The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘That sounds a great idea!’ Jack said, turning to Laura. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Perfect. I’ve heard so much about this little town; I can’t wait to see it.’

  ‘I’m going to stay here, if that’s okay,’ George said. ‘I’ll get the bags in and then have a sleep.’

  Jack tapped him lightly on the back. ‘Sure thing, Son.’

  Morton watched their interaction with interest. He noticed that Jack had called both him and George son and wondered if he was being literal or if it was a term of endearment that any younger man received. He could hear him using it as an appellation for the young man who had fixed his car, or the student at the university where he lectured, who had held the door open for him, or the postman who had delivered a package.

  ‘Morton, show them their rooms while I get Grace ready,’ Juliette instructed.

  ‘Follow me up the wonky, creaky stairs,’ Morton said with a grin.

  Jack, followed by Laura, followed by a seemingly reluctant George, trooped up the stairs to the first floor.

  ‘That’s your room,’ Morton said, pushing open Grace’s bedroom door. ‘As you can see, we’ve decorated it especially for a thirty-seven-year-old American.’

  Jack and Laura laughed as they stuck their heads into the room, casually taking in the pink and white walls adorned with rabbits and flowers. In the centre of the room was a single put-up bed with vaguely feminine bedding. ‘It’s cool,’ George said. ‘I’ve slept in much stranger places.’

  ‘And you two are on the top floor,’ Morton said, continuing upstairs with them behind him. He showed them into the guestroom, situated directly opposite his study.

  ‘Perfect,’ Jack said.

  Downstairs, they found Juliette strapping Grace into the buggy. ‘Look, here comes Grandpa and Grandma,’ she said heartily.

  ‘Gandpa,’ Grace said, pointing at Jack.

  ‘Yeah!’ Jack cried. ‘Good girl! Grandpa!’

  ‘Gandpa,’ Grace repeated.

  Juliette flicked her head around, bemused. ‘I wonder at what point in your fast-growing vocabulary you might like to say MUMMY?’

  ‘She’s doing it to annoy you,’ Jack said with a smile.

  Morton grinned, handing Jack and Laura their coats and pulling open the front door. ‘Let’s go down the hill,’ Morton said. ‘The cobbles are a nightmare with the buggy.’

  They all stepped out into the warm afternoon and began to head away from the house. Morton took a cursory glance up the hill at the real reason for their heading this way—the Mermaid Inn, where his Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim would be arriving at any moment—as a thorny coil of anxiety thrashed through his intestines at the thought of the impending dinner.

  Phil had been about to give up and go home. Patience had never been his strong point. That was why he was here, now, standing outside the Mermaid Inn watching the house. He had arrived with no plan whatsoever, but now that he had seen all but one of the house’s occupants leaving, one began to loosely form in his head. The remaining person—a man—was busy pulling suitcases from the boot of a car. Now was as good an opportunity as he was likely to get.

  Slinging his hands into his pockets, he sauntered down the road and up the steps to Morton’s house. The door was wide open and the man had his head in the boot of the car. He waited, on the verge of stepping inside until the man hauled another suitcase out onto the pavement. ‘Hiya, I work with Morton Farrier on his genealogical investigations—I’m just dropping something off,’ he said, holding up a supermarket carrier bag which was wrapped tightly around a block of cheese which he had just purchased from Jempson’s for his tea.

  The man shrugged disinterestedly. ‘He’s just popped out, but sure, go ahead.’

  ‘Cheers, mate,’ Phil replied, hurrying inside. He had no idea where he was going and quickly looked into the room on his left—the lounge. A nice television, pair of two-seater sofas, coffee table and some bookcases. The room to the right was the kitchen-diner. He headed up the stairs and found the bathroom, a child’s room and what looked like the master bedroom. Continuing up to the top floor, he found another bedroom and then, typically being the last room that he searched, he found Morton’s study. He entered the room and laughed scornfully when he spotted the wall covered entirely in a web of paperwork linked by string and coloured pins. It was totally melodramatic and ridiculous given his occupation, but exactly what Phil had come for. He didn’t have long and began scanning his eyes around the wall. There. He lunged forwards and pulled the piece of paper from its tape, tearing the corner.

  Taking out his mobile phone, he took a close-up photo of the paper.

  ‘You alright up there?’ the man called up to him. An American, by the sound of his accent.

  ‘Yep—be right down,’ Phil replied, swiftly reattaching the paper to the wall. ‘Cheers for that!’ he said, meeting the American on the first floor. ‘Don’t worry about telling him I came round—I’ll see him later in the week. See ya.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Phil descended the stairs two at time and headed outside, closing the front door behind him.

  With a wide grin on his face, he headed to the bus stop, thinking about the cheese on toast which he was going to have when he got home.

  Having taken Jack and Laura for a cream tea and shown them some of the historic and ancient properties in Church Square, Morton found himself at the top of Mermaid Street—his own road and the one most renowned in the town—in a quandary. To get to the house and to show the visitors this notable street meant walking past the Mermaid Inn, something his legs seemed unwilling to do.

  ‘What are you dithering for, now?’ Juliette asked.

  ‘Just thinking it’s easier—with the buggy and all—to go down West Street, then around The Mint and up to the house.’

  Juliette looked at him, wholly baffled. ‘Good idea… Or—and an equally good idea—we could order a helicopter down to the harbour, catch a boat then get a taxi to our house, which I can see from here?’ She shared her mystification with Jack and Laura, frowning in their direction, then saying, ‘We’ve pushed the buggy down there a thousand times before. Come on.’ She moved in front of the buggy and began down the road.

  And that was it, they were heading down the cobbles of Mermaid Street, utterly in the hands of fate.

  Morton’s pulse quickened and something inside him recoiled as they approached the Mermaid Inn. His efforts to accelerate the pace of the group failed when Jack brought everyone to a standstill to admire the pub.

  ‘I’m sure I had my photo taken outside here!’ Jack declared, squinting hard, as he seemed to pull the memory forward in his mind.

  Morton wanted to say, ‘You did. I took a copy of it from your sister’s photo album. I can find it easily.’ He could even tell him the exact spot upon which he had stood in the photo but he wasn’t sure that, if he opened his mouth, any words would come out right now. Through the archway that led to the rear of the pub, he had spotted his Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim’s green Land Rover. They were here.

  He tried to get Juliette’s attention to tell her but she was engrossed in conversation with Laura.

  ‘Wow—did you hear that, Jack?’ Laura said, tugging his arm. ‘The pub dates back to 1420, but the cellars date from 1156. That is just mind-blowing. And you live so close to it!’

  ‘Come on, let’s get a group photo,’ Jack suggested, accosting a young woman passing by. ‘Hey—would you mind taking our photo, please?’

  Morton found himself smiling inattentively at the stranger, sandwiched between Juliette and his biological father, all the while wondering if perhaps his biological mother was peering out of one of the windows behind them. ‘Come on, then, let’s get back,’ Morton said, taking the buggy back from Juliette’s grip and bumping Grace down the cobbles to the house.

  Inside, they found George in front of the television watching a Pearl Harbour documentary.

  ‘Oh, George—it’s such a pretty town,’ Laura said, s
itting beside him and patting his thigh like a dog. ‘You really must take a look around.’

  ‘Did you get any sleep, Son?’ Jack asked.

  George shook his head. ‘I tried…’

  ‘Right, drinks,’ Juliette murmured to herself.

  ‘Oh, Morton,’ George said, briefly glancing in his direction, before looking back at the television. Morton smiled inquisitively, wondering what his half-brother was about to say to him. ‘Some guy called for you. He works with you—wanted to drop something off.’

  ‘Works with me? What did he drop off?’

  George shrugged. ‘I don’t think he said—he went up and left it in your office.’

  ‘Okay,’ Morton answered, not having the faintest of clues to whom George was referring, trying not to be aggravated that he had allowed a stranger into the house. He bounded up the stairs, casually glancing in his bedroom on the way up. In the study he found nothing. Everything seemed to be how he had left it. He wiggled the laptop mouse and the password-protected screen came to life, showing no signs of having been tampered with. He scanned across the bookshelves but could not see anything different. He looked around the floor and in the bin. He thumbed through the stack of paperwork on his desk pertaining to the Fothergill Case. When he found nothing, paranoia pushed him to check under his desk. Check the lampshade. Check the plug sockets. Nothing. He stood in front of the investigation wall and methodically ran his eyes across it, looking for signs of change or anything having been removed or added. Only one thing looked amiss, but he couldn’t be certain that it hadn’t happened before today. One piece of paper had a ripped corner and the tape had been reattached slightly lower down, as though someone had torn it hastily from the wall, then reaffixed it. But why? The paper, in his scribbled handwriting read: ‘The Bourne Tap, Aldington – gold guineas found by George Ransley???’

  Morton stared at the paper for some time, mulling over his thoughts. He could very well have ripped the paper—he just had no recollection of it. Juliette could have ripped it, though why, when she rarely stepped foot inside his study, he couldn’t fathom. George could have done it but this, too, seemed highly implausible. Or, it was this man who had visited the house?

  Carefully removing the piece of paper from the wall, Morton carried it downstairs to the kitchen, where he found Juliette preparing the dinner. ‘You didn’t tear this, did you?’ he asked.

  ‘What is it?’ Juliette asked, scrunching her eyes to read his scribbled handwriting.

  ‘Probably nothing. It was on my investigation wall.’

  ‘Does it matter that it’s ripped? You can rewrite it, can’t you?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter at all—I just can’t recall having ripped it.’

  Juliette said dismissively, ‘Well, I can safely say it wasn’t me. Can you see if they want anything to drink, please?’

  Morton ventured into the lounge, finding Jack and Laura playing on the floor with Grace. George was watching them from the sofa, his head resting on a cushion and his legs tucked up beside him, appearing very much on the verge of sleep. ‘Anyone want a drink?’ Morton asked, then, when nobody said that they did, he asked, ‘George—that man that arrived earlier—did he give his name?’

  ‘No, he didn’t. I assumed from the way he was talking that you were kind of expecting him. Should I not have let him in?’

  Morton wanted to respond with, ‘No, you definitely shouldn’t have let him in’ but said, ‘Well, I have no idea who he was. What did he look like?’

  George sighed and sat up. ‘I only really saw him for a minute. Erm…about forty to fifty, very thin, grey tracksuit, bald or shaved head. Stubble. I think he might have had a mole here–’ he pointed to beside his right eye, ‘—white sneakers… That’s about all I can remember.’

  Jack looked up. ‘So, you don’t know this guy?’

  Morton shook his head. A niggling worry caused by what was written on the paper that the man might have been Arthur Fothergill’s greedy nephew was rejected. The nephew was overweight, had a full head of hair and certainly no facial moles.

  ‘George—you really shouldn’t have let him in,’ Jack castigated.

  ‘He could have been anyone,’ Laura added.

  George flushed red with embarrassment, mumbling a quiet apology.

  ‘How long was he upstairs for?’ Morton pushed, now not choosing his tone or words with eggshell consideration.

  ‘Erm…no more than like…five minutes. Probably two or three.’

  ‘And he definitely went to my study—on the top floor?’

  George nodded. ‘I heard the floorboards creaking up there and I was coming out of my room when he came down the stairs.’

  ‘And did you go into the study at all?’ Morton asked. ‘It doesn’t matter—I just need to know.’

  ‘No, I haven’t been up to the top floor at all. I’m sorry—I guess tiredness and the way he seemed to know you…I’m sure he said your full name, too.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ Morton said, trying to sound as though he meant it. He left the room and began to walk back up to his study, perplexed by who the man could have been. He reasoned that there must be something else in his study that he had somehow missed that might reveal his identity. He got a third of the way up the stairs when the doorbell rang.

  His blood suddenly ran cold.

  This was it.

  He turned back on himself, descended to the front door and took a deep breath.

  He pulled it open and there stood his Aunty Margaret and Uncle Jim.

  Chapter Fifteen

  ‘Come in,’ Morton said, nervously.

  Margaret stepped inside with a broad smile. Morton could tell that she had made a special effort; her white, curly hair had been recently cut and, for the first time that he could recall, she was even wearing some subtle lipstick and eyeshadow. She reached out and grabbed him, throwing her arms around him. He wasn’t completely sure, but he thought that he felt a light tremble in her hands behind him. ‘Oh, it is lovely to see you, Morton,’ she beamed. ‘Where’s that lovely wife of yours?’ Then she spotted Juliette over his shoulder. ‘There she is!’ Margaret pulled back from Morton, planted a wet kiss on his cheek then moved towards Juliette.

  ‘Nephew!’ Jim hollered in his usual greeting, thrusting a brawny hand for Morton to shake. Where Margaret had made an extra effort for the occasion, Jim appeared as he always had; as though he had just stepped from his fishing boat. He was a big man, tall and wide with a flushed sea-beaten complexion and wild hair which looked as though it had not been brushed in a very long time.

  Morton was aware, in his peripheral vision, of movement around the lounge doorway. He turned around to see Jack, smiling, holding Grace. Behind him, with her hand placed territorially on her husband’s shoulder, was Laura.

  Before the awkwardness was able to take a firm shape in the small hallway, Morton moved back, allowing Margaret and Jack to see one another for the first time in forty-four years. ‘I don’t need to introduce you two, do I?’ Morton asked, with a chuckle which sounded odd even to him.

  Jack and Margaret met awkwardly, him leaning in to kiss her left cheek, as she presented her hand to shake. Simultaneously realising the other’s intentions, he faltered in his attempts to kiss her, while she retracted her hand, the result being a blundering mash, where she kissed his ear and his hand squashed into her right breast.

  ‘Good to see you again, Margaret,’ Jack said, treading backwards from the muddle, his face flushing in the way that Morton’s did through embarrassment.

  ‘It’s been a very long time,’ Margaret answered with a discomfited smile.

  Ignoring the cringing spectacle of Margaret and Jack’s meeting, Morton introduced Laura to Margaret and Jim, who, having been witness to the spectacle of their spouses’ reunion, went for the safe hand-shaking option. Laura squeezed herself into the hallway, allowing George to be part of the introductions.

  ‘Where’s that birthday girl, then?’ Margaret asked.

&nb
sp; ‘Playing with her new toys in the lounge,’ Juliette answered. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

  ‘Let me take your coats,’ Morton said to Margaret and Jim. ‘Then go and take a seat in the kitchen for dinner.’

  Morton used the time hanging the two coats to try and settle his breathing. He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead onto Jim’s wax jacket, trying to will the surging adrenalin to subside. He took a long breath, counted to ten, then entered the kitchen cheerfully.

  He could not help but smile at what was unfolding before him, as conversations had sprung ablaze which bridged family boundaries and divided the sexes: Laura, Juliette and Margaret were discussing the weather; Jack, Jim and George were comparing travel anecdotes about flights and about traffic jams. His family had, in those potentially awkward few moments, unitedly placed a seal over the single precise reason which had brought them together. Whether that seal was temporary, or whether the past would return during the meal, time alone would tell.

  ‘So,’ Juliette announced, ferrying the final dishes to the table, ‘I’ve made a couple of salads, some garlic bread, a creamy courgette lasagne and a beef lasagne—so, please, help yourselves.’

  Whilst everyone offered their gratitude to Juliette, who plopped herself down between Grace and Laura, Morton stood back in horror, taking stock of the seating arrangements, which a psychologist would have been elated to have analysed. The men had seated themselves on one side, with the women, including Grace, on the other. Just one seat remained—that at the head of the table—positioned appallingly as arbiter between both of his biological parents. It was a surreal moment for him and one that he had thought would never happen; so normal, and yet, so very not normal.

  The plates and dishes of food were passed with polite exchanges, crossing the table until everybody had sufficient on their plates to begin eating.

  Juliette deftly broke a short moment of silence by saying, ‘So, Morton said that you’ve visited England before. Did you manage to get down to Cornwall?’

  Morton was impressed at how her astute question had pulled Laura, George and Jim into one conversation. Now it was his turn to do the same with Jack and Margaret. Except, he did not know what to say. As he forked a heap of lasagne into his mouth, he deliberated over what they could talk about. If he asked either of them about their lives back home, then it was directly excluding the other, or presuming a mutual interest. The only common intersection between their lives, of which he could think, was the very thing about which nobody wanted to speak. He chewed slowly, taking a quick glance to each side. Both of them were eating, listening in with detached smiles to the conversation at the other end of the table. They were speaking about Cadgwith, the picturesque fishing village where Jim and Margaret lived. Morton tried to think of something which latched on to their conversation thread, but which he could pull back and make just between the three of them. But the moment passed.