The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Since you are becoming such an expert in poetry, Ann,’ Miss Bowler flattered her, ‘perhaps it’s time that you wrote your own poem.’ Ann looked up with a look which must have expressed her abject horror at the prospect, for she added, ‘There’s no need to look so terrified!’

  ‘I don’t not even know where to be beginning.’

  ‘I don’t even know where to begin,’ Miss Bowler corrected. ‘What do you know of love, Ann?’

  Ann laughed in a short mocking way before she had even had the time to consider the question. ‘I don’t not…I don’t know nothing about love.’ She spoke the words like an embarrassed confession. She thought, for the first time with a hint of indignity, of the male acquaintances whom she had known in the past. Some had been isolated, others had lingered, but none had remained.

  Miss Bowler took this as a surprise. ‘Well, what about your parents?’

  And there, for the first time, Miss Bowler had shone a light on Ann’s past, inadvertently forcing her to reveal her background, or to lie about it.

  She chose neither option and said, ‘You be wanting me to write a love poem about my mother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miss Bowler handed her a piece of cloth.

  Ann paused to take one final look at her words, then cleaned the slate and sat with the chalk poised, trying to force herself to think. Her memories of her mother were few and, in truth, all came tarnished with a suffering and sorrow which she preferred to forget.

  Miss Bowler sensed Ann’s reticence and wrongly attributed it to her inability to begin the poem. ‘Allow me to re-read My Love’s like a Lily; I shall clap out the syllables as I read, so you can hear the rhythm:

  My love’s like a lily, my love’s like a rose,

  My love’s like a smile the spring mornings disclose;

  And sweet as the rose, on her cheek her love glows,

  When sweetly she smileth on me.

  Do you hear it?’ Miss Bowler asked. ‘The rhythm of the poem?’

  Ann nodded, dragging her mind out of the awfulness of childhood recollection.

  ‘At the end of the first three lines in the stanza, you have a rhyming triplet: rose, disclose, glows…but of course, for a first attempt you needn’t be so adventurous.’

  For a long time, Ann sat and thought. Then she wrote isolated words. Then she scrubbed them out and wrote a line. The next line appeared, as if by itself. The third line she found difficult to relate to the previous two and it took several attempts to satisfy her. Finally, she had written her poem. She checked it, made a correction, then passed the slate to Miss Bowler, who cleared her throat and then read aloud:

  ‘Sophia

  Life for you were like a wave

  So short and difficult to save

  Another minute with you I do crave

  But you be returning to the grave’

  She placed the slate down and raised a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, Ann.’

  ‘Do it be awful, Miss Bowler?’

  Miss Bowler shook her head. ‘I don’t think I have ever read a first poem so beautiful.’

  ‘Really?’ Ann asked.

  ‘Really, it’s lovely.’

  The sound of the street door opening, and the diffident entrance of two young girls to the back of the hall, signalled the end of the lesson, though Ann could tell that neither she nor Miss Bowler felt ready to stop. Ann sensed that there was more to be said; encouragement, perhaps, or a critique of her poem. For she knew that it lacked punctuation and, now that she had heard it read back to her, she disliked the word ‘returning’, thinking that it sounded as though her mother were some kind of a half-dead, coming and going freely to the grave.

  ‘Sorry, Ann,’ Miss Bowler said.

  Ann half-smiled, quickly trying to commit the poem to memory before wiping it from the slate. ‘See you next week,’ Ann said, standing to leave.

  ‘See you next week,’ Miss Bowler answered. When Ann had reached the street door, she called out, ‘Well done for today. You’re doing brilliantly.’

  Ann nodded, strolling out into the chilly late morning air. She walked briskly back towards Strond Street, her mind in a blur. Usually she left Miss Bowler’s academy with her thoughts spilling over with what she had learned, and she would practise the new spellings or a poem that she had learned, happily chanting them over and over in her head, or writing the words with an imaginary piece of chalk on her palm. Today, the elation which she had felt at writing her very own poem was dwarfed by the shadow of recollection of her mother and her past.

  Ann reached the street door to J. Minet, Fector & Co. bank and took a long breath in. ‘Good morning,’ she said pleasantly, as she entered.

  Mr Claringbould—she now knew him to be called—welcomed her: ‘Ah, Miss Fothergill.’ He bent down behind the counter and hauled up the usual ledger. ‘I trust we are well, today?’

  ‘We are very well, thanking you kindly,’ Ann replied grandiosely. Having raised questions with Miss Bowler over her interactions with the bankers, she had rehearsed answers and now followed the script perfectly on each visit. ‘And your good self?’

  Mr Claringbould nodded, seeming to take great pleasure in Ann’s clumsy attempts at formality. ‘Very good, thank you. How much would madam wish to deposit with us, this morning?’

  ‘Two pounds, two shillings,’ Ann said, placing the money onto the counter.

  ‘You have been saving hard, Miss Fothergill,’ Mr Claringbould said. ‘Well done.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ann replied. She shifted on the spot, wondering how best to ask something which deviated from their set script. ‘I were wondering…’

  ‘Oh, yes?’ Mr Claringbould said, looking up sharply from the ledger.

  ‘What be the chance of me buying a public house or an inn?’ she asked, quickly looking down in embarrassment from the snickering and derision which she knew was about to follow.

  ‘Freehold or leasehold?’ Mr Claringbould asked.

  She met his serious eyes, uncertain of his question. ‘Pardon? What do you be meaning?’

  ‘Ah. Freehold you would be purchasing—with a mortgage, of course—the business in question. Leasehold you would be…well, leasing it.’

  Ann continued to stare at him blankly.

  ‘Of course, it all depends on the terms of sale for the business, but…’ he looked down at the ledger for a moment, ‘I would suggest, looking at your current financial position, that you consider a leasehold with a mortgage—from us, of course.’

  ‘Right,’ Ann muttered, taken aback at the positive response.

  ‘Do you have a property in mind?’ he asked.

  ‘No, not yet.’

  Mr Claringbould nodded. ‘Well, speak with us when you do.’

  Ann grinned. A well-respected banker had just told Miss Ann Fothergill that she could buy her own public house. She thanked Mr Claringbould with an off-script shake of his hand, took the receipt for her deposit and left the bank, beaming.

  Although she walked slowly along Strond Street, her thoughts were moving fast. Thoughts about a possible future. It was high time that she moved on. Her current income was derived entirely from smuggling and, since the arrival of the Ramillies, the contraband runs had dwindled in both number and successes. At the Bourne Tap, previous circumspect murmurings and infrequent rumours that the gang might not be able to continue, were now—at least outside of Ransley’s earshot—openly discussed as the most probable outcome. The catalyst, however, for Ann, had been the incident at the Walnut Tree Inn last week with Sam.

  The perishable recollection—obscured and dimmed through the passing days and the dazing effects of the rum and water—was replaying in her mind, when something hard jolted into her right shoulder, knocking her sideways.

  Ann looked up to see two gentlemen in long black coats with black top hats and shiny black boots striding past. ‘Oi!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t be minding me!’

  The men’s snappish pace faltered, and they turned around at the same time.

&nb
sp; ‘Watch where…’ Ann shouted, before taking in the men’s faces. One of them she recognised as being Jonas Blackwood. ‘Jonas?’

  The other man laughed in the mocking, patronising way that gentlemen of his sort were inclined to do. ‘Jonas?’ he repeated. ‘Is this some kind of a trick?’ He twirled around, then faced her again. ‘Are you the distraction while someone picks our pockets?’ He slapped his arms down by his side and checked over his shoulder. ‘I should warn you that we’re armed with pistols.’

  Ann stared at Jonas, certain that she was now looking at the same man whom she had seen at the Bourne Tap, in Braemar Cottage and, dressed similarly to now in the Black Horse, watching Alexander Spence die. His eyes had widened slightly. Perhaps, she wondered, with a hint of conspiracy, he was asking—without asking—for her to pretend that she did not know him?

  ‘Do you know her, William?’ the other man asked Jonas.

  He shook his head with disdain. ‘Never met her before in my life.’

  ‘What do you want?’ the other man demanded.

  ‘I be wanting nothing from the likes of you,’ Ann returned, spinning on her heels and marching indignantly to the coach stop outside the Packet Boat Inn.

  She reached the stop and looked down the quay. The two men were now barely visible in the distance. Again, Ann found herself questioning what she had just seen, wondering if her mind were playing tricks on her; but, no, she was certain that the man was Jonas Blackwood, or William, or whatever his name might be. She did not know why she had allowed the other man to speak to her in such a way but there had been something in Jonas’s face—a pleading in his eyes—which asked her to keep quiet.

  The clock tower said that she still had an hour until the coach would depart for Ashford. As always, she had retained an extra six pence for a pint of rum and water before she left. This morning, however, she had settled her mind to bank the six pence and forgo the drink. But now that she was here, that firm decision began to crack; the unpleasant encounter with the two men mingled uncomfortably in her mind with the earlier fatigue of having trawled up her past in Miss Bowler’s lesson.

  Pushing past a drunk fisherman, Ann entered the inn and ordered a drink. She stood at the bar sipping from the glass, taking in the surroundings which she knew so well, consciously ushering her thoughts to the possibility of purchasing a place of her own like this.

  A woman in a grubby iris-blue gown with matching bonnet slunk in beside Ann. ‘You be a-looking for work, Miss?’ she asked, revealing her dark brown front teeth. ‘I got gentlemen what be a-paying a lot for a girl like you.’

  Ann smirked but said nothing.

  ‘Missy—I be a-talking to you,’ the woman persisted.

  ‘She’s with me,’ a voice said. ‘Move along.’

  Standing on the other side of Ann was the tall muscular frame of Jonas Blackwood. She turned her head back towards the lady and said, ‘I don’t be wanting nothing from you and your gentlemen folk.’ Then she turned to Jonas and said, ‘And I certain-sure ain’t with you.’ Ann picked up her glass and walked to the other side of the bar, where she found herself an empty table.

  The woman sloped off out of sight, but Jonas—or William—seemed to be less easily dissuaded. He paid for the drinks, saving Ann the need to evade paying later, and carried his pint of ale towards her and seated himself, uninvited, at her table.

  ‘“William, do you be knowing her?”,’ Ann mimicked. ‘“No, never seen her before in my life”.’

  Jonas smiled weakly, his eyes mildly accepting the rebuke. ‘I’m sorry. I think you know that my real name is Jonas, not William Fry.’

  Ann shrugged apathetically.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for not revealing my true identity. I expect you’ve questions for me?’

  Ann turned up her nose. She did have questions for him: besides the obvious ones, she wanted to know why a supposed gentleman’s expensive clothes did not quite fit him; why his nails were grubby and his hands more calloused than a labourer’s; why, when he spoke, his voice revealed subtle notes of both the upper and lower classes. But she said nothing and concentrated instead on tracing a fingernail around the rim of the glass.

  Undeterred by her indifference, he said in a quiet considered voice, ‘I’ll tell you my story and hope you might forgive me by the end of it. My name is Jonas Blackwood; I was an orphan before I can remember and was placed in a workhouse. The streets of London were where I grew up, labouring when I could, thieving when I couldn’t.’

  Ann softened somewhat at hearing how closely his early life had mirrored hers. However, she was not yet ready to show it; she continued to sit uninterestedly drinking her rum, wanting to hear more.

  ‘But it’s no life living on the streets, going for days without food…freezing in the winter…accepting any kind of miserable work. So, I travelled around, hoping that life would improve elsewhere…but a vagrant in Paris is the same as a vagrant in London—but with the added difficulty of not being able to beg in your own language.’

  His eyes locked onto hers with a warm smile, hoping, she suspected, that she would smile back. She did not: she held his gaze and held her tongue.

  ‘I used to look at the rich gentlemen strolling past with more money than they could ever hope to spend and realised then that all my efforts and actions had been focused on the present moment: I stole food because I was starving; I would break into buildings at night because I was freezing and needed somewhere to sleep. I realised that I needed to think more adroitly and act for the future, not for the present. So, I stole a gentleman’s outfit and found that pocket-picking was much easier if dressed correctly and speaking correctly. Then, a rather strange thing occurred: I found that I made friends among the upper classes. I was given things and offered places—grand places, at that—to lodge…for free. It was really most incredible.’

  Ann narrowed her eyes, her interest in his tale now beginning to show on her face. Most of her internal questions, though, remained unanswered.

  ‘And, as with any set of friends, I was told things—secrets. I observed dubious business practices, witnessed marital indiscretions, saw political impropriety; all of it giving someone with a mind for self-gain a great advantage and a far greater and more far-reaching reward than stealing half a loaf of bread to satisfy a desperate hunger.’

  ‘Extortion,’ Ann summarised.

  Jonas glanced over his shoulder, carefully taking in the room. ‘That would be the legal definition; I prefer to call it gentlemanly persuasion.’

  ‘I be assuming that gentleman what you was just with, and the folk around you at Alexander Spence’s hanging, all be to do with your gentle persuasions?’

  Jonas nodded in confirmation. ‘The auspicious Henry Purdon. He’s an agent to the Hanoverian Consulate at Latham, Rice & Co. and author of many dubious transnational dealings.’

  Ann’s own issues had still yet to be addressed. ‘Because why, then, did I be seeing you at the Bourne Tap and my mistress’s house?’

  Jonas reached out and placed a hand on hers. She supressed her initial reaction to withdraw it, finding odd pleasure in the contact. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. ‘Mister Banks—the owner of Court Lodge Farm, to which Braemar Cottage, among many others, is tied—is a friend of mine.’

  ‘So you be extorting him?’ Ann asked.

  Jonas laughed, squeezed her hand gently and smiled. ‘I’m merely developing and nurturing an acquaintance into a more advantageous friendship, let’s just say. The more I know about Mister Banks—from his friends, tenants and workers—the better our friendship could be.’

  ‘Happen it be very profitable if you be paying people like Mistress Banister for information.’

  Jonas appeared almost apologetic. ‘Acting for the future, Ann. You should try it.’

  ‘Happen I am,’ she said, her tone a mixture of defensiveness and pride.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I be having lessons,’ Ann revealed, surprised to hear herself blurting out her secre
t, and to him of all people.

  He raised his eyebrows, took a sip of ale, but inexplicably kept his hand on hers. ‘And what lessons might they be?’

  She went to say something fancy such as ‘Poetry,’ but it felt more appropriate to be telling the truth to a man like Jonas Blackwood, who had come from the same bleak place as she. So she said, ‘Reading and writing.’

  ‘Brilliant.’ He smiled, drank some more, touched his dark moustache, thinking. ‘You know, we come from very similar circumstances, you and I; you’ve chosen one path and I’ve chosen another and yet, here we are, together. Moving away from our pasts.’

  Ann sank the last of her drink.

  ‘Let me get us another,’ he said.

  Without allowing her time to protest, he made for the bar. She watched with growing intrigue as he ordered the drinks. Maybe it was a false warmth given by the rum, but Ann was finding herself strangely attracted to Jonas. He returned, setting a glass down in front of her, then slid back onto the stool opposite. She flinched momentarily, as his leg brushed against hers, and thought that he had made a miscalculation of her position, but no, he held it there, pressing it more firmly to her.

  ‘Happen you be back in Aldington to be seeing your old friends anytime soon?’ Ann asked.

  ‘Old friends—no. New friends—yes.’

  Ann took a large swig of her rum, then unhurriedly lowered her hand beneath the table, placing it onto her own leg, but cautiously raising her index finger so that it touched Jonas’s thigh. He displayed no reaction to her touch, but nor did he move his leg in subtle reproach. If she could not get herself a real gentleman like Ralph, then maybe a sham gentleman would do. Jonas Blackwood and Ann Fothergill: she thought they sounded a rather handsome couple.