‘Eliza Winter, seventy-five years of age, of independent means,’ Bunny read. ‘Living with Amelia Odden and a grandson is that? Daniel Elphick?’
‘Yes, that’s right—so, as you can see, the whole family were aware that she wasn’t murdered in 1827.’
Bunny sat back, took a sip of her tea then asked, ‘But it all leads to one question: why?’
‘Thomas Honeysett wanted revenge—it’s no coincidence that he turns up working for the very town corporation that was attempting to gain control over the America Ground where both Eliza and Lydia were living. Those girls had put him in prison serving hard labour-’
‘All his own fault,’ Bunny interrupted.
‘Absolutely, but he was out for revenge and he and his son, Richard, were responsible for compiling a large quantity of the records that was to put the nail in the coffin of the America Ground.’
‘So you think Lydia Bloom, Elphick, whatever her name was, didn’t kill herself, but was killed by Richard and Thomas, then they killed an unknown woman in 1827 believing her to be Eliza?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Bunny looked unconvinced. ‘But what evidence do you have, Morton? Were they found guilty of her murder?’
‘No. I don’t have an arrest or a signed confession, but what I do have is the benefit of history and the unique ability to view and analyse disparate documents together and draw conclusions; that file in front of you, when taken as a whole, is evidence enough.’
She looked suddenly deflated. ‘What about Amelia, then? Was she murdered, too?’
Morton shook his head. ‘No, I received both hers and Eliza’s real death certificates this morning and they both died of natural causes.’
‘Oh, I am confused!’ Bunny declared, tossing her hands into the air.
‘I think that Richard and Thomas were about to kill Amelia, but then something happened,’ Morton said enigmatically, turning more pages in the file. ‘Have a read of this.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
28th May 1827, Hollington, Sussex
Richard was cantering to the top of a long and winding road, unduly darkened by the high banks and canopy of old oaks overhead. He had not seen another person for some time now and the last house had been several miles back.
As he neared the brow of the hill, the ground on either side of him quickly fell and, from his elevated position, Richard caught glimpses of the endless swathes of fields and farmland that continued into the dark obscurity of the horizon.
A five-bar gate came into view and Richard tightened the reins, pulling Apollo to a stop. Through the nebulous shapes and silhouettes gently dancing in the night wind was a light. Nightingale Cottage. Amelia Odden’s house. The last of the three evil girls who had wrought such immeasurable destruction upon his father.
Richard dismounted, tied Apollo to the fencepost, then leant on the gate, concentrating on the light. It was now a waiting game—just like when he had killed Eliza. He patted the sheaf knife tucked into his waist. He would have no hesitation in killing her, in completing the job.
He exhaled slowly, wondering what life would be like after tonight, once the shadow that had been cast over his entire existence was finally lifted. It was impossible to imagine; it was all that he had ever known. His memories had only begun after she had abandoned him in the workhouse, discarded like an unwanted animal. The painted portrait of Eliza that he had seen hanging above the parlour fireplace bore no resemblance to the image of her painted in his mind—an image, he admitted, that had been created by his father’s harsh words.
His father had wanted to accompany him tonight, to be there when the final chapter closed, but Richard had insisted that he go alone. He was getting too old for all of this. And yet somehow, Richard knew that his father thrived in the knowledge of impending revenge. It had been his sole driver ever since the brutal incarceration that had very nearly killed him.
And it was all because of her—his mother. She had taken advantage of a man wrapped in the desperation of grief, then, having seen him sentenced, upped and left, never looking back and never wondering if her son were dead or alive. There was not one single bone in his body that felt anything more towards her than a passionate, fervent abhorrence.
The screech of a distant owl snapped Richard back to the present.
The light had gone off. It was almost time.
He waited a few more minutes, giving Amelia time to fall asleep. ‘See you shortly,’ he whispered to Apollo, running the back of his fingers down his soft muzzle.
Climbing the gate assuredly, Richard stalked across the grassy field towards a low fence that adjoined the rear garden of Nightingale Cottage. He paused and crouched down at the property boundary, taking in the back of the house. It was a small thatched cottage with four windows that faced the back garden—all in darkness. Between the two downstairs windows was a door—his entry point.
Richard knelt patiently in the grass, the dew quickly seeping into his trousers. He waited, needing to get this right.
Another thirty minutes passed before he stood and swung his legs over the picket fence and walked quietly to the door.
Pressing his face to the rain-streaked window, he could just discern the outlines of a sink, table, dresser and an empty hearth. He gently placed his hand on the door latch and lifted. Mercifully, it
