Morton photographed the report, made a note of it on his pad, then continued searching through the newspaper for further mention of the two bodies. Despite the likelihood dwindling with each passing edition of the paper, he persevered but reached the end of the year finding nothing more. Evidently, whatever discoveries had been made by the Coroner had not warranted the column inches.
He handed the volume back and returned to his desk, removing his laptop from his bag.
Opening a web browser, he found the details for the Central and South-East Kent Coroner’s Office and sent them an email requesting any information which they might have had on the two skeletons. Next, he emailed various local cemeteries and churches, spelling out the case and requesting a search be made in their registers for the burial of the two men. Finally, he ran various searches for Clive Baintree, figuring that being both an expert in maritime history, and having seen the two bodies, he would be a good person to whom to talk. Having found an address and phone number for him in Hythe in an online electoral register, Morton was able to identify him correctly on Facebook. Without revealing the finer details of the case, he sent Clive a message regarding the discovery of the skeletons.
Morton closed his laptop lid and packed away his things before walking back to his car and driving home.
Juliette and Grace would be home at any minute. Having added his latest research to the investigation wall, Morton was rushing around the house doing what he considered to be tidying up. There was no time left to clean the kitchen, which resembled a student hovel. He grabbed the necks of three empty bottles of wine, wondering how he had managed to work his way through them all by himself, and dumped them in the recycling bin outside.
He was standing by the front door considering where to tidy next, when he heard a key in the door. He turned to see Juliette stepping inside, carrying Grace in one arm.
‘Welcome back!’ Morton greeted, throwing his arms around the pair of them. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, planting a kiss on each of their mouths.
Juliette sighed and passed Grace over to him.
‘Dadda!’ Grace said, with a smile.
Morton, mouth agape, stared at Juliette. ‘She just called me Dadda!’
Juliette grinned. ‘Typical that’s her first word. I’ve spent most of the last two days trying to get her to say Mummy.’ She leant in to Grace and spoke softly: ‘Mummy. Mummy.’
Grace stared at Juliette. ‘Dadda.’
Morton laughed.
‘Looks like she’s going to be a daddy’s girl. Right, well, you stay with Dadda, then,’ Juliette said, going back outside for her suitcase.
Morton squeezed his daughter tightly. It was a strange thing to think, but Morton felt that Grace had grown in the few days since he had last seen her and her new ability to speak only compounded that feeling. He carried her into the lounge and sat her down on the carpet, watching as she sped off on all fours in the direction of the telephone.
‘So, what have you been up to, then?’ Juliette asked, dropping her bag at the door. ‘Judging from the mess in the kitchen sink, just drinking and eating.’
‘Work, mainly,’ he countered.
‘Oh, God, don’t say the ‘W’ word,’ she groaned, sinking into the sofa. ‘Two days of freedom left.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ Morton reassured her, watching Grace as she picked up the house phone and held it to her ear, babbling a lot of nonsense. ‘Sounds like you when you’re talking to your friends.’
‘Very funny,’ Juliette said. ‘Look, she’s going to try and walk.’
They watched as Grace used the edge of the sofa to haul herself up onto her feet. Still gibbering into the phone, she took one step then fell backwards onto her bottom, unperturbed.
‘You’ll get there,’ Morton said.
‘Have you eaten?’ Juliette asked.
‘Not yet—I was waiting for you two,’ he answered, sitting down beside her and placing his hand on her leg. He turned to face her. ‘Is it just me, or is all we talk about food, drink and Grace?’
Juliette looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘I think that pretty well sums it up.’ She placed her hand on his and tapped it lightly. ‘You get the wine and I’ll watch Grace then make dinner.’
Morton smiled, placed a kiss on the top of her head and stood up.
Just then, his mobile began to ring with an unidentified caller. ‘Hello?’ he said, moving into the kitchen and plucking a bottle of red from the wine rack.
‘Good evening, is this Morton Farrier?’ a male voice asked.
‘Yes, speaking,’ he said, pulling the last two clean glasses from the cupboard.
‘This is Clive—Clive Baintree—you sent me a message earlier today about the skeletons in the Bell pub?’
‘Ah, yes—thanks for getting back to me,’ Morton said. ‘I’m just doing some research into one of the pub’s former owners and happened upon the story of the two bodies. I was wondering if you could tell me anything you can remember?’
‘Of course,’ Clive began, ‘The landlord at the time was a friend of mine and, knowing my interest in maritime history, he called me in when they found them. Living in the street opposite the pub, I actually got there before the police arrived. What was it you wanted to know, exactly?’
‘Anything at all that you can remember about the bodies.’
‘Erm, they were in pretty good condition. Their uniforms, despite the long passage of time, were in pretty good order, too. It caused quite a stir in the area, I can tell you.’
‘I bet. Do you know if a time period was ever established when they were put in there?’ Morton asked, as he poured the wine. ‘Because this could actually be totally irrelevant to the person I’m researching.’
‘Well, what kind of time period are you looking at?’ Clive asked.
‘The 1820s,’ Morton replied. ‘The person I’m looking into, Ann Fothergill, took ownership of it in 1825. It was hers until her death in 1869.’
Clive snorted, but Morton wasn’t sure at what.
‘Those two skeletons,’ Clive said with a theatrical revelation, ‘were buried in that fireplace at some point after 1822.’
‘Right,’ Morton said. ‘How can you be so certain?’
‘Their uniforms. These men were wearing coastguard uniforms, which was only formed in 1822 with the amalgamation of the three smuggling prevention services—Revenue Cruisers, Riding Officers and the preventative Water Guard,’ Clive explained. ‘The pub was used by smugglers at this time, so I shouldn’t wonder that these two chaps from the preventative service got clobbered then bricked up in the fireplace.’
‘Okay,’ Morton said, carrying the two glasses from the kitchen. He thrust one at Juliette, who was pulling an inquisitive face regarding who was on the phone, then strode upstairs to his study and stood before the investigation wall. ‘So, it could have happened before Ann Fothergill took over the pub…or after.’
‘Well, yes. My money—for what it’s worth—would be on it having happened after 1825,’ Clive said.
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Smuggling of one kind or another has been occurring in Kent and Sussex since the 1700s and it’s still going on to this very day, but instead of rum and brandy coming over, now its immigrants or drugs,’ Clive said with a mild titter. ‘The mid-1820s marked a turning point where local gangs had, to all intents and purposes, industrialised smuggling. We’re talking hundreds of men a night bringing tons of contraband across the Channel. Three groups in particular: the North Kent Gang, the Hawkhurst Gang and the Aldington Gang. They had the market covered in the South-East of England. Because of this the government, via the Admiralty, stepped up their efforts to end smuggling… These two factions clashed and the period from the mid-1820s was the worst for murders and revenge-killing. Dozens were killed every month on both sides… The two skeletons in the pub are really only worthy of comment because of how long they had lain undisturbed… put them back into a contemporaneous setting and they’re ju
st two men among hundreds who died because of smuggling.’
‘Thank you very much—that’s really helpful,’ Morton said, scribbling notes onto his pad. ‘Was it ever established how they died?’
Clive was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t think so, no. I had a good look at the skeletons—morbid, I know. My wife wouldn’t let me go near her for a few days afterwards, thinking I could have picked up some germs from them! Ha! I remember that there were no physical signs of injury. I’m certainly no doctor but the bones were pretty intact. I would have expected a gunshot wound or a knife wound, but there was nothing.’
‘Right,’ Morton said. ‘And then they were taken to the coroners then buried—do you know where?’
‘Sorry, no, I don’t.’
Morton thanked him again and ended the call.
Leaning on his desk, with the investigation wall before him, Morton gazed at the timeline. Something was bothering him. He moved closer to the wall and re-read his copy of Ann’s letter, written 22nd July 1827: ‘…after all the difficult years in this area, things have returned to the quietness of the old ways...’ If, as Clive Baintree had just suggested, the smuggling gangs, along with the concomitant violence, were at their peak in the mid-1820s, then how had life suddenly become quiet once again by 1827? It made no sense.
One thing about which he was now becoming almost certain was that the ‘wicked deeds of the past’, to which Ann had referred in her letter, had been smuggling. He did not yet know for certain of her involvement and, at this stage most of his links were unsubstantiated, but he was determined to find out.
Chapter Eight
10th November 1821, Sandgate, Kent
They had chosen a spot to the west of Sandgate Castle, some half a mile from the nearest blockade men stationed at Martello Tower number four. Still, Sam was nervous at the thought of being seen by the Riding Officers who patrolled the coast on horseback throughout the night. So far, the crescent moon had not betrayed them; a passing patrol would see nothing on this stony beach but the breaking of the stormy November seas. Even he, from his crouched position on the shingle, doubted the presence of the three hundred men who he knew surrounded him, all with their eyes fixed on the breaking waters. Somewhere to his immediate right was George Ransley, holding a small lamp which only projected light in one direction—out to sea—to guide in the boat.
‘Where do they be?’ Sam whispered impatiently.
‘Darned if I be knowing,’ Ransley answered. ‘But I don’t be doubting the storm to be the cause of the delay.’
Sam mumbled his agreement as he watched the undulating and lurching waves rise up threateningly, just yards before them. He was thankful not to be out there on the boat this night, as he had been on several previous runs, when Ransley had requested that he oversee operations from launch in Folkestone to the loading up of the cargo in France, to the return journey to the shores of Kent. Ransley, for his part, had always been true to his word, handing him three guineas at the end of each week, regardless of the illicit cargo which they had managed to smuggle in. Some weeks he had done nothing whatsoever to earn his money, which had gone some way to appeasing Hester, who had begged and pleaded with him not to become embroiled with the gang. But he had had little choice, as the few shillings, which she had previously earned from her laundry work, had ceased since the birth of their daughter, Ellen. It was for Ellen, John and Hester that he was out here—exhausted and ice-cold before any goods had even been landed.
‘There!’ a voice exclaimed from the darkness. ‘I be seeing a boat.’
Shingle shifted under the men’s boots, as they shuffled to gaze more closely at the rolling horizon.
‘I see it!’ another voice said, pointlessly adding, ‘over there!’
‘Do you see it?’ Ransley called to him.
‘Not yet,’ Sam answered, scouring the almost imperceptible black seam which zipped together sky and sea.
‘There!’ another voice called.
‘Whist your tongues!’ Ransley erupted. ‘It mayn’t be ours.’
The sounds from the men lulled below the noise of the rancorous waves and southerly wind.
‘She’s ours!’ Ransley confirmed. ‘She’s ours! Be readying yourselves!’
The news cascaded quickly through the group of men, each one poised to get into position the very moment that they knew of the boat’s precise landing point.
Now that they knew for certain that the boat was theirs, Ransley aimed the lamp definitively towards them, guiding them in to shore.
The boat drew closer, becoming less of an abstract silhouette. Sam could now see the oars, then the low grunts and curses of the men fighting against the heavy water reached his ears.
Finally, on the crest of a large wave, the galley’s bow hit the beach with a crash.
Without a word from Ransley, the tubmen poured towards the boat, whilst the batmen formed two opposing lines through which the laden tubmen would soon flee with the contraband.
Sam took a long breath and, on Ransley’s heels, rushed towards the vessel.
‘Merciful Lord!’ said a man, whose voice Sam recognised to be Evan May, one of the Folkestone fishermen who led many of the voyages. ‘That were a grabby storm—I nearly be a-turning back.’
‘Let’s be getting her unloaded, then,’ Ransley ordered.
Seconds later, the first in a long line of barrels was being heaved over the side of the galley into Ransley’s open hands. He took the barrel, then tossed it over to the first tubman in the line, who set it down and waited for the next, before taking the two barrels to one side and strapping them to his chest and back.
With his right arm all but useless, Sam always felt inadequate at this crucial, pinnacle moment in the smuggling run. He had proven himself to be a good deputy to Ransley, yet still he knew that, the moment in which the boat hit the shore, he ceased to be of any great use to the gang. He had absolutely no bearing on the success or failure of the run at this point in time.
The first tubman was ready to go.
Sam ran ahead of him through the line of batmen to make one final check that there were no signs of any of the blockade. ‘Go!’ he instructed to the two men waiting behind him. They hurried up the beach, soon lost to the darkness. Sam spun around to the next three tubmen, who were ascending the beach incline towards him, ‘Be hurrying yourselves!’ he called out needlessly.
The men snorted as they pushed past him.
Despite the inclement night, the run was going smoothly so far. From his position at the top of the beach he could just make out vague black shapes moving in the gloom of the night. A constant line of tubmen were now trudging past him on their way to the meeting point at the Bell in Hythe.
Sam jiggled his pistol nervously at his side. The worst part of not being able to take an active role was that it worsened his apprehension.
Just then came the loud crack from a pistol shot.
Sam whirled around to see that it was one of his batmen who had fired the shot. But why? He couldn’t tell. The men began to shout, but their cries were snatched on the wind.
‘Hurry!’ Sam shouted to the tubmen heading towards him, as he ran back down the beach towards the galley.
More gunfire. This time half a dozen of his men had opened up. Now there was return fire and shouting.
‘Ransley—it be the blockade men!’ Sam called. ‘We need to be getting out of here!’
‘I’ll not get the boat back out of here in these conditions,’ Evan May yelled down.
‘Leave the tarnal thing—move to the meeting place,’ Ransley bawled at the men around him.
The waiting tubmen ran up the beach without any cargo, followed by Sam, then Ransley. In the midst of battling gunfire, the line of batmen then folded into the gap, making their own slow retreat up the beach.
The cries and screams of injured men provided a melancholic punctuation to the sounds of intermittent musket fire. Sam had no idea from which side the men were falling, just that he needed t
o get as many of them to the meeting point as possible.
As the beach levelled out, Sam and Ransley met with the last in the line of tubmen laden with barrels.
‘Dump ‘em,’ Sam encouraged, knowing that they stood a much better chance of survival without the extra weight hanging around their necks.
The men obeyed and threw down their loads.
Sam stood still for a moment to catch his breath and turned to look behind him. The gunfire had stopped for several seconds, allowing the batmen to progress away from the beach. He squinted into the darkness, trying to make out if they were being pursued, but it was impossible to tell what or who the shifting dark shapes were.
‘Come on!’ Ransley called back. ‘Only another mile or so and we be there.’
The group continued apace, only pausing for the briefest of moments. By the time the Bell came into view, Sam was certain that they had left the blockade officers behind. As Sam had organised, there were four horses and carts awaiting them, hidden in the shadows of the yard to the rear of the inn. They were there ready to take the bulk of the goods onwards to Aldington, the knowledge of which location was kept from most present, thereby protecting their final destination from any potential discoveries through bribery.
‘Brenbutter, landlord!’ Ransley barked, kicking open the street door.
Sam followed him inside, the heat from the spluttering fire instantly smacking against his cold skin. He glanced around him. Every table, every nook and space available was taken with the Aldington Gang. Then he noticed a man writhing on his back, clasping at his stomach. His gabardine was hoisted up and Sam could see a large, blood-filled hole in his navel.
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 9
