Page 24 of Dirty Valentine (A J.J. Graves Mystery #17)
“Well, she asked what would happen legally if it could be proven that land had been stolen rather than legally transferred. Whether current property ownership could be challenged if historical fraud was discovered.” Morton paused, stirring his coffee slowly.
“She seemed quite worried about what she might find.”
“Did she mention anyone else asking about her research?” Jack asked. “Or seem concerned about being followed?”
Morton’s brow furrowed. “Now that you mention it, she did seem nervous. Kept checking her phone, looked over her shoulder a few times when we were sitting by the window. She asked if I’d told anyone else about our conversation, and when I said no, she seemed relieved.”
“What did you tell her about the property transfers?”
“The truth. That if sufficient historical evidence existed to prove fraud in the original transfers, it could potentially create legal complications for current landowners, especially if the property was valuable.” Morton set down his coffee cup with care.
“She seemed quite troubled by that possibility.”
Jack leaned forward. “Did she ask to see the original documents?”
“She asked, but I explained I don’t show the originals to anyone—too fragile and valuable. However, I did show her some photocopies from Ezekiel’s journals.” Morton’s face grew troubled. “She was particularly interested in the entries about pressure being applied to ensure Bridget’s conviction.
“Ezekiel Morton was appointed as Justice of the Peace to preside over several trials in the early Colonial period, including Bridget Ashworth’s,” Morton continued, rising to retrieve a thick spiral-bound album from a side table.
“According to his journals, he was deeply troubled by that particular case.”
“Troubled how?”
“He didn’t believe that Bridget Ashworth was a witch.
” Morton opened the album to reveal photocopied pages covered in careful Colonial script.
“As judge, he was duty bound to listen to all the testimony against the accused. But the testimony against Bridget Ashworth was very coordinated, too convenient. Every witness seemed to have the same story, told in nearly identical language. People said she’d been sacrificing their animals and witnesses would corroborate—blood appearing on their doorposts and things like that.
Whole families would say she cursed them when they all came down with an illness.
Others accused her of murder if someone died.
Of course, illness and death were not uncommon in those times.
There were entire families wiped out from influenza, smallpox, typhoid… ”
Morton pushed the thick folder across the table to us. “But more than that, Ezekiel documented pressure from other prominent men to ensure a guilty verdict.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“Threats, bribes, promises of political advancement if he cooperated and social and financial ruin if he didn’t.
” Morton’s voice carried the weight of generations of family shame.
“According to his journals, Jonathan Blackwood and Jasper Hughes visited him privately the night before the verdict. Jasper was the husband of Rebecca, and she was one of the primary witnesses against Bridget. These men made it clear that acquitting Bridget Ashworth would be seen as treason against the colony’s interests. They threatened his wife and children.”
“That’s a hard place for anyone to be in,” Jack said.
Judge Morton nodded. “I’d like to think if I were in his place that I’d stand for justice and I’d protect what was mine at the same time, no matter the cost, but when it comes down to it, not all men are created to go to war.
Sometimes you have to think of other ways to protect what you love most. I can’t fault Ezekiel for the choice he made. I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“What happened to him?” I asked.
“It’s documented in his journals,” he said.
“He was weighed down with shame and guilt over Bridget’s death.
He became ill, losing weight and sleep until he’d wasted away to nothing.
He wrote in his journal that he felt it was a just punishment for his sins.
And then he died less than a year later.
His sons were old enough to steward the property and provide for the family, so our line and the inheritance of this land passed on through generations. ”
“Judge Morton,” I said carefully, “Dr. Mills is missing. Her medical practice was closed yesterday, and this morning we found her house had been ransacked. There were signs of a struggle.”
The color drained from Morton’s face. “Missing? Good God. You think someone took her because of what she was researching?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Jack said. “But we’re concerned about anyone who has knowledge of these historical documents. Have you had any other unusual visitors or phone calls recently?
Morton was quiet for a moment, clearly thinking.
“There was one odd phone call, about two weeks ago. Right around the time Thomas Whitman made his presentation to the historical society, now that I think about it. Someone asking about Ezekiel’s journals, claiming to be doing genealogical research.
But the questions were very specific—about property boundaries and land transfers.
And there was something strange about the voice. ”
“Strange how?”
“It sounded electronically distorted, like someone was deliberately disguising it. They knew details about the journals that aren’t in any published accounts. You can understand that there are some aspects of my family history that aren’t open for public consumption and opinion.”
Jack leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. “Judge Morton, between Dr. Mills’s visit last week, this suspicious phone call, and now Thomas’s murder, I think you need to consider that you might be in danger too.”
“You really think so?” Morton asked, though his voice suggested he’d already been wondering the same thing.
“Someone is eliminating people who have knowledge of this historical conspiracy,” I said. “And you have more documented evidence than anyone.”
Morton was quiet for a moment, clearly weighing the implications.
“Do you mind if we take these with us?” Jack asked, indicating the photocopied journals.
“Of course. I had the letters published several years ago, so I have books of them. I have a sister in Richmond,” Morton said, understanding the gravity of the situation. “I can drive down there this evening.”
“Good. And Judge? If anyone else calls or visits asking about those journals, you contact me immediately.”
As we drove away from Judge Morton’s house, I found myself mentally cataloging the pieces of a puzzle that was finally starting to make sense. This wasn’t about historical justice or supernatural revenge.
This was about secrets. Deadly secrets that someone was willing to kill to protect.
“Jack,” I said, watching the Virginia countryside roll past, “What if Dr. Mills discovered she was connected to this conspiracy? Either as a descendant of the victims or the perpetrators?”
“Then she became a liability,” Jack said with the matter-of-fact tone he used when analyzing criminal behavior. “Someone who knew too much about the past and might expose the truth.”
“The question is, who else knows enough about this conspiracy to be considered a threat?” I said.
“We need to get these documents digitized and secure,” Jack said, patting the folder Morton had given us. “And we need to find out exactly what Mills discovered before someone decided she was too dangerous to live.”
As we headed back toward town, I felt the familiar satisfaction that came when a case started clicking into place. Three centuries ago, a group of men had conspired to steal land and eliminate anyone who threatened their plan.
Now someone was playing the same deadly game, silencing anyone who might expose the truth.
The killer was cleaning house, eliminating anyone who knew too much about a three-hundred-year-old conspiracy. But they’d made a mistake—they’d left a trail of bodies and ransacked homes that told their own story.
We still didn’t know who JMH was, the person Thomas had dinner with the night he died. That meeting might have sealed his fate. But we were closing in, and the killer had to know it.
The question was whether we could stop them before they finished what they’d started.