He looked around the room, not enjoying this perpetual state of bewildered disorientation. Focus, he told himself. What was the time? Just gone eleven. He needed to be productive, to take advantage of this time. A shower and some breakfast and he would be fine. But first, coffee. And lots of it. Maybe then he could continue working on Grace Emmerson.
In his heart Morton cried. On the document collection and returns desk in the Reference Room of The Keep—the name for the building housing all of the archives for East Sussex—was his nemesis, Miss Deidre Latimer. She was dressed in a hideous tartan skirt and some kind of loose-fitting blue blouse. They had never got on and yet, Morton had no real idea why. He was never in the mood for interaction with her. Today, however, he was in the kind of mood where he might well kill her.
He drew a deep breath and approached the counter.
A thin smile cracked her wrinkled veneer. Never a good sign. It usually indicated that a barrage of sarcasm was heading his way.
‘Good morning,’ she said brightly, removing her glasses.
‘Morning,’ he replied curtly. ‘I’ve got some documents pre-ordered. I don’t mind which first.’
She smiled again, unnerving him. ‘I hear from our mutual friend, Jenny Greenwood, that you’ve a new addition to your household.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, unsure where this was leading. She stood with her arms folded, making absolutely no attempt to go to the room behind the counter for his documents.
‘Well, come on, show me a picture,’ Miss Latimer said.
Now Morton was completely knocked sideways. ‘Er…’ he muttered, fumbling for his mobile. He unlocked the phone and looked up at her, waiting for her to say that she was joking and of course she didn’t want to see a picture of his baby. But she didn’t. She just waited. He scrolled past the photos taken yesterday at The National Archives to the abundance of pictures of his daughter. He selected a good one and passed the phone across the counter.
Her smile widened to a point that Morton had never seen before. What had happened to the miserable old hag that had blighted his life for the past goodness knows how many years?
‘Oh, he’s just adorable. Look at him!’
‘Her actually,’ Morton corrected. ‘Long story as to why she’s head-to-toe in blue, but she’s definitely a girl.’
Miss Latimer nodded uncertainly. ‘Well, she’s adorable. Have you got a name yet?’
Morton went to say ‘Matilda’ but then he remembered back to first thing this morning. Juliette had faltered when she had gone to say it. Perhaps she wasn’t overly struck on it, either. ‘No, not yet. We’re still making lists at the moment.’
‘You’ve only got forty-two days legally,’ she said, returning his phone to him. ‘Right, let’s go and get your documents, then.’
She disappeared into the back room, leaving Morton astounded. Miss Deidre Latimer might actually be human.
‘Here we go,’ she said, presenting him with a file. ‘I’m afraid that some of the documents you ordered are unavailable, although they have been scanned and can be viewed on the computers in the Reading Room.’ Another warm smile.
‘Thank you,’ he said, wondering if his sleep-deprived brain was misrepresenting reality, sparing him the pain of his usual exchanges with her.
Unnerved, Morton took a seat at one of the long tables. Today, there were half-a-dozen researchers quietly poring over the documents which were in front of them.
He opened his laptop and accessed his user account. The records that were unavailable, but which had been digitised, were photographs pertaining to one of the prominent members of the Brighton WSPU: Minnie Turner. According to the online index, the photos included her residence, Sea View in Brighton, where Grace had been living at the time of the 1911 census. In front of him now was a thinly bound packet containing Minnie Turner’s correspondence.
The first item inside it was a letter, dated 12th April 1910, the writer expressing their condolences for the loss of Minnie’s mother. The next four letters, from different authors continued this theme. Then he read a letter from 1947—an invite from the Suffragette Fellowship in London, inviting Minnie to visit their new museum. Next was a short undated notelet from a lady thanking her for a ‘most wonderful seaside holiday in the company of like-minded women’.
Morton turned the page to see the final piece of correspondence: a discoloured pencil-written note that immediately aroused his interest, as, from a short way down the page, the words Linden Grove jumped out at him. He returned to the top and read: ‘8th October 1911. Dear Minnie, It is done. I have destroyed Linden Grove. Given what has happened, I shall not be returning for the immediate future. With love & warm wishes.’
Morton studied the words for some time, something niggling inside him about the letter. I have destroyed Linden Grove. The letter was unsigned, the anonymous author evidently known to Minnie. Was it a coincidence that this was where Cecil Barwise had been employed as a groom, just months prior to its apparent destruction?
He typed ‘Linden Grove’ into The Keep’s search form. Zero results. Perhaps it had made the local papers, he wondered, making a note on his pad to check.
But there was something else about the letter that was bothering him. The handwriting. The elegance and precision of the descenders and ascenders were vaguely familiar. He studied the lettering carefully; the closer he looked at the grey pencil words, the more convinced he became that they had been written by Grace. Pulling out his mobile phone, he scrolled through his camera roll to the letter that Grace had written to Herbert Gladstone, complaining of her treatment in Holloway Prison. Identical.
Morton photographed the short letter, wildly curious about what had happened at Linden Grove. First, though, he needed to finish looking
