The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Two large coffees,’ the man said, drearily handing over two cardboard cups.

  ‘Thanks,’ Jack said, his hand sliding from Morton’s shoulder as he reached out for the drinks.

  ‘Grab a seat and I’ll bring the food over,’ Morton said.

  Jack headed to a table with two large red chairs and sat facing in Morton’s direction. A long low beep emanated from somewhere behind the counter, prompting the man to turn with a pair of metal tongs and withdraw the two paninis from the contraption which had just heated them up. Morton watched as he dropped them into two paper bags, then thrust them over the counter, addressing the next man in the queue with a dull parroting, ‘Can I help?’

  ‘So,’ Jack began, as Morton sat down. ‘How does what we’ve achieved this morning compare to your other cases? Are we at an expected point? Or…?’

  Morton nodded, while he chomped through a mouthful of panini. ‘It’s okay, yeah. To be honest, most of the cases that I work on are difficult and involve following a scent and seeing what comes up. I couldn’t have known, when I was sitting in Arthur Fothergill’s lounge, that I would need to order letters from the captain of HMS Ramillies; one document leads to another and… here we are.’

  ‘Yeah, I get that. So, you think you’ll crack this one?’

  ‘I think so, yes.’ Morton tilted his head to one side as he considered the question. Arthur had ostensibly requested three things of him during the 1820-1827 period: where Ann had resided; the rather nebulous question of what Ann had been up to; and finally, the identity of her son’s father. The first point Morton considered practically achieved. The second, was continuing in a satisfying manner. On the third he had made little progress and hoped that, with a little work, the results of the DNA test might verify this in the next few days.

  ‘Excellent. Are you going to be working tomorrow?’

  ‘Erm…’ Morton looked at Jack, wondering at his question. Was Jack wanting him to be working more, perhaps so that he could help? Or was he hoping that Morton would take the day off, so that they could spend it together doing something more interesting or relaxing? ‘Well, work can happen at any time. What do you want to do?’ He hoped his diplomatic answer gave Jack the space in which to say what he actually wanted to do.

  ‘Okay. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to take a trip over to Folkestone?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Yes, of course. What do you want to see there? It’s not exactly the cultural capital of England.’

  ‘I’d like to go back and take a look at the place we stayed when we came over in seventy-four—show it to Laura and George.’

  Morton nodded, for some reason finding it odd that he should want to show his wife where he had fathered a child with another woman forty-four years ago. ‘That’ll be nice. Juliette’s working all day, so I’ll have Grace.’

  ‘Shame she’s working but great that I get to spend more ‘Gandpa’ time with little Grace.’ Jack smiled and tucked into his panini.

  Having finished their food and drink, Morton led the way to the first floor. They passed through the security search, swiped their cards and entered a lobby area, containing rows and rows of translucent orange lockers, each embossed with a large number and letter. Morton headed to 10B and opened the locker door to see three large cardboard boxes stacked neatly on top of each other. ‘We can have one each,’ Morton said, taking the top box and passing it to Jack, then withdrawing the second for himself. ‘Follow me.’

  Opposite the bank of lockers was the Document Reading Room, set behind a wall of glass. Morton proceeded through the set of double-doors into the room, which was filled with desks and busy with researchers.

  ‘That’s you,’ Morton said, indicating the seat, 10A, beside him on the octagonal table.

  ‘So, what have I got here, then?’ Jack asked, pulling out the yellow slip from the side of the box. ‘ADM 37/7670.’ He shrugged.

  ‘The log book for Ramillies, first of September 1826 to thirty-first of October 1826. You’re looking for any mention of the usual suspects.’

  Jack removed a large bound volume and placed it down with genuine deference. ‘Wow,’ he said, opening the first page.

  Morton checked his own yellow slip—ADM 51/3400—Captain’s log, July 1825 to March 1830. The ledger was large with sepia pages, headed with the words, ‘Remarks, HMS Ramillies in the Downs.’ Each day, divided by a neat ruled line, seemed to vary in length according to the events and incidents which had necessitated recording. It took Morton a few minutes to decipher the long sloping style of handwriting, as he read through the first day’s account on the 1st July 1825: ‘AM moderate and cloudy. At 2 same weather. At 4 fresh breeze. Washed clothes. At 7 cleaned decks. At 8.30 communicated with office. Carpenters employed repairing boats. Armourers at the forge cleaning arms. At 11 the Captain came on board and punished Thomas Marchant with 48 lashes for acknowledged bribery, William Coffee, 36 lashes for 5 sovereigns being found secreted in the soles of his shoes, James Clark, 36 lashes for absenting himself from the watch-house for two days, Sergt. O’Keefe, 12 lashes for drunkenness and insolent conduct. Noon fresh breezes and fine. PM moderate and fine. At 6 same weather. Sent a galley with Lt. Reed to look out for smuggling boats. At 11 fresh breeze and fine. Midnight same weather.’

  The account for the subsequent days followed the same pattern: citing deliveries of provisions, regular weather reports and punishments meted out to the men. Occasional irregular activity was noted, such as the capture of smugglers’ galleys, but with scant detail. The size of the book forced Morton to skim read through the lines of text.

  ‘You don’t need a list of Ramillies staff or ship routines, do you?’ Jack asked. In front of him was a large sheet of velum, on which was written a long list of names.

  ‘Check the names, but otherwise, no.’

  Morton pushed into the crucial year of 1826, photographing the sporadic mentions of smuggling. So far, the logs had failed to name a single smuggler or give any specifics at all, and so he was unsurprised when he reached the entry for the 17th October 1826 and read, among the usual information, ‘…Received 10 smugglers…’ The following day provided the brief additional information, ‘…discharged 4 mariners with 10 smugglers to be turned over to civil power…’ So the smugglers had only been on board Ramillies for one night, Morton noted, taking a photo of the entry. He continued through to the end of the year, slightly perplexed at not having found mention of the capture of the remaining smugglers. He looked at the time—they only had just over two hours until the archive closed; this urgency forced Morton to stop reading the Captain’s Logs once the trial was over in January 1827. He closed the volume and looked at Jack’s ledger, feeling suddenly disappointed with their progress. Although the revelation that Samuel Banister had turned King’s evidence against his fellow smugglers was significant, they had not found a single mention of Ann Fothergill. He rubbed his eyes and exhaled noisily.

  ‘What’s up?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing…’ Morton half-smiled. ‘I get like this when the record office is about to close and I don’t feel satisfied with the results.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Jack said, ‘you must have realised by now that for five paths in front of you, only one will get you were you wanna go, but you’ve still got to explore those other four paths. Go and get that other document from the locker. Go.’

  Morton grinned, knowing, of course, that he was right. He re-boxed the Captain’s Logs and carried it out through the glass double-doors, where he placed it on the counter of the Returns Desk. At his locker, Morton removed the yellow slip from the remaining cardboard box—ADM 1/2360.

  He carried the box back to his desk, just as Jack was closing his ledger.

  ‘Nothing—even around the time of Richard Morgan’s murder or when the smugglers were captured,’ Jack said, trying to sound positive about the fact.

  Morton nodded. ‘You can help me with these,’ he said, opening the heavy box. Given that it only contained correspondence to
the Admiralty from naval captains with a surname beginning with P, in the year 1826, the quantity of letters inside was astonishing. ‘We’ve got under two hours to get through it.’ Morton explained how the file was organised, then removed approximately half the correspondence, and placed it in on the desk in front of Jack. The letters were loosely assembled, vaguely but not entirely conforming to chronological order, which meant that Jack having the latter half of the year, would very likely be the one to discover anything connected to the murder of Richard Morgan or the capture of the Aldington Gang.

  ‘Wow, this is real hard to read,’ Jack said, picking up the first letter and holding it close to his face.

  Morton leant over. ‘It gets easier once you get used to it. Look—’ he pointed at the first lines and began to read, his index finger tracing the words as he spoke, ‘—HM Ship Ramillies, January 2nd 1826. Sir, From the great distance between the present quarters of the Coast Blockade at Hougham Court and No.1 Tower Eastware Bay near Folkestone, where the most notorious smugglers reside, and from their repeated attempts to corrupt the men when on duty, I would respectfully request that you will do me the honour to move my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty to direct a gun brig or some vessel of such description to be—’ Jack began to join in, enunciating the words slowly, as though learning to read for the first time, ‘—sent to the place beforementioned for the purpose of being hauled on shore at high watermark, and that such vessel may be fitted to receive a midshipman and twelve men. I have the honour to be, Sir, your most obedient humble servant, Captain Hugh Pigot.’

  ‘Got it?’ Morton asked.

  ‘Got it,’ Jack replied.

  The two of them began to wade through their stack of letters. The first mention of smuggling came quickly in Morton’s pile, on 23rd February: ‘Sir, I regret to be under the painful necessity of reporting to you for the consideration of my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, the neglect of duty of Lieutenant William H. Woodham, of His Majesty’s ship under my command, who is stationed at the Grand Redoubt, Dungeness and I request you will be pleased to acquaint their Lordships that about 11 o’clock on the night of the 8th instant, a French tub boat fitted with two sails and rowing eight oars succeeded in landing a cargo of (it is believed) at least 200 casks of spirits on the western part of the officer’s station…’ The letter went on to describe the actions of the Coast Blockade officers in allowing the smuggling run to take place. Just five days later, Captain Pigot sent another letter to the Admiralty, requesting that a new Lieutenant be appointed to the Ramillies following the serious injuries inflicted on one of his men in a smuggling run on 6th September 1825. The account went on to describe how Lieutenant William Fabian had been bludgeoned, as he had attempted to stop the smugglers moving inland with their cargo, ‘…leaving him in a state of insensibility – his head was swollen to a great size, and covered with blood which seemed to have issued from five wounds in the scalp, from one to four inches in length. Several bruises were observable on his body, particularly the neck, shoulders and arms. Since receiving the above injuries, Lieutenant Fabian has complained of loss of memory, dimness of vision, headache and giddiness…’

  As Morton continued to read the barbaric accounts, he realised that his perception of smugglers had been of a kind of romantic Robin-Hood-esque gang of poor labourers living on the breadline, forced to commit low-level crime which only affected the rich King and his government; a different perspective, however, was appearing from these official documents of increasingly desperate and vicious men.

  ‘Do you want me to photograph this letter from June 1826, with the names of four arrested smugglers? They’re not your guys—Thomas North, William Derrick, George Taylor and James Banks alias Drum.’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Morton confirmed. ‘They were probably all part of the gang.’

  The next two letters from Captain Pigot were similar to that which Jack had just found; confirmation of the capture of several smugglers. Clive Baintree had been correct in his assessment: the mid-1820s had been a prolific period of smuggling for the Aldington Gang.

  Captain Pigot’s next transmission to the Admiralty, in April 1826 contained an enclosure by Lieutenant Samuel Hellard, reporting two further smuggling runs that had taken place that month.

  ‘This could be interesting,’ Jack said, nudging his elbow towards Morton: ‘3rd July 1826. Sir, In reply to your letter of the 29th June, I have the honour to acquaint you for the information of my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty, that William Kelly, one of the men who received two sovereigns as a bribe for allowing certain contraband goods to be run on his station, made the confession of the same with reluctance, and not until a search was ordered and the seams of his bed, where the sovereigns were found, to be cut open. This man was punished for the offence with twenty-four lashes and is the only person who could identify the man giving the bribe, but from the manner in which he prevaricated, no credence could be given to what he asserted: that the man was named Sam, hailed from the parish of Aldington and had suffered some degree of injury to his right arm. Therefore, the case was not communicated to the Board of Customs for prosecution…’

  ‘Sam from Aldington with an injured arm…’ Morton mumbled, remembering his own theory that perhaps Samuel Banister had been hurt at the Battle of Brookland in 1821.

  ‘Could this be our guy?’ Jack mused.

  ‘Maybe, yeah,’ Morton answered, liking the way that Jack was referring to ‘our guy’, assuming a central role in the case. ‘But it really is circumstantial at this point; there was another Samuel—Bailey—also from Aldington who was part of the gang, and probably several others with that name, as well.’

  ‘I’ll keep going, then.’ Jack smiled, taking a photograph of the page, before moving on.

  A few pages later and Jack came to the inevitable report of the murder of Richard Morgan. He summoned Morton with a beckoning wave of his hand. Morton leant over and began to read the account: ‘30 July 1826. Sir, It is with extreme regret that I have to report the melancholy death of Richard Morgan, first-rate quartermaster, of His Majesty’s ship under my command, who was shot by an armed party of smugglers about 1.00am near the Bathing Machines at Dover, under the circumstances set forth in the accompanying letter from Lieutenant Samuel Hellard, superintending the Right Division of the Coast Blockade—’ Morton paused and looked at Jack. ‘I’ve seen an exact copy of this letter already today in the Board of Customs and Excise book,’ Morton said, continuing to read further through the letter in confirmation. ‘Yes, definitely. What’s next?’

  Jack turned the page, and the two men silently read through the letter: ‘30th July 1826. Sir, With reference to Captain Pigot’s letter of this date transmitting copy of a letter with its enclosure addressed to Vice Admiral Sir Robert Moorsom, relative to the melancholy death of Richard Morgan first-rate quartermaster of the Ramillies, I do myself the honour to forward for the information of my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty a letter which has just reached this place from Lieutenant Samuel Hellard superintending the Right Division of the Coast Blockade requesting that officers from Bow Street may be sent to assist in the apprehension of some of the parties concerned in this lawless outrage. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your Most Obedient Humble Servant, Senior Lieutenant Williams, HMS Ramillies.’

  ‘What’s this about officers from Bow Street?’ Jack asked.

  Morton explained that they had been the first police officers. ‘Is the letter from Samuel Hellard there?’ he asked.

  Jack carefully turned to the next page and read the short letter: ‘30th July 1826. I respectfully submit to you, Sir, the propriety of one or two of the most active officers from Bow Street being immediately sent to this town, which I am firmly of opinion can secure the arrest of this lawless party…’

  ‘Well, they were successful…’ Morton said, just as his mobile began to ring in his pocket. He grimaced, fished it free, and promptly silenced it. Arthur Fothergill’s name was flashing up on screen. He del
iberated momentarily whether to answer it but decided that he would call him back later; his time was better put to use here. ‘Arthur,’ Morton said to Jack.

  Jack nodded, having turned to the next letter. He glanced up at Morton and asked, ‘Does the name Jonas Blackwood mean anything?’

  Morton shook his head. ‘No, why?’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  16th January 1825, Hythe, Kent

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ann said, unable to hide her wide grin.

  ‘The pleasure is all mine, Miss Fothergill,’ Mr Claringbould declared, clutching his top hat to his chest.

  They were standing outside the Bell Inn, both of them looking up at the building, stark white against the belt of grey sky above, in a shared sense of unveiled astonishment at what someone of her station in life had managed to achieve.

  ‘It really is marvellous,’ Mr Claringbould said, shaking his head.

  Ann forced herself to contain her giddiness and maintain her propriety, as Miss Bowler had shown her. With a gentle bow of her head, she held out her hand.

  ‘Ah,’ Mr Claringbould said, taken aback, then shaking her hand. ‘On behalf of J. Minet, Fector & Co. bank, I should like to express our sincerest of wishes for the future success of this fine establishment.’ With a nod, he placed his top hat back onto his head and strode off in the direction of Dover.

  At last, Ann could relax. She exhaled at length, releasing her taut stomach muscles, and watching with dismay as her shawl protruded out in front of her. Had Mr Claringbould noticed her little secret? she wondered. Now four months gone, it was becoming almost impossible to hide. The only person in whom she had confided had been Miss Bowler, who had taken the news surprisingly well, with a blithe and diplomatic, ‘You have lived a varied and vibrant life, Ann; you have seen, I am sure, the best and worst of our society and the manner in which it operates. Use that knowledge to strive to bring your child into a different world to that into which you were born.’ Miss Bowler had tactfully skirted—as she always did—the issue of Ann’s early life, at which she had only ever hinted during their weekly sessions.