He, with his practically useless right arm, had much more to fear than the other men. If he could not work here, then he was finished.
‘Right!’ someone called, striding out from behind the barn. It was Mr Pilcher, tossing down the half a dozen shovels which he had been cradling in his arms. ‘Follow me.’
The men bent down, picked up a shovel each and followed him across a muddy yard. They passed other outbuildings and arrogant farmhands tending to the livestock, who turned their backs to the pitiable procession of the parish poor.
They silently crossed another field before reaching their destination: a large dug-out quarry. To one side were four carts with their tailgates open.
‘Them four carts need to be filled by the end of the day with good quality flint. It be going down to the new turnpike road, so we don’t want no rubbish, clay or mud,’ he bawled, ‘just good Kentish flint. Anyone not be understanding that?’
The men remained still.
‘Get cracking, then,’ he instructed.
Sam positioned his hands on the shovel and thrust it downwards, but the hard ground refused the lacklustre effort of his right arm. ‘Tarnal hell,’ he muttered, trying again. Back and forth he smashed the shovel into the ground, cracking only an inch or so of the icy topsoil open. Changing the positions of his hands, making his left dominant, made little difference.
After several minutes of futile attempts at digging, Sam stood up to take a breath. He took a quick glance over at the other men. They were struggling to break the ground, too but they were at least pulling out rocks and tossing them into the backs of the carts. As he returned his gaze to the ground beneath him, he caught Mr Pilcher’s curious stare.
With a redoubled effort, Sam plunged the shovel into the earth, managing to reveal a small nugget of flint. He dug the clay loose from beneath the stone then prised it free with his hands. Feeling a minor sense of triumph, he flung it into the nearest cart.
He poised the shovel, ready to strike again when an odd sound caused him to look up. It was Mr Pilcher, clapping his hands in Sam’s direction. Sam paused to blink the sweat from his eyes.
‘You be thinking we got four hundred years to finish the turnpike road?’
‘No,’ Sam answered.
‘So, you be thinking that the overseers be full of money, then?’
‘No,’ Sam repeated, about to explain about the weakness in his right arm but then thought better of it. Every man had a story, a reason for being here.
‘Then you best get digging, you little black-tan, or I be telling the overseers that you be owed nothing.’
Sam funnelled his anger into the shovel and plunged it hard into the ground. His endeavours, however, produced little effect against the mocking earth.
In a roar of frustration, Sam launched the shovel in Mr Pilcher’s direction. ‘Damn the overseers, damn the turnpike road and damn you, Mr Pilcher.’
Sam staggered into the Walnut Tree Inn, exhaustion having consumed every part of him. ‘Pint of ale,’ he stammered breathlessly.
‘Merciful Lord, Sam Banister—you be a-looking pretty nigh-ready for the grave,’ the landlord remarked.
Sam could not find the words to answer. He sat at the bar and slumped down into the crook of his elbow. Against the wooden bar top, he sensed the reverberation of his drink being placed down close to his head.
‘Six pence,’ the landlord said.
‘I be getting this,’ someone said from beside him.
Sam sat up and met with the inky eyes of George Ransley. ‘Thank you,’ he said, quiet suspicion rising inside him. He stared at Ransley. He had very dark hair and eyes, the ruddy complexion typical of a carter, and a grubby gabardine. The feature which most drew attention, and of which he was self-conscious, was his projecting upper teeth.
Ransley twitched, seemingly anxious. He glanced around him, catching the inquisitive gaze of the landlord. He leant in closer to Sam and spoke softly: ‘What do you be thinking about the Aldington Gang?’
Sam shrugged, uncertain of the meaning behind Ransley’s question. ‘A good thing for some it be done and a bad thing for others,’ he said, gesturing to the working folk around the room, who had relied on the extra income which they had derived from smuggling.
‘And what if we don’t be letting it be over?’ Ransley whispered, taking a glug from his beer.
‘Same answer,’ Sam said. ‘Good for some, not so good for some. And, it be needing someone with money to be leader.’
Ransley drank more beer and grinned. He drew his mouth close to Sam’s ear. ‘I got the means but I be needing a deputy. What say you, Sam Banister?’
Sam was taken aback. ‘Me?’ Whatever the fortunes of others, his days smuggling were over. As a demonstration, he attempted to lift his right arm past chest height, but it was impossible. ‘My last tub were dumped in the Pig’s Creek Sewer a few week ago and I don’t be wanting no more of it.’
He tapped Sam on the head. ‘That still be working alright?’
Sam nodded his head. ‘Yes.’ He thought of Hester, John and the new baby and the fact that he had almost died in the last smuggling run. It was too dangerous and Hester, having lost two brothers to the trade, would never forgive him.
‘I be needing a right-hand man. Someone to help organise.’
‘That right?’ Sam responded doubtfully. ‘Why me?’
‘You be almost family… I be needing a fellow what can be trusted and I be thinking Sam Banister be that fellow.’ Ransley sank the last of his beer, belched loudly and drew in a long breath. ‘What say you?’
‘No, that be what I say,’ Sam said. ‘Hester—you know what she be like.’
‘Aye—not keen on me—but I be offering three guinea a week, no matter what runs be happening,’ Ransley offered, folding his arms. ‘Another two after each successful run. Even my dear Hester not be minding that.’
Sam ran his fingers through his hair. The offer of so much money suddenly flipped the firmness of his decision into the void where thoughts of what he could do for his family and the possibility of keeping them out of the poorhouse vied with thoughts of remaining alive for them. ‘And no tub-running?’ he clarified.
Ransley shook his head. ‘No tub-running.’
‘I be offering you this,’ he found himself saying, ‘one month, then we see what be happening. I be walking away, if that be what I choose.’
Ransley smiled a big toothy grin and thrust his thick hand at Sam. ‘Good man. The Aldington Gang be back in business.’
Sam shook the extended hand, uncertain if he was doing the right thing.
Time alone would tell.
Chapter Six
Morton’s satnav announced that he had arrived at his destination: Aldington Church. He slowed his red Mini to a crawl, then pulled over onto a stretch of gravel which ran beside a none-too-high boundary wall topped with ivy. Switching off the engine, he climbed out of the car and stretched, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face as he took in the peaceful surroundings.
Opposite the church was a well-trimmed hawthorn hedgerow, over which Morton could see a vast tract of open grassy farmland. Adjacent to the church was a miscellaneous assortment of farm buildings and small cottages, whence came the only sound to be heard: the low rumble of a piece of farming machinery.
Morton pushed open the lych-gate and ventured into the churchyard. It was typical of a rural Kentish parish church: a twelfth-century stone building with later additions, set amongst a turfed graveyard, with headstones of varying conditions and legibility dating from the 1600s.
He meandered slowly towards the church, taking in the unobtrusive setting of the place. As he walked, he pictured Ann Fothergill on this very path in 1825, holding her baby, ready to present him at the font for baptism. He saw her as tough, hardened by life on the streets with an unkempt physical appearance to match, an opinion formed following his limited research into her early life. As he had expected, he had found very little. According to the later census records,
she had been born in 1803 in Ramsgate. The entry, for St Mary the Virgin Church, Ramsgate, which he had located in the FindmyPast Kent parish record collection, had been brief and not particularly illuminating: 19th July 1803, Ann, baseborn daughter of Sophia Fothergill. By digging still a little further into the records for St Mary’s, Morton had then discovered that her mother, Sophia Fothergill, had married an Isaac Bull there in 1816, she dying just two years later and being interred there in June 1817. This he had noticed, when he had added the information to Ann’s timeline, was just one month prior to her first conviction for theft. Little wonder, he mused, imagining that any sense of a childhood had come crashing to an end with the death of her mother.
Whilst conducting his research this morning, Morton had received a link to download Ann’s will. It was short and to the point: her ownership of three public houses—the Packet Boat Inn, the Palm Tree and the Bell Inn—along with all of her household goods and chattels were bestowed upon her son, William.
Morton reached the church door and was disappointed to find that it was locked. He touched the very wooden door, imagining Ann’s splayed fingers as she would have pushed the same door open and stepped inside the cool building. Would anyone else have attended the baptism? he wondered. Presumably, the father had not been present, given that his name had been omitted from William’s baptism entry.
Letting his imagined fantasy fade, Morton slowly ambled around the grounds of the churchyard, catching glimpses of the names of villagers who had resided here at a similar time to Ann.
Having taken some photographs of the church and its surroundings, Morton opened Google Maps. It appeared that the village, although small, was sprawled out over a large area, constituting, as it had done during Ann’s time here, a patchwork of agricultural fields. What looked like the centre of the village—including the majority of the houses, the school, pub and village hall—were all a good twenty-minute walk away. As he stood in a coin of sunshine, he contemplated leaving the car and enjoying a walk along the country lanes, but time was short, and he convinced himself that the forty-minutes roundtrip could be put to better use elsewhere.
He unhurriedly returned to his car, then drove along the Roman Road, taking stock of the buildings that he passed as he went. An assortment of properties, from crude post-war social housing to grand fourteenth-century homes, clustered around the village centre.
Morton parked up beside a children’s playpark. A young man was in the throes of pushing a toddler on a swing and two older children were climbing the steps to the top of a slide. Morton smiled, beginning to walk the main street of the village, thinking about Grace and how much he was missing Juliette and her, despite their having only been gone for one day. Then he remembered Grace’s upcoming birthday and he felt a pang of anxiety. He still had not spoken to his Aunty Margaret. Every time that he had dialled her number, he had immediately ended the call in cold fear of the discussion which would have ensued. Last night, spurred on by the uninhibited courage which had emanated from having polished off a bottle of red wine by himself, he had rehearsed what he was going to say to her. Then, he had phoned her, listening to the ringing tone for what felt like an age. He had been about to hang up when she had answered with a gruff ‘Hello?’ Her voice had shredded through his prepared speech, leaving his mind wiped and his mouth empty of words. He had hit the red button and ended the call without uttering so much as a single syllable. Now, he felt foolish. A foolish coward. What was the worst that could have happened? That her reaction would have been frosty and that she might have changed her mind about attending the party?
Morton walked the main stretch of the village absentmindedly, unable to shake a muddy and uncomfortable question that had entered his mind: if it came to a choice, which one of his biological parents would he prefer to have at the party? His sugar-coated memories of Aunty Margaret held the more deeply seated longevity of close family, beginning at some stage in his hazy formative years, the specific date or occasion now indiscernible. Of his biological father, Jack, memories had begun to form with a jolt just nineteen months ago. By comparison, the latter were shorter and fewer in number, yet had taken on a profound and unexpected intensity which were absent from those of his Aunty Margaret.
It was not a choice which he could make, he realised. Nor one which he should have to make. It was his daughter’s first birthday and both grandparents were openly welcome to attend; the multifarious threads of their emotions and feelings could not be his to unravel.
He breathed in at length, working the pernicious thought from his mind, noticing then that he was standing beside a bed of bright yellow daffodils, out of which rose the Aldington village sign. It was in black metal cut in the shape of a shield. At the top was the village name, at the bottom was depicted a range of farming tools and sheep, indicating a rich heritage of agriculture. Above the sheep were three wavy lines, on top of which stood three men with large barrels upon their backs. Smugglers, Morton supposed. He photographed the sign, then continued through the village.
He reached his car, opened the door, then glanced to the other side of the road at the Walnut Tree Inn. He looked at his watch: almost twelve. Lunchtime, sort of. He crossed the road and entered the pub, finding himself in a deserted room with a short bar.
‘Afternoon. Are you after food or…?’ a barmaid greeted. She was young—late teens, Morton guessed—with olive skin and incongruously bright red hair.
‘Food and drink, please,’ Morton answered.
‘Take your pick of tables,’ the barmaid said, handing him a menu. ‘Specials are on the board.’ She pointed at a blackboard behind him. ‘See what you fancy and I’ll be over to take your order.’
‘Thank you,’ Morton replied, distracted from the specials board by the surrounding decorations. Tankards, barrels and old pistols were displayed on almost every wall and shelf around the bar. On one wall, written on the light wood in large black letters was a poem:
Smuggler’s Song by Rudyard Kipling.
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.
Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.
‘Ready?’ the barmaid asked.
‘Oh…’ Morton said, not yet having moved from the bar. He quickly glanced at the blackboard and plucked the first thing upon which his eyes settled. ‘Chicken and mushroom pie with new potatoes and veg, please. And a small glass of house red. Thanks.’
The barmaid tapped his order into the till. ‘Fourteen pounds fifty, please.’
Morton handed over his credit card. ‘Was this a smugglers’ pub?’ he asked, gesturing to all the apparel dotted around the room.
The barmaid handed over the credit card machine. ‘I don’t know to be honest, I’ve not been here long. It might just be decoration. I can ask the landlord if you like.’
‘If they’re around, thank you,’ Morton replied, typing his PIN number into the machine and handing it back across the bar.
The barmaid turned behind her and yelled, ‘Dave!’
A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and potbellied stomach appeared with a tea-towel, wet wine glass and a slightly disgruntled look on his face. ‘What’s up?’
‘This gentleman wanted to know if the pub was used for smuggling.’
The landlord smiled at Morton. ‘The wicked trade—yes, it went on here. It was a kind of headquarters for the Aldington Gang—have you heard of them?’
Morton shook his head. ‘Do you know when that would have been?’
‘Around the 1820s,’ he answered. ‘They were quite a big deal at the time, so I gather. They used to meet here before and after landing their contraband on the Marsh.’
‘Interesting,’ Morton said. ‘Do you know any of the names of those involved?’
The landlord thought for a moment. ‘I think the leader was a man called Ransley. Other than him, no,
I don’t.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the landlord said, turning back towards the rear of the bar.
‘Where are you going to sit?’ the barmaid asked, pouring his wine.
Morton turned and pointed to a round table. ‘Over there by the window.’
‘Lovely,’ she said, handing him his drink.
Morton carried the wine over to the table and took a sip, as he mulled over what the landlord had just told him. If what he had said was correct, then smuggling was going on in this very village at the time when Ann had resided here. It raised a possible question: Was Ann somehow involved? He re-read the Kipling poem above him: Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by. Then, he tried to recall the contents of Ann’s 1827 letter. Something about life returning to the old quiet ways and the chance to leave behind the wicked deeds of the past. The landlord had just described smuggling as ‘the wicked trade’. Had Ann been referring to smuggling in her letter? For a woman so linked to the combination of trouble and alcohol, it was certainly a possibility to be taken very seriously.
Shattering the stillness of the room and Morton’s train of thoughts came the sound of his mobile ringing. He pulled it out and looked at the caller identity: Juliette. ‘Hiya,’ he greeted warmly. ‘How are my girls?’
‘We’re very good, thanks. Just been to the park with my mum and fed the ducks. Played on the swings and had an ice-cream. What about you?’ she asked.
‘Just doing some research for the latest case,’ he answered.
‘Here we go,’ the barmaid said, placing his plate down in front of him. ‘Any more wine?’
Morton shook his head vigorously. ‘Thanks.’
‘Wine?’ Juliette quizzed. ‘Where are you?’
‘A pub in Aldington—it’s with my lunch,’ he defended.
‘Lunch? It’s not even midday yet.’
‘It’s all in the name of work.’
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 7