to Amelia Odden’s house. Tomorrow the vicar of St Leonards Church would read their first banns then, in three weeks’ time, they would be married and could return to the America Ground as man and wife.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The car was barely moving but Morton was banging around uncomfortably on the hard floor. It wasn’t the first time that he had been crammed into a car boot for a genealogical case; the other occasion, however, had been of his own volition. This was different. Very different. His befuddled mind had only just begun to wake up and comprehend that he was being carried by his arms and legs when he had been dumped into the boot and the lid unceremoniously slammed down, just inches from his face. His head was pounding, aching like it had never ached before. He raised his hand and gently touched his temple. His finger met with a bloody, pulpy mess where he had collided with the gravestone.
Above the din from the engine, Morton could hear the murmurings of the passengers inside the car. From the foggy scraps of disjointed and fragmented memory since he had been rendered unconscious, Morton’s brain pulled on a thread: something to do with the indentures? Then he remembered that in his groggy state, he had given up the address of where he believed the documents to be held. He suddenly felt sick at the thought of what might happen to the poor owner.
With lightning clarity, Morton realised that if Kevin got his hands on the indentures, then he had completely served his purpose. And he knew what that meant.
He fumbled around in his pockets. Obviously, his mobile was gone. Either taken by them or left where he had fallen.
With great difficulty, he propped himself up onto his elbow and began to search the dark space around him, his fingers probing into every corner. He didn’t know what he was looking for—just something that might be usable as a weapon. But there was nothing. The boot was entirely, deliberately empty.
Morton considered the four men and weighed his chances of being able to fight his way out: somewhere in the region of zero. He had no hope.
He had an idea. Maybe every time the car stopped—at traffic lights, stop signs and junctions—he could bang, kick and shout as loudly as he could in the hope that someone would hear him. It was a flimsy plan at best, but it was the only one that he could come up with.
Before he could even think about starting his histrionics, the car lurched to a complete stop, sending him smashing into the back of the boot space, banging his head on the wheel arch. Morton screamed out, cursing their obviously deliberate attempt to cause him further injury.
He lay prone for several seconds, wondering why the car had not continued. They couldn’t have got far from the church car park, yet. He listened intently but could only hear a mumbled conversation. There was something strange about it, though. It was heightened, agitated.
Morton pressed his ear to the back of the boot, just as the car was flung into reverse and shot backwards, the sound of spun gravel hitting the wheel arch deafening him, as he was thrown across the confined space with a helpless yelp. What were they doing?
The car stopped again.
Morton could hear shouting from outside.
His head was spinning as he tried to interpret the sounds and shouts seeping into the boot. Had he heard a door open? Running on gravel? More shouting? Another car screeching to a halt?
A short burst of silence was broken by a loud thud, right above him. Morton flinched. Something had just landed on the outside of the boot lid. Or someone.
He exhaled dramatically when he caught the words of a beautiful sentence: ‘…You do not have to say anything but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?’
There was a mumbled grunt of agreement from whomever was pressed to the boot above him.
Morton hammered on the metal. ‘Help me! I’m trapped inside! Help!’ he cried loudly. ‘It’s Morton Farrier—they’ve taken me prisoner.’ He realized how dramatic he sounded, but the last thing that he wanted was to be mistaken for one of Kevin’s gang. Or worse still, forgotten about entirely.
‘Okay, just hold on,’ a voice called. ‘Are you alone in there?’
‘Yes!’
There was a subtle, barely audible click of the boot catch being released, followed by a great blinding light as it was pulled open.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw two faces: the taxi driver—now with added police identification—and Juliette—complete with an incredulous shake of her head. They both offered him a hand and helped him from the boot.
‘Are you
