Inwardly, Morton groaned, wondering at which stately home, mansion or castle she had settled on. His head was definitely not in the right place for wedding discussions. The pain on the outside was only slightly worse than the turmoil on the inside, caused by a blend of the Lovekin Case and his apprehension about visiting Roy Dyche tomorrow.
She sipped her drink, making him wait.
‘Go on, then,’ he encouraged.
‘Rye Town Hall,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s small, it’s got the history—dating from 1742—and is registered to hold weddings. Plus it’s within walking distance of our house. And, we can even have the town crier!’
How well she knew him. He smiled, genuinely. ‘Perfect.’ He leant across and kissed her. ‘You’d better find a date.’
‘Saturday the thirteenth of August—are you free?’ she grinned.
‘Really? You’ve booked it?’
Juliette nodded.
Morton raised his glass. ‘Cheers. To our wedding at Rye Town Hall on the thirteenth August!’
Their glasses clinked above the table and they drank to their upcoming nuptials.
As Morton drank his water, he noticed a flash of red in his peripheral vision. He turned to see a small postal van, with its hazard lights blinking, mounting the pavement. The postman jumped out and retrieved a bag from the rear doors.
‘Go on, off you go,’ Juliette sighed.
‘No, it can wait,’ Morton countered, sitting back and trying to relax.
‘No it can’t, just go, she repeated.
‘Okay. I won’t be a minute.’
He planted a kiss on her lips, then made his way through the bar to reception, where he found a young postman in a red t-shirt and black shorts, hauling letters, parcels and packets out of a large grey sack like it was Christmas day.
‘That’s the lot,’ he said, turning away and leaving the receptionist with a muddled look on her face.
‘Morning,’ she said to Morton, beginning to stow the bigger parcels below the desk. ‘Sorry about all this.’
‘That’s why I’m here, actually. I’m a guest—Morton Farrier, room twenty-two—and I was expecting some post this morning.’
The receptionist grimaced. ‘Well, as you can see, I’m up to my eyes. Could you give me half an hour or so to get it sorted out?’
Morton mirrored her facial expression. ‘It is rather urgent,’ he persisted. ‘It’s an A5 brown envelope—two of them, actually.’ He detected a slight huff, but she obliged by sifting through the letters until she settled upon two envelopes that matched his description.
‘Morton Farrier, did you say?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
She handed him the envelopes with a smile. ‘There you go.’
‘Thank you very much,’ Morton said appreciatively, as he darted back to his seat outside in the sunshine.
Sitting opposite Juliette, he took a swig of water then ripped into the envelopes and examined the two certificates.
‘Well?’ Juliette asked. ‘Do you know who killed Eliza and why?’
Morton took a deep breath. ‘I think so, yes.’
Later that morning, having added the new certificates and their results to his case file, Morton strolled along George Street to Bunny’s Emporium. The air was spiked with the smell of fish and chips and the sound of a chorus of cawing gulls. With his bag slung over his shoulder, under one arm he carried Eliza’s portrait, and in the other hand he carried a thick file: Eliza’s provenance, or life story as Bunny had described it.
The shop was mercifully empty when he stepped inside, just Bunny with her back to him, bending over and titivating a display of ancient medicine bottles.
Morton stood in the shop doorway, awaiting her reaction when she saw him.
‘Morton Farrier!’ she cried, the very moment she clapped eyes on him. She hurried over and kissed him on each cheek. ‘What on earth have you done to your head?’
‘Walked into a door,’ Morton said.
Bunny seemed to accept the explanation then stepped back, hands on her voluptuous hips, glancing from the file to the portrait. ‘Have you done it? Please tell me you have!’ She was wearing some kind of rainbow-coloured, seersucker all-in-one outfit along with her usual abundance of bangles and neck jewellery.
Morton nodded.
‘And with two days to go until the auction!’ She shook her head in amazement and mimicked raising a hat from her head. ‘Congratulations, sir. Now. Before you delight me with all the deliciousness of your findings, I’ll fetch us a nice peppermint tea. How does that sound?’
‘Lovely, thank you,’ he responded.
Bunny grinned and disappeared through the curtain behind the till.
It didn’t sound lovely: Morton wanted a moment to examine the flags that were hung on the wall.
He heard the sound of a kettle boiling as he set the file and portrait down and pulled at the corner of the America Ground flag. It was a very good replica, Morton conceded.
The sound of Bunny’s mutterings approaching the bead curtain sent Morton scurrying to the stool beside the till.
‘Here we go—lovely and fresh,’ she announced.
‘Thank you,’ Morton said, placing the Lovekin Case file on the desk between them, his hand guardedly placed on the top.
‘Golly, I’m rather nervous,’ Bunny said, with a look of excited anticipation in her eyes.
Morton opened the file to the first page then turned it to face Bunny. ‘So, I’ll just give you a brief overview of the highlights and leave you to digest the rest of it and the finer detail in your own time.’
Bunny nodded emphatically and Morton began. ‘This is a copy of Eliza’s baptism in 1786. It’s a bit tricky to read—it’s the highlighted entry.’
Bunny squinted at the page. ‘Baseborn?’
‘Illegitimate—no known father. She was baptised in Westwell and spent her early years in the workhouse
