Richard stepped onto the flagstone floor then closed the door behind him.
Silence.
He carefully removed both of his boots, then moved into the room, heading towards an open door that led to a parlour.
The embers in the hearth were dying but continued to feed the room with warmth and a muted orange glow. Richard quickly took in his surroundings—it was a simple room with modest furnishings. At the far end, he spotted the slim wooden staircase and moved towards it.
Standing on the first step, Richard withdrew his knife from the sheath and held the handle to his chest like a dagger. Ready.
Testing his weight under each step, his climb to the top was slow and laborious.
At the top, he was presented with three doors: two closed and one—the first—open. From that door emanated the gentle, scarcely audible sound of breathing.
Richard smiled and proceeded to the door.
There she was, in exactly the same position as Eliza had been, with her back to him and a blanket hauled over her.
Nice and easy.
He began to tread slowly inside the room but the floorboards began to groan under his weight.
He stopped but she didn’t stir.
He reached the bed and prepared himself, adjusting the knife in his moist hand.
Stooping down to listen to her breathing in order to gauge the precise position of her body, he realised that something was wrong.
The body was not moving with the rhythm of her breathing.
Grim, dismal clarity arrived one second before a sharp, deadly blow smashed into the back of his skull.
Chapter Thirty
Morton took a mouthful of the awful drink and allowed his eyes to wander from Bunny back up to the America Ground flag, as he gave her time to read and digest the copies of a report that he had discovered in the FindmyPast newspaper collection this afternoon.
After a short while, Bunny looked up, clearly startled. ‘Golly,’ she said, rubbing her eyes. ‘It’s unbelievable… She looked down again at the article. ‘Richard Winter, an employee of the Hastings Corporation died from falling from his horse,’ she read, glancing back up to Morton before returning to the article. ‘His friends stated that he had lost his nerve following a previous fall from which he had suffered head injuries. My goodness. His body was found outside Nightingale Cottage, the home of one Amelia Odden, who discovered the body.’ She shot another look at Morton. ‘It is believed that some disturbance caused Mr Winter’s horse and that of his colleague, Mr Honeysett to rear up and cast both men to the ground, with Mr Winter suffering fatal injuries. Mr Honeysett, meanwhile is believed to have suffered heart failure and was dragged several miles by his horse.’ Bunny read on in silence then looked up at Morton, shocked. ‘What a surprising end to Eliza’s story! So, is it a coincidence that they died close to Amelia’s house, then?’
Morton smiled, being a firm disbeliever in coincidences. ‘I think that Amelia and Eliza were both there that night and somehow, something they did led to the deaths of Thomas and Richard. They then lived out quiet lives at Nightingale Cottage, whilst Harriet and Christopher ran the Black Horse under its new name in Shepherd Street.’
‘Well, I must say, I can’t blame them,’ Bunny said, ‘Poor girls, after all they’d been through together.’
‘Indeed,’ Morton agreed.
Bunny picked up the file and looked impressed. ‘This is an absolutely incredible amount of research! There was me expecting a little report and possibly a family tree on my dear Eliza and then you present me with this! Amazing.’
‘Ah, yes, the family tree,’ Morton said, pulling a chunky roll of paper from his bag. Removing the elastic band, he began to unravel the large Lovekin tree, topped by Eliza Winter and Joseph Lovekin.
‘My goodness!’ Bunny exclaimed. ‘Is that the Lovekin family tree?’
‘Yes—seven generations from Eliza and Joseph to the modern day,’ Morton said, catching the look of surprise on Bunny’s face.
‘Oh, right. Well, well done you!’ Bunny said. ‘I’ll have a good read through this later on tonight—perhaps over a glass of something stronger than peppermint tea! Thank you so much for all you’ve done—you really are a treasure.’ She closed the file and stood from her stool. ‘I’d better let you get on. Thank you, again for all your efforts.’
‘You haven’t asked me about the indentures, yet,’ Morton said, keenly aware that Bunny’s fidgeting was his cue to depart.
Bunny smiled. ‘Oh, yes, of course. Worthless, I expect?’
Morton pulled a dubious look. ‘That would probably be a matter for a court to decide. The solicitor that I showed them to did seem to think that a case against the current owners might be possible if the family could prove exceptional circumstances—perhaps compensation might be due to surviving family who could provide a good file of evidence’—Morton indicated to the folder between them—‘like that one.’
Bunny shifted uncomfortably. ‘Are you saying that all this is more valuable to a descendant rather than a sale at auction?’ Bunny asked. ‘How utterly wonderful-’
‘Yes, but the indentures you found in the back of the portrait were fakes—the originals would be needed and they’re in the hands of one of these descendants,’ he said, pointing to the family tree. He squinted momentarily and located a name at the bottom of the piece of paper. ‘This person, to be precise. Tina Strickland.’
‘Oh, right,’ Bunny chirped.
‘Or Tina Paine, as she became after her first marriage. Or Tina Llewellyn as she became after her second marriage.’ Morton glanced up to the Old Town Independent Retailer of the Year 2014 award behind the till, presented to Bunny Llewellyn. ‘Or Bunny Llewellyn, as she’s known.’
He watched as the blood drained from her face and she slumped back in her chair.
‘There is no auction, is there?’ he probed.
Bunny shook
