He fast-forwarded the film, pausing at several intervals to check the dates, until he reached the edition of Saturday 5th August 1826. Morton sat up, moving closer to the screen and began to draw the plate slowly down the page, before winding to the next. Three pages in, he found the story under the caption, ‘Murder of Richard Morgan.’ He zoomed into the story and began to read: ‘A sanguinary affair, which has excited a strong sensation in every circle, occurred here on Sunday morning, about one o’clock. A smuggling galley arrived off the Marine Parade, opposite the bathing machine stand; the precautionary signals being exchanged between the persons in the boat and the party on the beach who were there in readiness to work the goods, the boat bumped ashore, and was surrounded by a vast number of men, who immediately commenced carrying away the tubs. Morgan, who was a first-class quartermaster, at that moment doing his rounds, came up but he was threatened by the smugglers with instant death if he attempted to give any alarm; regardless of the threatening, he fired his pistol as a signal, and the smugglers immediately shot him—he uttered an ejaculatory “Lord, look down upon me!” but never spoke more. The report of the firing brought down the lieutenant and a party of the blockade men to the spot, who removed him to a boat-house near at hand, and procured a surgeon, but he expired about twenty minutes after receiving his death wound. The smugglers were pursued by a party, but on account of their number, and consequently being lightly loaded, they got clear off. Their number was estimated at about 200 men, and they are stated to have been remarked coming into town from the country at a late hour. An inquest was held on the body on Monday before J. Finnis, Esq. and the jury brought in a verdict of “Wilful murder, against some person or persons unknown.” Five hundred pounds reward is offered for their apprehension.’
Without bothering to ask if the Mormons, or anyone else for that matter, held the copyright for the newspapers, Morton pulled out his mobile phone and discreetly took some shots of the screen, then pushed the film on in search of the inevitable capture of Ransley’s gang.
It had not taken long. The newspaper reported the end of the Aldington Gang in the edition of 17th October 1826: ‘THE ALDINGTON GANG—The leader of the unfortunate group of men, who were rounded up from the village of Aldington, has been revealed as George Ransley. As stated by our correspondent, Ransley and his gang were conveyed in the first instant on board the Ramillies guard ship, and yesterday morning they arrived in the Antelope tender at Deptford, where they were delivered over to the Officers of Police, in waiting for them, and immediately escorted to Bow Street. The greatest anxiety was evinced by the public to be present at their examination; but it was conducted in a strictly private manner, and the prisoners were afterwards conveyed to the prison in Cold Bath Fields; it may therefore be inferred that they are not as yet committed for trial. The apprehension of these men, will, it is to be hoped, put a stop to those sanguinary conflicts, which have taken place on the Kent and Sussex coasts for many dreadful months.’
Morton took a photograph of the story, less subtly this time.
He wound the film on, searching for mention of the trial. Several weeks’ editions passed with no further mention of the smuggling gang.
When a stream of black film passed across the screen, followed by ‘1827’ in stark white, Morton looked at the time. He had a maximum of half an hour left.
He fidgeted in his seat, then sat up straight, trying to force himself to concentrate harder, but it was pointless; he had to do the job thoroughly.
When he found the trial in the 13th January 1827 issue, he had almost no time left to read the story. He quickly read the opening paragraph: ‘TRIAL OF THE ALDINGTON SMUGGLERS. Yesterday, at Maidstone, came on the trial of the persons committed on the charges in the above affair. Immediately on the Court being opened, ten individuals, viz, George Ransley, Samuel Bailey, Thomas Denard, Thomas Gilham, James Hogben, James Smeed, Richard Wire, Thomas Wheeler, Richard Higgins, and William Wire, were placed at the bar, and arraigned for the murder of Quartermaster Richard Morgan, on the beach at Dover on the night of the 13th of July last—to which they severally pleaded Not Guilty…’ The article went on with several further indictments against the men for breaking revenue laws and unlawfully assembling with firearms on numerous occasions in 1826. Morton hurriedly photographed the story, then rewound and boxed the film.
He just had time for one final thing: he opened his laptop and ran a search for George Ransley on the National Archives website. Zero results. When he searched instead for the Kent Assizes, he received more than a thousand results. A trip to the National Archives seemed to be in order.
‘Thank you,’ Morton said to Amber, placing the microfilm box on the desk in front of her.
‘Oh, you’re very welcome. Hope to see you again soon.’
Morton walked up the steps to his house feeling a welcome sense of calm that everything was okay in the world; in his world, at least.
‘Dadda!’ Grace called, scuttling along the corridor at a somewhat bewildering pace for a crawl. ‘Dadda!’ She reached his feet and hauled herself up, grappling with the folds and ripples in his jeans.
He reached down and picked her up, planting a big kiss on her cheek. ‘Hello, darling. Have you been a good girl for Mummy?’ he asked and, seeing Juliette appearing from the kitchen, placed great emphasis on the final word.
‘No!’ Grace answered with a comical frown.
Morton’s amused eyes and mild laughter met with Juliette’s.
‘Yes, we’ve learned another new word today,’ she said through a fixed smile. ‘Do you want some lunch? No. Shall we go home now and play? No. Let’s go and change your nappy. No.’ She held her smile, directing it towards Morton. ‘So now we can say “Dadda”, “doggy”, “Gandpa” and now the word that we won’t hear the end of until she leaves home, “no”.’
Morton carried Grace towards Juliette and kissed her on the lips. ‘You wait—her next words will be “yes, Mummy”.’
Juliette rolled her eyes and headed back into the kitchen. ‘Drink?’
‘Coffee, please,’ he replied.
‘Are we ready for the party tomorrow?’ Juliette asked, the severe doubt in her tone answering her own question. She took the mugs from the cupboard and looked at him for an answer.
‘I think so. We’ve bought the food…the house is reasonably tidy…we’ve invited people…we’ve got a cake. She’s going to be one; it isn’t the time—yet—for fancy venues, magicians and entertainers.’
‘I know,’ Juliette agreed. ‘But still, people have come a long way to stand around just eating sandwiches and crisps.’
‘They’re coming to see my little Grace,’ he said, stroking her hair. Juliette was right, of course. A lot of people had travelled a long way for what would ostensibly amount to a simple get-together. Yet he knew, and was deeply grateful, that they were coming for a greater purpose: because they were family. ‘It will be fine,’ Morton assured her.
Juliette sighed and accepted his assurance. ‘So, how’s your day been? Did you manage to get much work done?’ She carried the two mugs of steaming drinks to the table and sat down opposite him.
Grace began to wriggle and point at the floor, so Morton set her down, and then began to give a brief rundown of his day. She then relayed the highlights of her day, ending by downing the last mouthfuls of her drink and saying, ‘And now I need to go and get ready for work. Joy.’
Morton watched her leave the room with a slight flounce. ‘Shall we go and play with your animals, Grace?’
‘No.’
Morton had just put Grace into her bed and was backing out of the darkened room when, simultaneously, his mobile began to ring in his pocket as someone was lightly tapping on the front door. He whipped his phone from his pocket and hurried downstairs so as not to disturb Grace. It was Juliette calling.
‘Hello,’ he whispered, almost at the front door. ‘You okay?’
‘Yeah, good as can be expected,’ she said.
‘Hang on a
second, someone’s at the door. I expect it’s Dad—’ he stopped himself short at his slip-up, ‘—Jack…and Laura, back from London.’ He opened the door to see their contented-looking faces. ‘Hi, come in. I’m just on the phone—won’t be a minute.’
They entered the house making polite apologetic faces.
Morton closed the door behind them and then returned the phone to his ear. ‘Sorry—back again. You should know better than to phone at bedtime,’ he joked, hoping that his blunder had gone unnoticed.
‘I know. I just wanted to ask something about this case you’re working on. You know that bit of paper you showed me that got ripped… Am I right in remembering that it said something about the Bourne Tap?’
‘Yes, that’s right—why?’
‘Just that there was an attempted burglary there last night and I thought I recognised the house name. Bit of a weird coincidence,’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it.’ She was making sounds as though she were about to end the call.
‘Hang on. What happened?’ Morton asked.
‘Er…just that. Someone was on the premises—chased off by the family Alsatian.’
‘Was he in the house?’
‘No, I think he was seen running from a shed. He didn’t take anything.’
‘Any idea who it was?’
‘Oh, we’re fairly certain it’s a man called Phillip Garrow,’ Juliette revealed.
‘How do you know that?’
‘The officers sent to investigate found a car close to the scene. Five minutes later Phillip Garrow phones—from home, he claimed—to say that it had been stolen.’
‘So…?’
‘Mobile triangulation actually places him somewhere within three quarters of a mile of his car when he made the call… So, not at home at all. It doesn’t need Poirot to work out that having been caught trying to break into the house, he reached his car on the other side of the woods, saw police there, then called it in as stolen.’
‘Have you picked him up?’ Morton asked.
‘He’s not been home since. I’ve got to go. See you in the morning.’
‘Okay, bye,’ Morton said, absentmindedly. He had forever been suspicious of coincidences and this was no exception. A stranger entered his study yesterday afternoon. The only evidence of anyone having been there was a ripped corner on a piece of paper, which mentioned the possibility of a bunch of coins being hidden at the Bourne Tap. Last night, a stranger was caught trying to break into an outbuilding at the Bourne Tap. A thought occurred to Morton and he pulled out his mobile and sent a text to Juliette. ‘Does Phillip Garrow have any previous convictions? Photo? Physical description? Xx’
Before he entered the kitchen to join Jack, Laura and George, Morton took a moment to try and think who this man might be. Phillip Garrow. The name meant absolutely nothing to him. Perhaps it was a coincidence, but if so, he could not force himself to believe it. Right now, he had no more time to give it. His mobile beeped with Juliette’s response: ‘No previous. Xx’
‘Hi, how was London?’ Morton said, strolling casually into the kitchen.
‘Oh, my God, it was just amazing,’ Laura enthused. ‘Wasn’t it?’
George nodded. ‘Yeah, really cool.’
‘Where did you go?’ Morton asked.
Laura blew out a puff of air, as if she were being asked to recall a long-forgotten excursion. ‘Buckingham Palace,’ she began, placing an American stress on ham, ‘Downing Street—’
‘What we could see of it,’ George interjected.
‘Yeah, I notice security’s been ramped up,’ Jack added.
‘Big Ben, Houses of Parliament, Piccadilly Circus, Covent Garden…’ Laura’s list faded out, as she searched her mind for anything which she had missed.
‘Don’t forget Oxford Street,’ Jack said, in his best attempt at an English accent.
‘I need to go back,’ Laura declared. ‘For like, a week.’
‘Well, now we’ve got family here,’ Jack said, a hint of promise in his voice.
It was minuscule, almost imperceptible, but Morton noticed George roll his eyes at Jack’s statement.
‘Have you eaten?’ Morton asked.
‘Oh, my God,’ Laura said, touching her stomach. ‘We had a huge meal—with cocktails—in some place off Covent Garden. Maybe a sandwich later on?’
‘No problem. Are you still okay to babysit, if I go up and see Aunty Margaret later?’
‘No worries, son,’ Jack said, giving Morton another shoulder slap.
There it was again—the word son looming large in the room with its myriad complexities and questions.
‘Thanks. Oh, Juliette’s dug out those old embarrassing photo albums from when I was growing up…if you’d still like to see them?’
‘Sure we would, let’s go sit down and take a look,’ Jack said.
Morton slowly pulled the front door shut, waiting for the soft click as the latch bolt was swallowed by the strike plate. A heavy coldness had descended on the back of the night’s darkness. He had not bothered with a coat—the Mermaid Inn was literally thirty seconds’ walk away. He pulled his arms tightly around his chest and headed up the unlit cobbled street towards the alluring warm lights of the pub.
He paused on the threshold and took a deep breath of the chilly air, then entered the lounge bar. Just as she had said she would be, he found Margaret sitting alone at a table close to the open fire. He observed her for just a moment. She had obviously made an effort for the evening, wearing a smart green dress, and had done something to her hair. She was holding a small glass of something and gazing into the fire.
‘Hello,’ he said, approaching her.
It took a moment for her to register that she was being spoken to. She turned with a look of surprise, smiled and stood to give him a hug. ‘Hello, darling.’
He kissed her cheek, fairly certain that she had never called him ‘darling’ before.
‘No Jim?’ Morton enquired.
‘Only if you want to be responsible for what happens when you wake him up,’ Margaret said.
‘No,’ he stated with a short laugh. ‘I’ll just go and get a drink—are you ready for another?’ he asked.
‘Oh, go on then. I’m on the sherry,’ she said with a chuckle.
At the bar, Morton ordered her drink and a large glass of red wine for himself. As he waited for the drinks, he glanced over at her, noticing then that the three letters from 1976 were on the table in front of her. As he pondered her thoughts on their content, his eyes moved to her and saw that she had seen him looking at the letters. She smiled, briefly, then turned back to face the fire.
‘Here we go, Aunty Margaret,’ Morton said, placing her drink down beside the three letters.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘What sort of a day have you had, then?’ She sat back, sipped her drink and waited, seemingly genuinely interested.
‘Well, I’m working on this peculiar case at the moment—’ he began, before she interrupted.
‘You do seem to get a lot of those!’
Morton nodded his agreement. ‘I seem to attract cases which are more complicated and—’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Yes, exactly.’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I interrupted you telling me all about the case you’re working on at the moment. I’ll keep my big trap shut this time.’
And so, Morton spelt out the fundamentals of the Fothergill Case.
‘My goodness!’ Margaret declared when he had finished. ‘I don’t know how you do it. And you’re thinking you’ll be able to solve it?’
Morton shrugged. ‘I can’t always. Sometimes the records simply don’t exist and I have to give the client my supposition based on what I’ve found. Most times, though, the answer is out there.’
‘Golly.’
They spoke more about his past cases and Morton enjoyed the feeling that she was understanding more of his life, more of him. Sometimes, as he was speaking, the realisation that she was his biolo
gical mother would pulsate through him anew, causing his words to falter and reddening his cheeks. He knew, though, with a pang of sadness, that however close they might become, she would forever see herself first and foremost as his Aunty Margaret. Perhaps that was for the best; he could never himself foresee a day when he would address her as Mum. Maybe after this weekend, where his, Jack’s and Margaret’s interlocked pasts had been confronted, they could all move to a new different relationship; what that might look like, though, he could not imagine.
Their conversation segued into Margaret’s speaking about her brother, Morton’s adoptive father. He had been proud of Morton, she told him, using actual detail which rendered it more than a banal remark, which he considered that she might have felt obliged to make.
‘He was very proud of both of you,’ she repeated.
Morton picked up his wine, took a sip and then clutched it in one hand. His facial expressions must have betrayed his anger towards Jeremy for telling Margaret about Jack, for she said, ‘You mustn’t blame him. Jeremy, I mean.’
Morton wordlessly fixed a half-smile on his glass, which he hoped said the words which he felt unable—or unwilling—to express.
‘I asked him,’ Margaret revealed.
‘Pardon?’
‘On your wedding day. I was standing beside him on the steps of Rye Town Hall, waving you off on honeymoon, and I just asked him if you were going to Boston to look for Jack, and he said yes, you were.’
‘Oh…’ was all that Morton could say. His annoyance towards Jeremy lessened somewhat, but there remained a lingering indignation that they had shared this information for more than eighteen months. Somehow, it highlighted and underlined the fact that he was adopted.
‘At first it made me quite uncomfortable—’ she went on, ‘—and the next day I was relieved to scuttle off back to Cornwall and not to have to think about it anymore… But, of course, that’s not how the brain works, is it? At least, not my brain! Then I thought, “Don’t be so silly, Margaret. Why shouldn’t he go and find him and tell you all about it?”. I was the first one to suggest that my friend, Sue, search out her birth family when she found out she was adopted… A bit different when it’s close to home, I suppose.’
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 19
