The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘And what of life in the old parish? Does the wicked trade continue unabated?’ he asked sardonically.

  ‘I think there be trouble coming,’ Ann answered, finding that the alcohol was liberating the final lingering shackles of her previous reserve.

  ‘Trouble?’

  Ann drank more, then relayed the recent catastrophes which had befallen the Aldington Gang since the arrival of the Ramillies. Jonas listened intently, asking questions as she spoke. When Ann had finished, both of their glasses were empty.

  ‘Time for another!’ Jonas declared, jumping up.

  ‘Gracious-heart-alive!’ Ann exclaimed, suddenly aware of how long she had been drinking and talking. ‘What be the time?’ She sprang up and hurried for the door. Outside, the sun was hanging low over the horizon, painting the quay in a light orange hue. Sunset was fast approaching, and she had missed the coach back to Ashford by more than an hour. ‘It be gone,’ she lamented as she rejoined Jonas, who passed her another glass of rum.

  ‘I shall take you back,’ he said with a grin. ‘After this drink.’

  Ann sat back down contentedly light of mind and spirit. The rum smoothed any apprehensions at her missing the coach and removed her original misgivings about Jonas Blackwood.

  His small pleasing smile parted his lips as he stared at her.

  She returned the smile, feeling an unfamiliar coyness.

  The journey on horseback was passing in a haze of giddiness. Ann had clung tightly to Jonas’s midriff, sometimes through the absolute terror of falling, sometimes—when the horse was at a steady canter—simply to feel the hammering of his heart beneath her exploring fingers.

  Though the darkness was springing and dancing around her, Ann knew that, having reached the village of Aldington, they were now riding along the incorrect road. ‘You be going the wrong way!’ Ann shouted.

  Jonas pulled the horse into a trot and arched back his head. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘You be going the wrong way,’ she repeated. ‘I be lodging at the Walnut, now.’

  Jonas accepted the news, slowed the horse, then turned back on himself. A few minutes later, they had reached the front of the Walnut Tree Inn. Ann dismounted first, glancing across at the silhouetted figures passing behind the flickering candles in the windows.

  Jonas jumped down skilfully and quickly tethered the horse. ‘Why are you living here?’ he asked, his words breathy and warm on her face.

  ‘I were rather in the way at Braemar Cottage,’ she mumbled, eschewing the truth, which probably would have sufficed as an explanation, but the darkness empowered her to reveal more. ‘I also be having some attention from Mister Banister.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jonas said, though Ann could not tell from that single utterance how he had taken the news, until he added, ‘I better be on my way.’ Then, she knew that it had been accepted as a warning.

  ‘No, I bain’t meaning…’ She moved in closer to him and kissed him lightly on the lips.

  A few short seconds passed, their mouths close but not touching. She kissed him again, with reciprocal vigour and intensity.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Morton was standing in the centre of a stretched hoop of sunshine, which poured through the kitchen window, as he waited for the kettle to boil. A motley assortment of six mugs stood on the worktop beside him. He looked on them as direct representations of the people currently chatting in the lounge and grinned to himself, thinking that the last few days could not have passed off any better. The day after the party had been a relaxed one. He and Juliette had met up with Margaret and Jim for lunch, then had had dinner out with Jack, Laura and George. A pleasant excursion with them to Canterbury had followed the next day.

  His meandering mind skipped with the click of the kettle. He made the drinks, then placed the mugs onto a tray and carried them into the lounge. In a peculiar rollcall of his family, Morton matched the mug with its recipient.

  ‘How did you find staying at that hotel?’ Laura asked, her eyes passing between Margaret and Jim. ‘It looks kinda spooky to me.’

  ‘Absolutely lovely,’ Margaret answered, with a vague nod of agreement from Jim. ‘In every nook and cranny, you can feel the past. It’s like it’s alive with history.’

  ‘I think that’s what Laura means,’ Jack laughed.

  ‘The only fright I had in the night,’ Jim began, ‘was Margaret in a nightdress and hair-rollers.’

  Margaret rolled her eyes and blushed a light pink.

  ‘You guys sure picked a good day to be travelling back home,’ Jack said to Margaret and Jim.

  ‘Yes, and we’ll have missed rush hour by the time we’ve finished this drink,’ Margaret agreed.

  ‘When are you flying back to Canada?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Friday morning; so, we only have two more full days left,’ Laura replied, curling her lower lip.

  ‘It’s been such a great trip,’ Jack enthused. ‘We really have to come over here more often.’ He turned to Juliette. ‘Don’t worry—we wouldn’t expect you to put up with us every time.’

  ‘Don’t be silly—you’re welcome here anytime,’ Juliette said. ‘All of you.’

  ‘Well, if this date goes well, we won’t need to worry about convincing George to come again,’ Laura said with a chuckle.

  ‘I wonder how they’re getting on…’ Juliette said to nobody in particular.

  The chat about George and Lucy going on a date continued with parental scepticism about the wisdom and perils of a very-long-distance relationship, but Morton’s mind drifted elsewhere. He noticed that Laura had implied that George had needed convincing to come to England. Morton still had no idea if George was just a naturally distant person, or if he had some kind of a problem with him. They had still yet to hold anything resembling a conversation which moved beyond the perfunctory; the time for any such growth in their relationship was fast disappearing.

  Morton zoned back into the discussion to hear Margaret shuffling forwards in her seat and placing her mug down onto the tray. ‘Right,’ she said, tapping Jim on the leg. ‘Time we made a move.’

  Jim obediently downed his drink and stood up, an action mimicked by Jack, Laura and Juliette.

  Morton felt a twinge of rising awkwardness at the parting, fearing a repeat of their uncomfortable arrival. He watched as his Aunty Margaret moved to Laura, hugged her and said goodbye, then to Jack. She paused in front of him and smiled.

  ‘It honestly has been lovely seeing you again, Jack,’ she said. ‘I won’t deny I was quite nervous at the prospect and…well, I even considered not coming at all, but I’m glad that I did. You’ve got yourself a beautiful family.’

  They embraced and Jack—indicating Morton—said, ‘We’ve got a beautiful family.’

  A tinge of embarrassment mottled Margaret’s neck and cheeks. She smiled, pulled her cardigan tight and moved over to hug Juliette. ‘Give that little girl a nice big kiss from me when she wakes up.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Juliette.

  ‘I’ll see you out,’ Morton said, following them into the hallway and passing them their coats.

  ‘I’ll go and get the car warmed up,’ Jim said, giving Morton a bear-hug and thanking him for his hospitality.

  Outside, Margaret said, ‘It’s been a wonderful trip, Morton. I’ve really loved spending time with you all—especially little Grace.’ She gazed down at the Land Rover puffing grey fumes into the cold air, as she searched for the right words. ‘You know, I’d like to be more like your… like Jack—in the way he is with you and Grace—but… it doesn’t come easy, you know?’

  ‘I know.’ He reached out and touched her arm. ‘It’s the American in him,’ he joked, with a conscious effort at easing her discomfort.

  ‘Anyway—hope to see you down in Cornwall sometime soon.’

  ‘We’d love to come back down.’

  She hugged him, said goodbye, then walked down the steps to the car.

  Morton stood waving until they had turned the corner and disappeared from
view, then headed back indoors. ‘Ready for your first trip to the National Archives?’ he asked Jack.

  ‘Give me two minutes and I’ll be good to go,’ he said, bounding up the stairs.

  ‘Are you ladies sure you will be okay by yourselves?’ he asked Juliette and Laura.

  ‘Very much so,’ Laura answered. ‘I can’t wait.’

  ‘Glad to get rid of you,’ Juliette added.

  Phil opened the door to Katie’s flat with dramatic caution. ‘Get in,’ he snapped, reaching out and grabbing her by the wrist.

  ‘Nice to see you, too,’ Clara said, shaking off his grip and, from her other hand, dropping a black sack on the floor.

  He slammed the door shut, hobbled across the room to the sofa and muted the blaring sound of morning television.

  Clara sat beside him, perched at the edge of the seat, as though she were not staying long. He looked at her nice clothes—tight blue jeans and black jacket—with a mixture of lust and envy. Here he was living in this hovel, wearing the same clothes which he had worn for God only knew how many days.

  ‘Did you bring my stuff?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s over there,’ she replied, pointing to the bag.

  ‘Cheers. Have they been round again?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police! Who do you think?’

  ‘Oh. Yeah, they came around yesterday to see if you’d turned up yet. They didn’t really seem that bothered when I said I hadn’t heard from you. Look, how long’s this going to go on for? When are you coming home?’

  ‘When I know for sure whether there are any more of those gold guineas buried somewhere.’

  Clara shot him a derisive look. ‘You do know how stupid you sound, don’t you? It’s like that genealogist man said—if they did exist, there’s not much chance of them still being hidden after all these years.’

  ‘We need the money, Clara. Unless you’ve got a better way of clearing our debts? Ain’t it worth even trying?’ he retorted. ‘It was only a few weeks back that some amateur metal detector found millions of pounds of some Saxon burial or other. By accident. Why would you not at least have a go? Did you not see how much one bloody coin sold on eBay for? Yeah, I can see, actually, you’re wearing some of the proceeds.’

  Clara huffed in the way that she did when she knew that he had a point. ‘I’ve made an appointment with the Citizen’s Advice Bureau to see if they can help us with the debts…’

  ‘Just give me a bit longer,’ Phil interrupted.

  Clara began to get upset. ‘We’ve had another red demand this morning. They’re threatening to send in the bailiffs if we don’t pay within seven days.’

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’ll have it sorted by then—one way or another.’

  ‘Not exactly the prettiest of London buildings,’ Jack commented, as he strode beside Morton towards the entrance of the National Archives in Kew.

  ‘No,’ Morton agreed, as they passed beside a large expanse of still water; the lack of any type of organic matter accentuating the starkness of the building which loomed over it like a staid old judge.

  ‘It looks like someone bolted a giant sunroom onto the front of a lump of concrete,’ Jack observed, taking in the vast edifice.

  ‘But it’s what’s on the inside that counts,’ Morton replied, watching a small flock of geese glide down onto the water. ‘Canada Geese…or just geese, to you, I suppose.’

  Jack gave a wry smile, continuing to study the building as they walked towards the main doors.

  Inside, they passed through the obligatory security search, deposited their coats and bags in the cloak room, then made their way up to the first floor, where Jack was issued with a reader’s ticket. It meant something inexplicably profound to Morton, having Jack standing beside him in a place of such significance to his work, taking a genuine interest in what he did.

  ‘Where now?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Second floor,’ Morton said. ‘Map and Large Document Reading Room.’

  Jack nodded for Morton to lead the way and the two men went to the main staircase and up to the next floor, passing through a security entrance into a large search room filled with desks and busy researchers. Morton led them around to the far left, where a set of glass double-doors opened automatically, leading into a rectangular room bisected by a long wooden counter. ‘Hi,’ Morton greeted the young man standing behind it. ‘I’ve got two documents reserved under seat number 10B. Is it possible to have both out? My dad can have one—he’s just registered a new card but doesn’t have a seat number, yet.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ the young man said, tapping something into a computer, then glancing up at Jack. ‘I’ll put you at 10A.’

  ‘Great,’ Jack said, with a look at Morton, which suggested that he had no idea what was happening.

  Whilst he stood watching the man head over to the orange pine shelving behind him, Morton felt his cheeks redden when he realised that he had just said, ‘My dad…’ He took a surreptitious look at Jack, who seemed either not to have noticed, or not to have cared. Morton watched as the archivist ducked down and then tiptoed to examine the yellow labels jutting out from the various records contained on the shelves. He pored over one label longer than the rest, then pulled out the document from which it emanated: a large flat brown box which he carried over and placed on the counter. ‘There’s one—ASSI 31/25,’ he said, returning to the shelves and retrieving what looked like a bundle of dirty washing. ‘And here’s the other—ASSI 94/1985.’

  ‘Wow,’ Jack commented, placing a hand on the string-bound document entitled ‘Kent Lent Assizes 1827 Felony File.’

  Morton smiled at the thought of what he hoped would be contained within that file. He picked up the box and headed from the room, with Jack carrying the other bound document behind him. Stopping at the nearest free desk, Morton set down the box and removed the lid. Inside was a large book with a thick, hard binding that might have once been white or cream in colour but which was now dappled and streaked in various shades of brown. In black ink on the front was written, ‘Fair Agenda Book Lent 1826-Lent 1829.’ He pulled out the book and carefully set it down between two foam cushions.

  Jack watched Morton with a look of marvel or pride, as he carefully opened the tome: a summary account of the Home Circuit Assizes between 1826 and 1829.

  ‘Do you want me to make a start on this?’ Jack asked, pointing to the bundle.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Morton replied. He had spent most of the two-hour drive to Kew explaining the Fothergill Case to Jack, including some key names and dates, so he only felt the need to recap, ‘so, you’re looking for any mention of smugglers, Aldington, George Ransley, Samuel Banister, Ann Fothergill...’

  ‘Got it,’ Jack confirmed, gently teasing apart the string binding which held it together.

  Having deduced that the volume had been arranged chronologically, Morton turned the pages until he reached one titled, ‘Kent. 7th George 4th 1827,’ meaning the seventh year in the reign of George IV. Morton cast his eyes down the sepia mottled paper then turned to Jack and said, ‘The trial began at Maidstone on the 12th January 1827.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said, beginning to unravel great long sheets of curled paper. Morton watched for a moment as Jack began to pore over the document, then returned to reading his own. The summary of the case began with the usual legal opening for this ‘special session of the Kent Winter Gaol Delivery’ before moving on to the cases being presided over. Forgery. Highway Robbery. Murder. Then he spotted the Aldington Gang: George Ransley, John Bailey, Samuel Bailey, Thomas Denard, Thomas Gillham, Richard Higgins, William Wire, James Smeed, James Wilson, Charles Giles, Richard Wire, James Hogben, Thomas Wheeler and James Quested.

  Morton studied the names for some seconds. No sign of Samuel Banister.

  The first indictment against the men was, ‘For feloniously being assembled with firearms in order to be aiding and assisting in the illegal landing and carrying away of uncustomed goods,’ to which all had ple
aded guilty. Beside their plea came the judgement against them: ‘To be venerally hanged by the neck until they be dead on Monday the 5thday of February next.’ From his research, however, Morton knew that the men’s sentences had been commuted to transportation for life. Next, the same men had been charged with the murder of Richard Morgan, to which they had pleaded not guilty. The judgement was listed as ‘Acquitted.’

  ‘I don’t think this is right,’ Jack said, standing back to allow Morton to see the problem which he had found.

  ‘What’s up?’ Morton asked, looking at where Jack was pointing.

  ‘The Lent Assizes were held on the 19th March 1827—two months after your guys were tried.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense…’

  ‘I’ve had a quick look through the cases and there’s nothing that fits,’ Jack reported.

  ‘That’s odd. Wait there,’ Morton said, striding to the far side of the room, where he was confronted by a long bank of files and folders. He searched the shelves, quickly finding and selecting a thin black book and carrying it back over to Jack. Flipping through the pages of indexes to the various Home Circuit Assize Courts, his index finger came to rest on 1827. ‘Lent, Summer, Special,’ he read. ‘Same for the other counties in the Home Circuit. Essex, Surrey, Sussex and Hertfordshire, they all follow that pattern.’

  ‘So,’ Jack began, ‘if Lent is too late, then Summer also stands to be too late. Should we order the Special, then?’

  Morton nodded, biting his lip. He suddenly felt the weight of Jack’s presence and wished that he were more knowledgeable on the Assizes: ‘I just want to go and speak to someone about it—just to be certain before I order it up.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll double-check this one, just to be absolutely sure.’

  Morton ventured to the helpdesk, where a genial man with greying brown hair pulled into a ponytail on the back of his head, and thin glasses perched on his nose, sat typing at a computer. He looked up as Morton took the seat opposite him.