‘You just wanted that,’ he said, tapping the file. ‘When your grandfather died, you inherited his belongings, including that flag above you, which I don’t believe to be a replica at all—it’s the original, isn’t it?’ A pathetic nod from Bunny, and Morton continued. ‘You also inherited the indentures, which your grandfather had copied in his pursuit of trying to get back what he perceived belonged to your family. But he died just a short time after the land was taken over by a private company. Then the old building that was once the Black Horse then The Forester’s Arms passed to your dad, who lived there until he died last year. Well, Bunny—you’ve got everything you need now: the original lease and release, a well-documented family tree and plenty of exceptional circumstances.’
Finally, she met his disapproving gaze. ‘I’m so sorry, Morton—really I am. I know you must think me a truly wicked person.’
‘No, I just don’t understand. Why did you wait all this time? You could have found a genealogist to pursue this for you back in 1988—why wait until now?’
Bunny took a moment to answer. ‘My dad found the original indentures hidden in my grandpa’s greenhouse just before Grandpa died, and said he’d done what should have been done a hundred years ago and burnt them. When my dad died last year, I found that he hadn’t destroyed them at all—he’d stashed them in the back of Eliza’s portrait.’
‘Why didn’t you just commission me to investigate it? And under your real name, not some made-up name.’
Bunny shot a dark look at him. ‘It was my nickname from my grandpa, not some made-up name. And I didn’t ask you to investigate it because…’
‘Because you feared that what happened to your grandfather could happen to you—that they’d come after you. Cheers,’ Morton said with a sardonic grin, gently touching the stiches on the side of his head.
‘Now what?’ Bunny asked.
Morton shrugged. ‘That’s up to you. My job’s done and I’ll be invoicing you shortly. What you do with all that research is down to you,’ he said, standing from the stool. He began to walk towards the door but stopped and turned. ‘My advice, for what it’s worth, would be to hang the portrait and the family tree proudly in your home and to hand the indentures over to East Sussex Archives. Oh, and I would go and see your siblings—none of them are quite as fortunate as you.’
Morton continued out of the door and stepped into the late afternoon sunshine with a smile on his face. Within seconds he was absorbed into the bustling crowds of George Street.
Chapter Thirty-One
28th May 1827, Hollington, Sussex
Eliza Lovekin stood over Richard, the copper warming pan that she had inherited from her mother held aloft, poised and ready to strike again. Her heart was thundering so much that it hurt her chest and her breathing was fast and fitful.
For almost four weeks, she and Amelia had been constantly on their guard. Watching. Waiting. Knowing that he would come. Not once in that time had she set foot out of the house, lest she be discovered. Poor Ann Woods, her dear friend from the America Ground had unwittingly paid the ultimate price for Eliza, going to the grave under a false name with nobody to lament her loss. But Eliza would remember her sacrifice. Always.
She looked down at Richard and her hands began to quiver. She tapped him lightly with her foot.
He didn’t stir.
‘You can be coming out now,’ Eliza whispered, her voice cracking.
From under the bed shimmied Amelia Odden, herself shaking and petrified. She pushed herself to the outside wall, keeping well clear of Richard’s lifeless body.
‘Is he dead?’ Amelia murmured.
‘I don’t be a-knowing,’ Eliza said breathlessly.
Amelia crouched down and tentatively placed the side of her head on his chest. She nodded then burst into tears.
Eliza sighed deeply. She had done it. Taken away the life that she had given to her firstborn child.
She knelt at his side and wept uncontrollably, as a myriad of emotions pierced and punctured her thoughts. Simultaneously, her terrible childhood memories clashed with the recollection of the death of her mother, the happy arrival of the Honeysetts at the workhouse and the promise of a future at last. The horror of Mr Honeysett, drunk and heavy, pressing down onto her naked body bolted into her mind, followed by the bitter taste of savin, the drug that he had administered. Then, she recalled the shame and a flicker of the court case. The pain of giving birth and the greater pain of holding a child that she had created, yet for which she felt nothing. Of meeting Joe. Of delivering three perfect daughters, whom she loved immeasurably. Lydia’s death. Joe’s death. Seeing Richard as an adult.
Killing him.
She consciously began pushing the past back into the recesses of her thoughts and clearing her vision. It had to have been done. When she had arrived at Nightingale Cottage and warned Amelia of Thomas and Richard’s plans for revenge, the two had discussed at length their course of action. Amelia had wanted to flee, to start over somewhere else but she knew—they both knew—that they would spend the rest of their lives wondering when the two men might appear.
‘Come on,’ Eliza said, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. She picked up Richard’s hands and began dragging him towards the door.
Amelia hastily stood and instinctively grabbed his legs and together they lugged his body from the room and down the stairs into the parlour.
‘Stop,’ Eliza said breathlessly, setting him down. ‘Fegs, he be heavy.’ She crept to the door and guardedly pulled it open. A cold breeze blew in around her as she gaped out into the night. Nothing stirred. ‘Let’s be moving.’
They returned to their positions at either end of
