The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Sam thrust an elbow at Ransley, indicating the injured man. Then he saw another—James Carter—collapsed at the foot of the bar holding a cloth to his leg, a small piece of white bone jutting from the crimson pulp around it. How he had managed to get here, Sam had no idea.

  Ransley strode into the bar and looked around him. ‘You,’ he said, pointing to Thomas Denard, ‘Take one of the horses and go fetch Doctor Papworth-Hougham from Brookland.’

  ‘We be needing someone else, Ransley,’ Sam muttered. ‘Be looking around you.’

  ‘He be all we got,’ Ransley snapped. ‘Now be doing your job—pay these men and get Marshall to be hastening with the brenbutter.’

  ‘It be coming,’ Henry Marshall, the landlord said breathlessly when Sam approached the bar. He was lining up pints of beer as two women scurried about the place with plates of bread, butter and cheese—part of the men’s payment for their night’s work.

  Sam crouched down beside the man with the injured leg. ‘Help be coming,’ he said.

  The man nodded, wincing.

  ‘What about the rest of us?’ a man next to him asked, holding up his left hand, where only two swollen fingers remained, jutting from a spongy mass of torn skin and ligaments.

  Sam stood and surveyed the rest of the men, noticing even more injured among their number. There was no way Doctor Papworth-Hougham could attend to all of them. He hurried over to Ransley. ‘I be knowing of someone—an apothecary who can be helping.’

  ‘She the one what brung you back to life?’ Ransley asked, downing his beer.

  ‘That be her, yeah.’

  Ransley belched in Sam’s face. ‘Take one of the horses and be bringing her back here.’

  Sam nodded and hurried for the door.

  In the yard behind the pub, Sam approached one of the three draught horses. He chose a black shire, seventeen hands in height, and unchained it. Hoisting himself up into the saddle, Sam trotted out onto the track by which they had all just arrived.

  Holding the reins in his left hand, he pushed the horse into a canter. It would not take him too long to reach Dover, but once he got there he had no idea how he would track her down. A good starting point, he thought, would be the town’s many inns, taverns and public houses.

  ‘She been barred from here,’ the landlord of the Castle told him when he arrived. ‘Try the City of Antwerp.’

  ‘Not here,’ he was told in the City of Antwerp. ‘You been to the Plume of Feathers? That sometimes be where she hangs about.’

  At the Plume of Feathers his request was met with blank faces. ‘Try the Three Mackerel—by St James’s Church.’

  The landlord of the Three Mackerel sneered that he had thankfully not laid eyes on her for several days. ‘I seen her,’ a drunk old-timer propped at the bar drawled, as Sam was leaving. He was standing in ragged clothes with one boot missing. ‘Not long out of prison, she ain’t.’

  ‘Where does she be now?’ Sam asked.

  The old timer jangled his empty beer glass on the bar top.

  Sam tossed some coins down in front of him.

  ‘The Packet Boat,’ the old-timer slurred. ‘Not forty minute ago.’

  Sam tipped his head in gratitude, hoping that he had not just wasted money on the advice of a man too drunk to realise that he was only wearing one boot.

  The ride to the Packet Boat Inn on Strond Street took Sam barely two minutes. Inside was noisy, smoky and crammed with inebriated fishermen. Sam barely received a second glance as he pushed through the crowds, searching for her, but there was no sign.

  ‘You seen a lady here this night?’ Sam shouted at the barmaid. ‘Ann Fothergill be her name.’

  The barmaid laughed raucously, revealing the gummy inside of her mouth. ‘Ann Fothergill a lady!’ She laughed again as she poured a pint of beer. She handed the drink to a man at the bar, then pointed at the plump rear end of a woman bending in towards a seated crowd of fishermen. ‘How’s about Eliza, over there?’

  ‘No, I don’t be looking for… for that… I be looking for Ann—she be a friend,’ Sam clarified.

  ‘Do that be right?’ the barmaid said. ‘Happen you ain’t seen what be a-lying in your shadow.’

  Sam turned quizzically. She was standing directly behind him, beaming from ear to ear, as she tried to balance a pint of rum and water on her head. ‘Ann.’

  Ann lowered her drink, took a swig from the glass, then prodded Sam’s right shoulder. ‘All better?’

  Sam nodded.

  ‘What do you be wanting with Lady Fothergill, then?’ she asked, placing one hand on her hip.

  ‘I be needing your help,’ he said, lowering his voice and leaning in closer to her. ‘I got friends who be hurt.’

  Ann pursed her lips and frowned. ‘Friends what got hurt the same way you got hurt?’

  ‘That be right, yes.’

  ‘And your fancy doctor—he don’t want to be helping?’

  ‘He be asking for your assistance personally,’ Sam lied.

  At this revelation Ann seemed to drop her act. Her face became serious. ‘If that be right, then I best not refuse a man of such high qualification.’

  Sam watched as she tilted her head back, held the glass up to her mouth and sank the drink, as much liquid pouring down her chin and onto her dress as went down her gullet.

  Ann positioned her hand in a regal fashion, pushing it towards Sam’s face. ‘Sir?’

  Sam took her hand and led her from the tavern back out to the waiting horse.

  ‘Where do they be—these friends of yours?’ she asked.

  ‘Hythe,’ Sam answered, ‘Jump on.’

  Sam hauled himself into the saddle, then offered his hand to Ann.

  ‘What pleasure be mine!’ she exclaimed as she pulled herself in behind him and wrapped her arms around his midriff.

  Sam kicked the horse into a gentle trot, and they slowly picked their way down Strond Street, weaving around the oblivious drunks and itinerants slumped at the roadside until they reached the quieter streets on the outskirts of the port.

  Pushing the horse to go as fast as it could, he felt Ann’s grip tighten around his waist, pleasure at the touch of her fingers stirring in his mind.

  The coastal road was mercifully deserted and Sam’s worry that he might draw the attention of a Riding Officer, out in search of the smuggling party, was unfounded. They reached the yard of the Bell just as Thomas Denard arrived with Dr Papworth-Hougham.

  ‘Miss Fothergill,’ he said, bowing and nodding his head. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

  Ann bobbed her dress comically, clearly not used to such deference. Then, she glowered at Sam. ‘I were told my help be requested.’

  ‘They will certainly be of use to me,’ he enthused, leading the way inside.

  Sam found the pub a much calmer one than that which he had left. The men were in the process of devouring their bread, cheese and beer and some of the more seriously injured had passed out, though whether from pain or intoxication, Sam could not tell. Dr Papworth-Hougham led Ann over to the first injured man.

  Sam found George Ransley, sitting alone at a table, drinking ale.

  ‘Reckon we lost two tonight,’ Ransley informed him.

  ‘Unless they be out there somewhere—making their own way?’ Sam suggested.

  Ransley sniffed and spat a globule of phlegm onto the floor beside him. ‘Not from what the men be saying. John Hart took a musket to his chest and Richard Hill to the head. I don’t be a-reckoning they be making their own way anywhere.’

  ‘I be seeing their widows right,’ Sam mumbled.

  Ransley nodded his agreement and drank some ale. ‘Be giving the men their dues then we best move on.’

  Sam did as he had been instructed and moved around the pub, paying each man according to his role.

  ‘Let’s be getting these carts loaded,’ Ransley called and the men began to shuffle from their seats to the back door.

  In the yard, the men formed four lines which ran from the r
ear of the carts, converging at the stack of barrels. With meaty grunts, the men heaved the contraband along the line into the awaiting carts, but only two were completely filled—half the expected quantity.

  ‘That tarnal lot,’ Ransley complained. ‘Be putting the men what be hurt in there.’

  On his instruction, the injured men were heaved into the back of the two empty carts.

  Sam spotted someone in apparent good health among their number. ‘You, out,’ he ordered. He had the arm of James Carter—the man with the bone protruding from his leg—slung around his shoulder. Sam did not recognise the other man, and the knowledge of from where their smuggling gang operated was strictly withheld from strangers.

  ‘I’m helping him—he can’t walk for himself,’ the man answered.

  ‘He be alright—my life be owed to him,’ James Carter defended. ‘Weren’t for him I’d’ve taken another musket.’

  ‘What be your name?’ Sam demanded.

  ‘Jonas—Jonas Blackwood.’

  ‘Which parish do you be hailing from, Jonas Blackwood?’

  ‘Folkestone of the last seven months, Stockwell before that.’

  Sam stared at him suspiciously, saying nothing.

  Doctor Papworth-Hougham leant over and whispered in Sam’s ear. ‘That leg will likely have to be removed tomorrow. I need someone to watch him overnight.’

  ‘Alright,’ Sam conceded to Jonas. ‘But this doctor needs to be finding him alive in the morning.’

  Jonas nodded.

  ‘Right!’ Sam called up to George Ransley, who was one of the four horse riders. ‘You be ready to go.’

  Ransley dug his ankles into his horse’s sides and proceeded from the yard, followed by the second and third cart. Sam clambered into the back of the fourth and nodded for the rider to follow on.

  ‘Where do that be leaving me?’ a voice demanded.

  Sam turned to see Ann with her arms folded and her eyes reeling with rage. ‘Hold!’

  The horse was pulled to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Here,’ Sam said, offering her his left hand.

  She stood motionless, holding his gaze, saying nothing.

  Sam motioned for her to take his hand.

  ‘Ready?’ the rider barked down.

  Ann reached out and climbed inside the cart, squeezing into a tiny space beside Sam.

  ‘Go!’ he called out and the horse trotted from the yard.

  As they progressed in silence through the back roads and dirt tracks towards Aldington on this starkly cold night, Sam took some ignoble gratification from the warm closeness of Ann’s body pressed to his.

  ‘Why don’t you be coming back?’ Sam whispered to her.

  Ann grinned and placed her hand on his leg.

  Chapter Nine

  18th November 1821, Aldington Frith, Kent

  Ann delighted in the way that the room danced in time with the music. Richard Wire, a local smuggler was playing Robin Hood on his violin. Three topless women from the village were parading around, their breasts heaving to the beat of the music. By some clever trick Richard Wire had made the walls move to the rhythm of the song. Even the floor was undulating beneath her feet. Men from the village were sitting at small tables, gambling with cards and dice, their feet tap-tapping a unified beat into her head. In stark opposition to the bitter temperatures outside, in here the air was clammy and sticky, permeated with the heady stench of male sweat, smoke and spilled beer.

  Ann closed her eyes and took another sip of her rum, savouring its warmth at the back of her throat, then she began to sing, ‘The sheriff attempts to take bold Robin Hood. Bold Robin disdains to fly: Let him come when he will. We’ll make merry in Sherwood, vanquish boys or die.’

  Someone spoke inside her head: ‘Interesting place,’ he said.

  Ann opened her eyes and turned from side to side. A man was staring at her. A handsome man, by all accounts. Tall muscular and tidy-looking. ‘What be?’

  The man held an open hand to the room. ‘Here—this place.’

  ‘The Bourne Tap?’ Ann said. ‘Ransley’s new home don’t make for a bad place, no.’

  The man picked at the tips of his dark moustache as he considered her words. ‘And with its own unlicensed beer house attached. Middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of woodland, serving his own smuggled rum and beer at low prices…’

  ‘You’ll not see many, save the bruff landlord of the Walnut, complaining at the price of liquor here!’ Ann stated.

  ‘I don’t suppose so,’ the man agreed. ‘And yet no sign of the man himself.’

  ‘Ransley be too shrewd for that.’

  ‘So it seems,’ he said, sinking the last mouthful of his beer. He licked the froth from around his mouth, then thumped the glass down onto the table.

  Ann tried to tighten her focus on the man and to force her brain to understand his questioning. But he hadn’t actually asked any questions, she realised, just blethered some open statements which had elicited a response from her.

  ‘Goodnight,’ he said, placing his hat upon his head and strolling towards the door.

  ‘Goodnight,’ Ann answered, trying to recall knowledge of him from previous smuggling runs. He was one of the tubmen, she thought. Or was he one of the batmen? Her befuddled brain refused to supply her with any further information and his attractive face quickly slipped away as the music thudded back into her head.

  ‘Rum, Miss Fothergill?’ one of the men said, passing her a pint of rum and water. It was Alexander Spence, a man whose superficial injuries she had tended after the last smuggling run four nights ago. Although the cargo had been landed without detection, Alexander had suffered minor rope burns to the palms of his hands.

  ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ Ann beamed, taking the drink with delight. Such rewards from the grateful men, whom she had helped to heal, had come forth in plentiful supply since she had been given a permanent role within the Aldington Gang.

  ‘And a dance?’ he asked with a lopsided grin, offering her his hand.

  Holding his hand in hers, Ann examined his injured palms. ‘They be healing nice,’ she commented.

  ‘That be your medicine what did it—all that slime.’

  Ann smirked at his obsequious comment, recalling how her remedy had first been received with scorn. Even Doctor Papworth-Hougham had doubted the merits of having an escargatoire of snails trailing over his burns, prior to the application of an aloe and honey poultice; but it had worked and healed the wounds. She sloshed some drink into her mouth, then set the glass down, before gently taking Alexander’s hand and joining him in a rollicking clumsy jig around the room. He spun her around in tight circles, weaving gracelessly between other dancing couples. Ann laughed as they stepped on each other’s feet. She flipped her head backwards, her hair trailing behind her. Upside-down glances of heaving bosoms and black-toothed merriment darted across her vision.

  ‘I be hearing you be on the lookout for lodgings,’ Alexander said.

  Ann pulled her head up in line with his. ‘That be right—the mistress be wanting me out of Braemar Cottage in the morning… for the second time.’

  ‘Happen I be knowing somewhere,’ Alexander said with a coy grin.

  ‘Don’t be holding whist,’ she said, playfully slapping his chest.

  ‘My house,’ he revealed.

  Ann rolled her eyes. Thankfully, the song had come to an end, met with a minor round of applause and a somewhat coy bow from Richard Wire. Ann shook herself free.

  Alexander released his arms from around Ann’s midriff, one hand casually settling on her right breast. ‘Do you be fancying a little walk in the woods?’ he asked.

  Ann picked off his hand and glowered at him. ‘Great grief, I bain’t no lushington and I certain-sure bain’t not going walking in the woods with you, Alexander Spence.’

  Alexander muttered some expletives under his breath, storming his way across the room to his friends in the far corner.

  He was generally a decent man, and, under other
circumstances, she might well have considered him suitable for her. But not now, not after what Ralph had said a few days ago whilst they were treating the injured smugglers at the Bell Inn. He had taken her to one side—deliberately out of everyone’s earshot—and had said, ‘Listen, I’m terribly sorry for my shortness with you a few months ago, you see my wife had just died and, well…’

  ‘It be of no bother, Doctor—really it don’t,’ Ann had insisted, feeling an unexpected muddle of sympathy at his loss and a guilty sense of pleasure that he was no longer married.

  Then he had said, ‘Please—call me Ralph,’ and he had touched her on the arm.

  The warmth of the memory faded, leaving Ann with a fresh awareness of her surroundings. The air in the place had suddenly lost its allure and the stench of sweat began to make her feel nauseous. Striding back to her table, she picked up her rum and held it to her mouth without drinking. She gripped the glass there, pressed cold to her lips for some time. She was drunk, but not too drunk to see herself in a detached way—the way that others clearly saw her. Her skills as an apothecary and being in receipt of good regular wages had seen her rise from her vagrancy days in Dover and yet still she was perceived as a drunk no-good streetwalker.

  For the first time, at least as far as her memory would permit, Ann left the barely touched pint of rum on the table and walked away.

  She ambled slowly back to Braemar Cottage, craving the sobering sensation brought on by the freezing temperatures. Her whole body was quivering when, finally, she reached the front of the house. The effects of the alcohol had numbed the edges of her pain and stripped her errant thoughts back to a simple monotony of placing one foot in front of the other; nothing else was given space in her mind.

  Ann looked through the un-shuttered parlour window at the dim room. The silhouettes of two figures flickered from the flames of the fire. Sam, with his back to the window, appeared to be talking to Hester. Ann watched them, mesmerised. They were a curious couple whom, despite having lived with them again for the past eight days, she had failed to understand. When she had tended to Sam during his largely unconscious period of fever, she had suffered daily under the oppressive temperament of his wife, Hester. Ann had fabricated a limp hollow personality for Sam, subservient to the demands of his imperious wife. The man whom she had resurrected, however, had been entirely different to her imagined version of him. He was a strong-willed, defiant man with a fortitude easily matching that of his wife.