Morton finished reading the article with a slight smile on his face. She certainly was an interesting character, he thought, as he printed the report and fixed it to the investigation wall. He returned to the newspaper search results and worked through the remaining stories. The bulk of Ann’s thirty-six crimes had been recorded in the papers. The vast majority were for being drunk and disorderly. According to the various articles dealing with her criminal propensities, they had begun in 1817 when Ann was just fourteen years old; the final mention of a criminal act—at least for which she had been charged—had occurred in 1821. Morton concentrated on this particular report, wondering what had changed after this moment: ‘18th October 1821, Maidstone Petty Sessions. Ann Fothergill, a well-known visitor to the bench, was charged with stealing a pair of shoes, the property of Mr R. Cousins, of Dover. The prisoner pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two months hard labour.’
Morton wondered what had taken place following her release. Judging by the lack of reports, her criminality had ceased. Perhaps she had seen the error of her ways, he wondered, or perhaps she had simply become better at not being caught.
He read Ann’s letter of 1827, making salient notes as he went: Sam—departure. Settled ‘out there’—Ann worried for him. Difficult years in the local area—quiet now (July 1827). Wicked deeds of the past (her crimes / his crimes?). Gold guineas hidden nearby.
Sitting back in his chair, Morton re-read the letter several times, on each occasion possible scenarios springing into his mind, but with nothing quite fitting. He stuck the letter to the wall and moved on to the photos of the gold guineas. Having zoomed in to the photograph of the coin and establishing that it was dated 1810, Morton ran exhaustive searches online. Described as ‘The Third Guinea,’ they had been issued between 1797 and 1813, owing to a shortage of gold in Britain caused by the Napoleonic Wars. Morton thought back to Ann’s letter. Could they be the ‘difficult years’ to which she had referred? It seemed a bit of a stretch, given that it was all over by 1815, some twelve years before the letter had been written. Just as Arthur’s nephew had suggested, a coin of this period and in this condition, was worth around a thousand pounds. It was little wonder that the nephew was practically salivating over the frankly ridiculous prospect of discovering long-lost barrel-loads of them.
Morton opened a packet of blank postcards and began to transcribe the key events of Ann’s life onto separate cards, attaching each to the bottom of the wall. Stepping back to take in the complete timeline, he could clearly see the gap between Ann’s final court appearance on the 18th October 1821 and writing the letter to Sam on the 22nd July 1827. He needed some records to help fill in that gap—but what?
An odd drain-like gurgle erupted from Morton’s stomach. He was hungry. He looked at the time: it was only just gone eleven in the morning—coffee time, he reasoned, strolling downstairs to the kitchen.
Switching on the kettle, he smiled as his eyes came to rest on the adornment hanging just above it: a piece of snow-fence wood, upon which had been painted a northern cardinal—a beautiful and striking red bird from North America. It had been painted by his Aunt Alice and given to him and Juliette as a present last summer, when they had visited Cape Cod to try to track down Morton’s elusive biological father. The sight of it made him smile every time, epitomising, as it did for him, their incredible honeymoon.
He selected the largest mug upon which he could lay his hands; one concealed at the back of the cupboard and one so large that it would surely have been confiscated by Juliette, had she known of its existence. He lifted up the coffee jar and, with absolute horror, opened the lid to find it empty. Not a single coffee granule. Just a note: ‘I needed it more. You need to cut down xx’
Morton couldn’t help but chuckle and slightly agree; his already-high coffee consumption had skyrocketed since Grace’s birth. Rummaging in the cupboard for anything resembling caffeine, all he could find were attractive boxes whose labels looked as though they were describing the undergrowth in his back garden. Nettle. Echinacea. Rosehip. Hibiscus. Elderflower.
Delicious. Time to brave the delightful English weather, then, he decided, heading into the hallway and pulling on his thick winter coat and boots.
Outside was every bit as ghastly as it had appeared from his study window. With a grimace, he hurried down the steps of his house onto Mermaid Street, pulling his coat tight and keeping his head down, as he marched up the road. He was not in the mood to sit in a café today—he just wanted to get a drink and get back to his work and, since he was supposed to be cutting down on coffee, knew just the place.
Morton made it most of the way along the High Street before he passed a single other person, the town having yet to wake from its winter slumber. He continued along to where the High Street seamlessly gave onto East Cliff. His destination, a modest building situated beside the ancient Landgate Arch, drew into sight: Knoops. Stepping under the white canopy bearing the shop name, Morton was relieved to enter the warm building.
‘Ah, good morning,’ the proprietor, Jens Knoop, greeted with a smile from behind the counter.
‘Morning,’ Morton replied, shaking the water from himself like a dog, small puddles forming on the stone floor around him.
‘Lovely day,’ Jens said.
‘Isn’t it just,’ Morton agreed.
‘What can I get you?’ Jens asked, glimpses of an almost-indiscernible Germanic accent coming through.
Morton reached for a napkin and wiped his rain-soaked face. Behind the counter were hanging fifteen clipboards, each of them—headed with numbers ranging from 28% to 100%—indicating a different type of hot chocolate. The best hot chocolate in the world in Morton’s opinion. ‘I’ll go for the 67% today, please,’ he chose. Dark chocolate. Single origin (Madagascar). Notes of liquorice, blueberry and coffee. Even Juliette couldn’t complain about a ‘note of coffee.’
‘Okay,’ Jens replied. ‘And how is your little daughter?’
‘She’s great, thank you. She’ll be a year old in a couple of weeks. God only knows where that time’s gone,’ Morton said, gazing through the misty window panes to the adjoining Landgate Arch, one of his favourite buildings in the town. He often tried to imagine it when it had been built in 1340, giving Rye—then an island—the only connection with land at high tide, its history quietly stowed away behind its thick stone façade, which still served as the main vehicular entrance to the High Street.
Jens smiled as he made the drink. ‘Such a lovely age.’
‘Yes,’ he answered, his thoughts drifting back to Grace’s birth.
Then it struck him that there was one thing which he had failed to add to the gap in the timeline: the birth of Ann’s son, William. Owing to the year, obtaining a birth certificate for him was impossible, but locating his baptism should not be. Morton struggled to recall where the census had said that William had been born.
‘Here you go,’ Jens said, presenting him with a take-away cup. ‘Enjoy.’
‘Thanks very much, Jens.’ Morton paid for the drink, said goodbye and, with a renewed burst of energy, hurried out into the wet morning.
He arrived home, kicked off his boots and hung his soaked coat out to dry, then bounded up the stairs to his study. Standing in front of the investigation wall, he took his first sip of the drink, relishing the hot chocolate’s glow slowly pervading through him, gradually warming his insides. Perfection.
Morton removed the 1851 census from the wall, running his finger down to the residents of Honey Pot House: Ann Fothergill, her son and five domestic staff. He traced along the line of William’s details. He was unmarried, aged twenty-six, and his occupation was stated as being ‘assistant publican’. His place of birth was given as Aldington in Kent.
Morton did a quick mental calculation. William had been born around 1825. He had heard of Aldington, but didn’t know much about it. A quick Google search later and he had learned that it was a rural village eight miles outside of Ashford in Kent, situated on a steep esc
arpment overlooking Romney Marsh, with a population of just over one thousand people. Hoping that Aldington was one of the 127 Kent parishes covered by the FindmyPast record collection, Morton typed in William’s details. He was in luck.
Name: William Fothergill
Baptism date: 2nd July 1825
Relationship: son
Parents: Ann Fothergill, a single woman
Residence: Aldington
Morton noted the new details onto a postcard and added it to the chasm in the timeline. Without a precise date of birth, it was impossible to gauge accurately when William had been conceived. Given that most baptisms occurred at some point within the first three months of a baby’s life, it was likely that William had been conceived in the summer months of 1824. It was reasonable to suppose that he had been conceived in the village of his baptism, Aldington. Morton wrote the village name on his notepad of next steps to pursue.
As he looked at the entirety of the investigation wall, it was hard to imagine Ann’s seismic shift from an illiterate vagrant criminal to a literate wealthy property-owning businesswoman.
The bubble of his thoughts was lanced by the ringing of the home phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Hi there,’ came the cheerful greeting. It was Jack, his biological father.
‘Hi, Jack—how are you?’ Morton asked, glancing at the clock. ‘You’re up very early.’
‘Best part of the day. Yeah, we’re all good here, thanks. How’s my little granddaughter?’
Morton brought Jack up to date with Grace’s latest exploits, despite the fact that it had only been a handful of days since their most recent video call.
‘So, I got your email,’ Jack started, ‘and just wanted to quickly say that the three of us would like it—if it’s okay with you—to come over for little Grace’s birthday? I mean, she’s my only grandchild, I don’t want to miss it.’
Morton paused, a little too long.
‘Not if it’s a trouble, though,’ Jack added.
‘No, no trouble,’ Morton stammered. ‘Erm… It’s just that… My Aunty Margaret is also planning on coming…’
‘Oh. I see.’
There was another pause in the conversation as the two men weighed up the situation.
‘Well,’ Jack began, ‘I for one would love to see her again, unless you think she wouldn’t like it?’
Morton drew in a long breath. He had no idea whether she would like it, or not. The last time that they had spoken about it, on Christmas Day in 2014, she had made him promise that he wouldn’t tell her anything about his search for his biological father. But he desperately would love Jack, his wife, Laura and their son—Morton’s half-brother, George—to be at Grace’s first birthday. Now what? Now, he took a monstrously huge gamble. ‘I’m sure she’ll be fine, too,’ Morton said coolly. ‘That would be amazing to have you all there. Fantastic.’
‘Listen, I’m going to give you a couple of days to speak with Margaret before I go ahead and book the flights. We can come another time when it’s less… awkward for you.’
‘No,’ Morton insisted. ‘Book the flights.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Totally. You can stay here with us. I think Aunty Margaret was planning on treating herself to a few nights in the Mermaid, so we’ll have the space.’
‘Okay,’ Jack replied. ‘I’ll get right onto it.’
‘See you soon, then,’ Morton said with a wide smile.
‘See you, then, son. Goodbye.’
Morton put the phone down and stared at it for an inordinate amount of time, as he replayed their conversation in his head. ‘Oh. My. God,’ he said to himself, with a nervous chuckle. An odd tenseness tightened in his stomach. What on earth was he going to say to Aunty Margaret? What should be the epitome of normality—his mother and father together to celebrate their granddaughter’s first birthday—felt to him like the unfolding of a very large train wreck.
Morton pulled out his mobile phone and selected his Aunty Margaret from the contact list.
Phil was bored. He was sitting in the lounge of his council flat, flipping the gold guinea up in the air, playing heads or tails. Pointless, really; there was just him home, sitting here in front of his laptop watching the time slowly counting down on his eBay auction listing. Heads it sells. Tails it doesn’t. He flipped the coin, just as the time turned red, indicating that the listing had less than one minute to run. Tails.
‘Damn it,’ he said, as if the outcome of the sale really was in the hands of the flipping of a coin.
The bid changed. £650.
Forty-seven seconds to go.
‘Come on,’ he grumbled.
Thirty-two seconds.
New bid. £890.
‘Yes!’ he enthused, slamming his fist onto the desk, making the coin leap.
Twenty-two seconds.
£950.
‘Come on, new bidder!’
Sixteen seconds.
£1,020.
He clenched his fists and leapt up, unable to contain his excitement.
Five seconds.
£1,120.
Listing Closed.
Phil yelped with delight, picked up the gold guinea and kissed it.
Chapter Four
4th March 1821, Aldington, Kent
An unusual sound stirred Ann Fothergill from fitful sleep. With a grimace, she turned onto her side, plucking at an aberrant piece of straw which protruded through the palliasse on which she lay. The sound—if there had even been one, which she now doubted—had stopped. She pulled the woollen blanket up to her chin and drew her knees to her chest to ease the shivering. As with most mornings, her first thoughts turned to drink, specifically rum and water. Just one or maybe two glasses usually saw her straight.
She rocked onto her back and turned towards the fire grate. Nothing but soot. Now that she was awake, she really ought to get up and remake it. If not for her sake, then for his.
Reluctantly she stood up, tugging the blanket around her shoulders, and approached his bed. His eyes were shut and his mouth slightly agape. Same as she found him most mornings. Most of the time, in fact.
Ann pressed her hand gently to his forehead. Her fingers met with a light dampness and she peeled back one of the several layers of blanket which covered him from chin to toe.
A short, grating groan emanated from his throat as his head rolled to face towards the shuttered window.
She heard the sound again—raised voices from downstairs, she realised. One voice was undoubtedly that of the mistress, Hester, but the other belonged to a man. Deep and hoarse. Most irregular-sounding in a house which, for the past three weeks, had contained just two women and the young boy, John. The man’s voice both intrigued and perturbed her. Who was he and what was he doing here?
She padded lightly over to the door. It was open—as it always had to be, one of the many strict conditions imposed upon her by the mistress. With her neck craned towards the direction of the conversation, she raised a hand to cup her ear. She sniffed in annoyance, hearing nothing but low murmurings. Deliberate, no doubt to stop her from hearing.
Ann sniffed again as she heard the stairs moaning under the weight of two sets of feet. She was half-minded not to move. After all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong. The mistress had said nothing about standing by the door. But what about the man? He could be anyone. She quickly stole from her position and just managed to flop down onto her palliasse before Hester waltzed into the room with a deliberate touch of the dramatic. She clutched at the tips of her shawl, as though it might fly away of its own volition, were she to let go.
The gentleman behind her—and from his fine blue coat and high black polished boots, Ann knew that he certainly was a gentleman—stooped down to get under the low door frame. He was in his mid-thirties and a fine figure of a man.
‘This be a surgeon—a real surgeon,’ Hester blurted, nodding in Ann’s direction as she laboured the word ‘real’.
‘Doctor Papworth-Hougham,’ he introduced,
the front curls of his long black hair dipping over his eyes with the nonchalant tip of his head. He pushed back against the fallen locks with the thin fingers of his left hand, placed his red leather case down beside the bed, and then turned to the patient.
‘Nice to be a-meeting a man in your profession,’ Ann said, tucking her lank hair behind her ears. For his benefit, she plumped out her chest.
The doctor ignored her, placing his hand on Samuel’s fevered brow.
Hester scowled in Ann’s direction and then addressed the doctor. ‘This be my Sam. He be a-bearing this fever for twenty days now.’
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 4
