Ann continued watching their exchange, assuming from the way which Hester’s exaggerated hands moved from flapping animatedly in the air to being thrust onto her jutting hip, that the conversation which she was now witnessing was actually an argument.
The perfect time to make an entrance, she mused, with a wry smile.
With a confident stride, Ann marched towards the house. Just yards from the door she stopped dead. It was not Sam at all. He—whoever he was—took something from Hester. Money, perhaps, then moved towards the street door. In a panic, Ann wondered what she should do or where she should go, but she had no time to go anywhere or do anything.
The door opened and the man saw her. He hurriedly pulled his hat down over his eyes, but she had seen him. It was the man from the Bourne Tap. The handsome man who had played with his moustache whilst making oblique statements about the place. Without a word, he strode past her and was absorbed into the darkness.
‘Who be that?’ Ann demanded of Hester on entering the house.
‘It bain’t be none of your business,’ Hester answered, slamming the street door.
Ann felt the devil rise inside her. ‘Happen I be asking Sam what a man be doing here at night giving his wife money.’
Hester looked visibly shaken. ‘He be a friend and not what you be a-thinking.’
‘What do he be called, this friend what gives money to folks at night time?’ Ann asked.
‘Jonas Blackwood.’
Ann nodded. ‘What say—quitter for quatter, like—that I not be moving on tomorrow and be lodging here a while longer? Happen, then, I be forgetting all about men what pay you in the night time.’
Hester’s narrowed eyes displayed such bilious anger. Short snorts of air fumed from her nostrils, as, with hands on her hips, she contemplated Ann’s threat.
Ann stretched exaggeratedly, as though she had all the time in the world to wait for Hester’s decision. In her peripheral vision she spotted movement outside. Sam was walking the path to the house. Ann danced her way to the door and pulled it open. ‘Sam, what a delight. We be just talking about you.’
‘What grabby weather,’ Sam complained, removing his boots, shooting curious looks between the two women. ‘What you be saying?’
Ann looked to Hester.
‘Ann be a-staying on here a little longer, if that be alright by you, Sam,’ Hester said softly.
Sam smiled. ‘She can be staying here as long as she be liking.’
‘Most gracious,’ Ann said, flouncing from the room.
Chapter Ten
Phil was sitting in his battered Volvo looking at his cheap watch. Counting down. Forty-five seconds to go. He glanced up at the bungalow and back down to his watch. Forty seconds. He looked up again and saw that the door was now open.
‘You’re thirty-three seconds early!’ he said with a laugh, banging the steering wheel.
He watched the old man shuffle out, shut the door, then check that it was locked three more times.
‘Jesus, will you just hurry up. IT’S LOCKED!’ Phil yelled, unheard from the confines of his car.
Arthur Fothergill, with a hessian jute bag in one hand and a walking stick in the other, ambled down his garden path and out onto the main road, where he paused and took a lengthy look up and down the street.
Phil flopped his head onto the steering wheel with exasperation at the time he was taking.
Finally, the old man wandered down the road towards the bus stop. It was the same routine, week in week out. Every Tuesday he would take the 10.16am 101 bus from New Romney to Folkestone, where he would spend the day shuffling around shops into which he didn’t need to go, spending money which he didn’t have, on stuff which he didn’t need.
Once he was completely out of sight, Phil clambered from his car, crossed the street and walked up the path to the bungalow. Taking out his key, he opened the door and went inside.
Phil switched on the light, but it did little to drag the dark and dingy hallway from the shadows. He entered the dining room and headed straight for the bureau where he knew Arthur kept his official documentation. Opening the drawbridge-style door, Phil could instantly see from the chaotic mess of paperwork that his task was not going to be as quick and easy as he had first thought. Still, he had all day.
He pulled out the first stack of papers—bills from British Gas and EDF. As he sorted through the pile, he paused, thinking that he had heard something. He quickly stuffed the papers back inside and closed the bureau door. Without moving, he listened. Yes, someone was standing at the front door, struggling to get their key into the lock.
Now what? The front door opened, meaning that he was now prevented from escaping via the back entrance. He was trapped in the dining room and had no alternative but to hide in the first place that a child might check in a game of hide-and-seek: behind the door.
‘I actually feel sick about it,’ Juliette whined, standing from the table and rubbing her stomach under her nightshirt, preparing to scoop Grace up as she crawled around the kitchen floor.
‘But that’s just because you’ve had a year off—it’s normal,’ Morton said, taking a bite of his toast. ‘Once you’re back out there you’ll be fine.’
Juliette sighed. ‘Even though it’s only three days a week, it feels different now we’ve got Grace. It’s not exactly the safest job in the world. Mind you, with the stupid things you end up doing, your job’s just as bad.’
‘I promise I’ll be more careful,’ Morton tried to reassure her.
Juliette crouched down, lifted Grace and spun her around one hundred and eighty degrees away from the oven. ‘I mean, look at her—she’s so vulnerable.’
Grace scuttled across to Morton’s chair and clambered herself up. ‘Dadda,’ she said, offering him a clump of fluff from the floor.
‘Thank you, Grace,’ he said with a grin.
‘Yes, thank you, Grace,’ Juliette said sarcastically. ‘That’s the other problem: I just don’t know how I’m going to get anything done. It’s the party in four days’ time and we’ve barely done hardly anything for it, except to invite loads of people here. And Jack, Laura and George will be arriving on her birthday—in two days’ time. Look at the state of the place.’
‘Stop worrying. I’ll have a clean-up later and do some shopping for the party. It’s all fine,’ he said, reaching out for her hand. ‘Really.’ Morton shoved the last piece of toast into his mouth and bent down to pick up his daughter. ‘Come here, Miss Farrier,’ he said, sitting her on his lap. ‘What do you want to do today? How about helping me find out about the Aldington Gang of smugglers?’
‘How about a trip to the playpark with your daughter and darling wife on her last full day of freedom?’ Juliette suggested. ‘Maybe take them out for a meal?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ Morton replied.
It was Arthur. He had inexplicably returned and was now fussing in the hallway, wondering how he could have forgotten to switch the light off. ‘I’m sure I did,’ he muttered. ‘Is anyone here? Steve? Clara?’ When no reply was forthcoming he said, ‘Nope, just you, Arthur, you silly old fool.’
Phil stood rigidly behind the dining room door, holding his breath as Arthur trundled down the hallway to the lounge, all the while narrating as he went. Apparently, he had forgotten a faulty alarm clock, which he was going to return to the shop in Folkestone.
‘Right,’ Arthur mumbled. ‘Keys. Where did I put those?’
Phil took an incredulous long breath in.
‘Now, remember to switch the light off,’ Arthur reminded himself.
Seconds later, Phil heard the dink of the light switch. Once Arthur was out of the door, he was half tempted to switch it back on again, just to confuse him. He remained still until he heard the door slam shut, then he allowed himself to breathe normally again. He still dared not move, though, not until Arthur had completed his double- and triple-checking of the door.
Silence.
Phil moved slowly towards the front window and
just caught sight of Arthur turning back in the direction of the bus stop.
Returning to the bureau, Phil began to sift through the muddle of paperwork. Letters. Bills. Receipts. Take-away menus. Insurances. Notes. Scrap paper.
He let out an infuriated groan.
Then, he reached a bundle of papers bound together with an elastic band. Arthur’s birth certificate was on the top. This is more like it, Phil thought, thumbing through the pile. He caught glimpses of Arthur’s marriage certificate along with the birth and death certificates of his wife. Then he found it: the last will and testament of Arthur Fothergill.
Phil withdrew the document and, skipping over the legal niceties and funeral and burial details, he came to the important information: the distribution of the assets which, he read, were to be divided equally between Arthur’s nephew and niece.
With a triumphant smile, Phil placed the will back in the bundle, returning everything to the bureau as he had found it.
The old man hadn’t been stringing them along, after all. No cats’ homes or sympathetic neighbours or distant cousins. Equal shares between nephew and niece. He was happy with that.
It had been a surprisingly tiring day for Morton. The three of them had taken a Knoops hot chocolate down to the playpark, where Morton had divided his time between pushing an ecstatic Grace on the swings and consoling a miserable Juliette on the bench, who had sat for the most part with her head in her hands. Then, they had sauntered through Rye, popping into various shops before having dinner at The Globe restaurant. Now, Grace was tucked up in bed and Juliette was throwing an iron over her police uniform, which was making its debut outing for the first time in twelve months.
Morton carried a large glass of red wine up to his study and switched on his laptop. It was the first time all day that he had had a chance to look at his emails or do anything resembling work. He guessed that this was how life would be now, for a while at least.
From the twenty-two emails which downloaded into his inbox, he chose to read those associated with the case first. One of them was from the Coroner’s Office: ‘Dear Morton, Thank you for your email and interest in this case. I have spoken with our archiving team and unfortunately, they cannot find any files or information that we have stored regarding this. They did suggest that it may be worthwhile looking in Folkestone Library as they will hold copies of local newspapers from the time of the discovery, or possibly even speaking with the pub where the skeletons were discovered, but we have no information that we can offer on this case I’m afraid. Best wishes, Sandy.’
Visiting the Bell was not a bad suggestion. It was highly unlikely, though, that the owners were the same people from 1963, or that any better recollection of the discovery could be provided than that which he had already heard from Clive Baintree.
The next email was from the Burial Officer at Shepway District Council, who informed him that, upon checking all the municipal cemeteries in Hythe and Folkestone for 1963, she had found no ‘unknown males’ in the registers or anything which might have been the two bodies. The same negative response came from St Leonard’s, the main parish church of Hythe.
On his investigation wall, Morton placed a small cross beside the meticulous list of local churches and cemeteries, which he had drawn up regarding the burial of the two skeletons. Then, returning to his laptop, he opened an email from Hawkinge Cemetery & Crematorium with a smile. ‘Good afternoon, Morton. I always like to think that there is no such thing as a strange request, but I think this may qualify! I have indeed located the men’s burial, although the information is rather vague, I’m afraid. It is identical for both: Unknown male, estimated 30-40 years of age, found dead 7th July 1963 in the Bell Inn, Hythe. The two men were buried in communal graves in Plot G at Hawkinge Cemetery. There is no further information in the registers. I hope this helps, Irene.’
Morton printed the email and fastened it to the investigation wall. He had found the burial place of the two bodies but, as he had expected, there was little information which would develop the case. And he still did not actually know if the two men had been interred in the fireplace during Ann’s tenure of the pub.
Sitting back at his desk, he took a swig of wine. There were no other emails which warranted his precious time this evening, so he switched his focus to finding out about the Aldington smuggling gang.
Google kindly offered him 79,600 results for his search enquiry. He drank some wine and clicked the first link: a Wikipedia page for the group. Making notes as he went, Morton completed the page and selected the next link.
After some time of reading, the study door was pushed open and there stood a grumpy-looking Juliette in her police uniform.
‘What’s the matter?’ Morton asked.
‘Look at me,’ she answered, lifting her arms up by her side. ‘It’s far too tight.’
‘Is it?’ Morton said, pretending not to have noticed the obvious. ‘I think it looks okay.’
Juliette huffed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I look like a whale in a bikini.’
A discussion of her weight was as easy to negotiate as a freshly laid minefield. If he said that she looked fine—which he thought she did, just about—she would become annoyed at him for lying. If he said that the few extra understandable pounds of baby weight would shift in no time once she was back patrolling the streets, it meant a tacit agreement with her idea of being overweight, which would only make matters worse. Instead, he stupidly said, ‘Maybe your uniform’s shrunk?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Morton,’ she said, turning on her heels and mumbling that she was going to bed.
‘I’ll be there in a minute,’ he whispered after her.
That minute mushroomed into several hours reading on the Aldington Gang. He was several pages into Google’s suggested list of links but was now adding little to his notes. The websites were tending to repeat the same basic information about the gang: active from late 1820 under the leadership of Cephas Quested, a man who was captured at the Battle of Brookland in 1821. He was hanged, after which time a new leader, George Ransley took over. Various websites were in agreement in their assertion that Ransley had somehow acquired the means to continue the group and build a new home for himself called the Bourne Tap in the village of Aldington, from where he orchestrated the gang’s many large-scale runs. In 1826, however, Quartermaster Richard Morgan had been murdered by one of the gang and several of their number had stood trial before being transported to Van Dieman’s Land in 1827, bringing the last major Kent smuggling group to a definitive end.
The gang’s transportation in April 1827 tied in perfectly with Ann’s letter of July of that year, in which she spoke of the renewed quietness of the area.
Morton’s suspicions that Ann’s letter had been written to one of the convicted smugglers had not been borne out in the published lists of those convicted. And yet, he was more certain than ever of Ann’s involvement with the gang.
Pondering where an agricultural labourer had gained the means to build his own house and maintain a smuggling racket, Morton wrote ‘The Bourne Tap, Aldington – gold guineas found by George Ransley???’ on a piece of paper and stuck it to the wall.
Finishing the last dregs of his wine, he stared at the timeline on his investigation wall, thinking. His gut instinct told him that the common link between all of the evidence, which he had so far uncovered for the 1820-1827 period, was smuggling. He now needed to uncover firm documentary evidence to substantiate that link. He knew what his next steps needed to be, but right now, having just gone midnight, it was time to sleep. The morning would be a competition between Juliette and Grace as to which one would wake Morton first. He had a busy day ahead of him, trying to juggle the case, looking after Grace and preparing for the party. In just two days—one, technically, now that it had passed midnight—his biological father would be arriving with his family from America. He had yet to hear from his Aunty Margaret about whether or not she would be attending.
As he pushed his laptop lid d
own to a close, a tangled sensation began to form inside him at the thought of Jack and Margaret meeting for the first time since 1974.
Chapter Eleven
Morton’s day was not going well. He had been woken several times during the night by Grace screaming, then had been duly summoned by her shouting ‘Dadda’ at the top of her voice at some ungodly moment before five o’clock that morning, refusing to go back to sleep. Then Juliette had risen in a satanic mood on this, her first day back at work in over a year. Morton’s attempt to pacify the situation, by pointing out that she didn’t actually start work until three pm, was met with a derisive rolling of her eyes. It was only when he had shown her the online menu for the Bell Inn, suggesting it as a late-breakfast destination, that she began to calm.
Hungry and rattled, they reached the pub mid-morning. Grace had inexplicably cried for the entirety of the twenty-one-mile journey. Carrot sticks, Peppa Pig videos, nursery rhymes and a variety of toys had done little to subdue her.
‘Great. I hope she’s not sickening for something just before the party,’ Juliette commented, as Morton parked the car beside the pub. She exhaled, climbed out and proceeded to unfold the pushchair, before removing Grace from her car seat. Finally, she stopped crying.
Morton looked up at the old two-storey building. It was painted brilliant white, the lower half plastered and the upper half cladded in weather-boarding. Sandwiched between the two storeys was the name of the pub in large golden lettering. With the roof in terracotta tiles, it was the quintessential Kentish pub.
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 11
