About the Author
Nathan Dylan Goodwin was born and raised in Hastings, East Sussex. Schooled in the town, he then completed a Bachelor of Arts degree in Radio, Film and Television, followed by a Master of Arts Degree in Creative Writing at Canterbury Christ Church University. A member of the Society of Authors, he has completed a number of successful local history books about Hastings, as well as other works of fiction in this series; other interests include reading, photography, running, skiing, travelling and of course, genealogy. He is a member of the Guild of One-Name Studies and the Society of Genealogists, as well as being a member of the Sussex Family History Group, the Norfolk Family History Society, the Kent Family History Society and the Hastings and Rother Family History Society, among others. He lives in Kent with his husband and son.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
nonfiction:
Hastings at War 1939-1945
Hastings Wartime Memories and Photographs
Hastings & St Leonards Through Time
Around Battle Through Time
fiction:
(The Forensic Genealogist series)
Hiding the Past
The Lost Ancestor
The Orange Lilies – A Morton Farrier novella
The America Ground
The Spyglass File
The Missing Man – A Morton Farrier novella
The Suffragette’s Secret – A Morton Farrier short story
The Suffragette’s Secret
by
Nathan Dylan Goodwin
Copyright © Nathan Dylan Goodwin 2017
Nathan Dylan Goodwin has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
This story is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Where the names of real people have been used, they appear only as the author imagined them to be.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the author. This story is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding, cover or other eformat, including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
I would like to dedicate this short story to all my wonderful readers; your enthusiasm and keenness for Morton and his adventures is both humbling and motivating. Thank you.
In particular, I should like to mention those whose regular witty interactions help to brighten my day:
Connie Parrott, Karen Clark Cresswell and Gail Ann Pippin
Chapter One
15th March 2017, Wye, Kent
Morton Farrier was pleased. He had found the grave. The effects of time and forty-seven years of passing seasons had tainted the headstone surprisingly little. Perhaps its remarkable condition was owing to its position within the protective lee of the church nave or perhaps it was owing to the permanence of the chosen material: deep burgundy marble. Crouching onto the freshly cut grass, he read the inscription: ‘In Memory of a dear husband and father Cecil W. Barwise, died 18th December 1958 aged 74. At rest. Also beloved wife and mother Grace Barwise, died 15th August 1970 aged 94. Reunited.’
Morton pulled out his mobile and took several shots of the grave. ‘It’s here,’ he called out.
‘Brilliant,’ came the flat, sarcastic response.
He grinned. ‘Come over and see.’
With a grunt and a sigh, his heavily pregnant wife, Juliette heaved herself up from a bench on the church’s perimeter and ambled slowly towards him. ‘I’m freezing and miserable—this can’t be good for the baby,’ she moaned. She reached the grave and took a long breath in. ‘Cecil and Grace Barwise. Amazing. Can we go, now?’ she asked, rotating back towards the car.
‘Sure, let’s go and get a hot drink from…’ Morton started. His words faltered when he saw Juliette wince and reach down to her protruding belly. ‘What’s the matter?’
She turned, lifted up her coat and revealed a dark stain travelling down the legs of her light-blue maternity jeans. ‘I think my waters have just broken,’ she said, her face contorting into a grimace. ‘I think the boy is on his way.’
‘But he’s two weeks early,’ Morton said.
Juliette rubbed the sides of her stomach. ‘I don’t think Albert wants to wait any longer; I think I’m in labour.’
‘Is it hurting?’
Juliette nodded. ‘Yes,’ she replied curtly. ‘We need to get to the Conquest—now.’
‘But…it’s thirty-odd miles away—we might not make it,’ Morton replied. ‘We need to go to the nearest maternity hospital.’
Juliette looked horrified. ‘But my birth plan…’
Morton shrugged. ‘I think the water birth, soothing music and dimmed lights have just gone out the window. Come on, let’s go—I’m not delivering Albert in a churchyard.’ He took Juliette’s arm and began back towards the car, all the while fumbling on his phone to locate the nearest hospital. ‘William Harvey.’
‘What?’ Juliette snapped, pausing to bend over as a spasm hit her abdomen.
‘The nearest maternity hospital—it’s not far away, thank God. Okay?’
Juliette nodded, stood up and continued across the churchyard.
Finally, they reached the car and Morton programmed the hospital’s location into the Satnav.
‘Think you need to put your foot down,’ Juliette gasped.
‘I’ll go as fast as I can,’ he answered, zipping out of the church car park.
‘Is it disrespectful for your waters to break on someone’s grave? Do you think Cecil and Grace Barwise will be offended?’ Juliette asked, a wry smile turning into a wince, as she clutched her stomach.
‘I doubt it; they’re your great grandparents.’
Chapter Two
Morton and Juliette, with one hand each clutching onto the handle of the baby car seat, passed through the exit of the William Harvey Hospital. The closing of the automatic doors behind them rocked
