‘Hello, what can I do for you?’ the man asked, a strong Southern Irish accent pushing through his dry lips.
‘Hi,’ Morton said. ‘I’ve got a question about the Home Circuit Assizes…’ He explained his problem, probably with unnecessary detail about the trial of the Aldington Gang smugglers.
The man listened without interruption, then tapped into his computer. He nodded at something on-screen, then faced Morton. ‘So, Lent comes first, then Summer, then Special. If the Lent Assizes took place in March 1827, then you’re probably looking at the Special for 1826—not 1827.’
‘But the trial took place in January 1827,’ Morton said.
‘But the thing is, the Assizes didn’t happen in one day. They might have gone on for five or six weeks, depending on the number of defendants. What you need to remember is that the Assizes were paid for by central government, so local magistrates would happily pass lots of cases to the Assizes to save local money.’
‘Right, I see. So you think it will be late 1826 into early 1827?’
‘That’s right. Special in the case of the Assizes usually just meant Winter.’
‘I’ll give that a try, then,’ Morton said, standing. ‘Thank you.’
‘You’re very welcome.’ Morton turned to leave when the man added, ‘Have you tried looking for your smugglers in the letters which went between the Board of Customs and Excise and the various South-Eastern ports?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Morton answered, being not aware of such documents.
‘It’s possible they’ll mention smuggling. One second,’ the man said, looking up the details on his computer. ‘Yes, there’s a volume specifically for letters to and from the town of Dover. End of 1826, was it?’
‘That’s right,’ Morton confirmed, watching as he scribbled the information onto a piece of scrap paper—CUST 54/56.
‘There you go. Worth a shot,’ the man said, handing him the paper.
Morton thanked him and returned to Jack. ‘He thinks we should order the Special for 1826 because it was probably the winter session, which ran into early 1827. He’s also given me something else which might have mentioned the smugglers.’
‘Excellent,’ Jack said. ‘I’ve just been through this again and there’s definitely no mention of the group.’
‘Could you bind it back up again, then take it back for me, please? I’ll get these items ordered.’
‘Sure thing.’
While Jack warily rerolled and bound the file, Morton headed to one of the computer terminals designated for searching and ordering. He swiped his reader’s ticket, then ordered the two documents. According to the reference number given to him by the Irishman, the file contained copies of letters between the Board of Customs and Excise and the Blockade Service, based at Dover.
Returning to the desk, Morton placed the Fair Agenda Book back inside the box and carried it through to the returns table.
‘What now?’ Jack asked.
‘Now, we wait for the documents to be brought up,’ Morton said. ‘That can be a frustrating part about following a lead: the thirty-to-forty-minute wait.’
Thirty-two minutes later, when Morton scanned his reader’s ticket at the computer terminal for the sixth time, the two documents were finally listed as delivered. He and Jack collected them together, hurrying keenly back to their table. Jack eagerly turned to the bundle of Assize records, titled ‘Kent Winter Gaol Delivery 1826 Felony File’ and unravelled the packet.
‘This is the one,’ Jack said, excitement rising in his voice.
Morton craned his neck and read the typed text, ‘Kent. Gaol Calendar for the Special Gaol Delivery to be holden on Saturday, the 6th Day of January, 1827, at Maidstone before The Honourable Sir James Allan Park, Knight.’ Morton smiled and side-stepped back to the book of letters on his desk, only for Jack to call his attention straight back again.
‘Jeez, would you look at this!’ he exclaimed, unfurling the next sheet in the bundle, which rolled all the way to the end of the table. It contained the names of all the defendants and the charges brought against them for the special Assizes. ‘Seventy-two names!’ Jack drew his finger down the list. ‘And here are your guys: ‘Brought by Habeas Corpus—is that Latin for something?—from His Majesty’s Gaol of Newgate, charged with having been guilty of the wilful murder of Richard Morgan, on the 30th day of July last, at Dover.’
‘That’s them,’ Morton said, pulling his mobile from his pocket and switching on the camera. ‘Could you take photos for me, please?’
‘All of it?’
‘All of it; you never know what you might need later. Thanks,’ he said, opening the large book containing copies of letters from April to December 1826, the precise period of Richard Morgan’s death and the group’s eventual capture. Like the previous volume, it was large and worn, and arranged chronologically. If he had had the time, he would gladly have read each and every page, but, assessing that that would take many hours, which he did not have, he instead skipped through to the crucial period at the end of July. It took just a few seconds for him to locate the first entry: ‘30th July 1826. Enclosed it is our painful duty to submit to you a report from Lt. Hellard Divisional Officer of the Blockade Force on this station of one of the foulest and most deliberate murders that ever was committed in this or any civilized country. We have the whole of this morning been endeavouring by enquiries to ascertain what Public Houses were open late last night, and the names of the parties who were drinking therein and we hope tomorrow in co-operation with the magistracy of Dover to review them. In the meantime, should you think it more probable that a discharge of the parties engaged in this disgraceful and brutal transaction tonight be more readily effected by the activity and address of two intelligent Bow Street Officers, accustomed to deducing information from circumstantial points, we would appreciate that they should be directed to proceed without a moment’s delay to Folkestone and communicate with Lt. Hellard, who occupies the battery – the murder having been committed close to the bathing machines and consequently within the precincts of the Town of Dover-’
‘Got it!’ Jack declared, a little too loudly, drawing the attention of nearby researchers.
Morton grinned at his enthusiasm and stepped to the side to see what he had found. Pages and pages of handwritten text which, upon closer scrutiny, Morton found to be largely legal and repetitious. ‘Excellent. Let me know if you see Samuel Banister or Ann Fothergill’s name crop up.’
‘Will do.’
Morton continued reading the letter, which led into a summary of the murder by Lieutenant Hellard: ‘Casemates, Dover, 30th July. It is a most distressing part of my duty to report a smuggling transaction which took place this morning about 1am near the bathing machines, attended with the most deliberate act of murder ever before heard of on this part of the coast, the particulars of the case are as follows:- Richard Morgan, late Quartermaster, was sent by Lt. Thomas Hale with the coach dispatch to Townsend Battery at midnight on the 29th instance and on his return along the beach about 1am near the spot where he met his death he observed a boat in the surf, and addressing himself to the lookout man, Richard Pickett, ordinary seaman, who had charge of that station, asked what boat is that, and immediately ran forward with the lookout man, the latter pulling the trigger of his pistol for an alarm, which only flashed in the pan – Morgan then fired one of his pistols, when a party of smugglers armed with long duck guns stepped forwarded from the main body of their party, and fired in a volley at them, by which Morgan was shot in the left side near the heart, which caused almost instant death, there being three shots within three inches of each other, one of which appeared to be a musket ball – and I am of the opinion more wounds will be discovered when the body is examined before the coroner. Richard Pickett received several severe blows from the armed party, who after expending their ammunition assaulted him with the butt ends of their firearms and from his statement I fear a great part of the cargo must have been carried off, as only 33 half-ankers
of foreign spirits were seized by our parties. S. Hellard.’
Morton photographed the entry, then read through the letters of the following days, noting on his pad specific points of interest to be followed up at a later time. A substantial reward of five hundred pounds had been offered for the capture of the smuggling gang.
‘Hey, listen to this,’ Jack began, ‘…not having the fear of God before their eyes but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the Devil on the day and year aforesaid with force and arms…blah blah… gun of the value of ten shillings then and there loaded and charged with gunpowder and with three leaden bullets… blah blah… did then and there feloniously wilfully and of his malice shoot and discharge to against and upon the said Richard Morgan… three other mortal wounds of the depth of twelve inches each and of the breadth of half an inch each of which last mentioned mortal wounds he the said Richard Morgan on the day and year aforesaid at the Parish aforesaid in the county aforesaid languished mortal and languishing did live for the space of one hour… Then it lists the men charged with murder and then—’ Jack glanced at Morton with a knowing glint in his eyes, then carefully lifted the page, ‘—Prosecution Witnesses… You need to see this, Morton.’
‘Prosecution Witnesses?’ Morton repeated.
Jack pointed to the page and Morton leant in to see a list of ten names—all of them unfamiliar, all except one.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘Samuel Banister was a witness…for the prosecution?’
Jack nodded. ‘I’ve had a quick look through and after each indictment against the men, there is a list of witnesses called by the prosecution. Unlike all the other witnesses, Samuel appears on every list, every time—like he’s the main guy.’
Morton frowned, not quite understanding. ‘So that effectively means that he testified against his fellow smugglers…’
‘That’s the way it looks, yeah.’
‘I wonder what on earth happened?’ Morton said, his mind running through a variety of possibilities, none of them settling quite right with him. ‘Nothing on Ann, yet?’
Jack shook his head. ‘No, but there’s a hell of a lot to read here.’
Morton was about to raise some of the potential scenarios which were playing out in his mind, when he recalled something that he had just read in the letters from the Board of Customs and Excise. He turned back a few pages, to the week after the murder of Richard Morgan and re-read part of one letter: ‘...we are informed that the officer from Bow Street has been on the coast some days last week, endeavouring to get depositions to some of the material facts and that although he had not succeeded to the extent desired, something has been elicited which gave him hopes on the eventual discovery of the identity of the murderer…it is with regret we have seen for years the little effect of rewards offered for the discovery of offenders and we would like as a further inducement, a promise of protection for the informer, as he has no alternative but that of quitting the county when his name is known, or else he must fall as sacrifice to the vengeance of the smugglers generally on it being ascertained in what part of England he is.’
Two things struck Morton about the letter. One, was that the writer of the letter seemed to suggest that the Bow Street officer had found a specific informant but was seeking a promise of his protection. Was it too much to wonder if that informer had been Samuel Banister and that, following the trial, he was offered protection and the help to disappear? But why would he turn on his fellow smugglers in the first place, and be prepared to leave his wife and children behind in the proposed anonymity? He recalled Ann’s letter of 1827, where she had written something along the lines of ‘tell me how you have settled out there.’ It had not read as though she had been referring to another town or county, but rather a different country. At this stage, it was purely speculation, but very much worthy of further investigation. The second thought which struck Morton, was the involvement of an officer from Bow Street. Although he was no expert in this area, he knew that they had been the forerunners of the modern police force, operating out of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court in Westminster.
He glanced down to pick up his reader’s ticket and saw that it was sitting beside Jack’s. A warm proud feeling rested on him, as he stared at the two cards. The colour headshots, taking up a third of the right-hand side of each card, clearly showed that they were related. The same face shape and hairline; the same chestnut-brown eyes, with a hint at potential mischief; the same strong jawline. Evidence of their dissimilarities were largely those unavoidable traces of aging, which featured more prominently on Jack’s picture. The other difference—their names—seemed, now that he was looking at them more closely in large white letters, to dominate the cards. Perhaps a casual passer-by, upon seeing the cards sitting side by side would actually not think the two men related at all: ‘Mr Morton Farrier’ and ‘Prof. Harley Jacklin.’ His gaze switched dolefully between the two names, as he half-heartedly wished that they shared the same surname. Bizarrely, he had never really thought about the implications of that difference before now. ‘Morton Jacklin,’ he mouthed silently, the two words with one fewer syllable somehow sounding clunky together, unnatural.
‘Pardon me?’ Jack said.
‘Oh…’ Morton said, embarrassed, and hoping to goodness that Jack had not heard him. ‘I was just talking to myself about what to do next.’ He hastily reached down for his reader’s ticket and hurried to the computer terminal, typing ‘Bow Street’ into the search engine. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-two records were listed as having a reference to Bow Street. Morton filtered the results by date to the nineteenth century, quartering the number of suggestions. He quickly noticed that all of the relevant documents—correspondence, court registers, extradition ledgers, gaoler’s records, applications for warrants, accounts—were held at the London Metropolitan Archives. He looked at the clock; there was no way that they would have the time—at least an hour—to travel across London to the LMA building in Clerkenwell. It would have to wait.
Morton typed a new search term into the box: Ramillies.
The search results—two hundred and fifty-nine for the nineteenth century—comprised mainly of ships’ logs, muster rolls and letters from the captain. More irrelevant results appeared further down the list including, Morton noted, a convict register from the 1860s when the ship was used to transport prisoners out to Australia.
Having spent a few minutes filtering and fine-tuning the results, he placed an order for the ships’ logs for the last quarter of 1826, the captain’s log 1825-1830, and letters from the captain, 1826.
‘Everything okay?’ Jack asked, when Morton returned.
‘Yep, I was just jumping ahead to the next step. Any new developments?’
Jack screwed up his nose, placed a finger on the document as a place-holder, then looked at Morton. ‘Not really, no. It’s just pages and pages of the indictments being read against all of those guys. Samuel Banister still seems to be the most important witness; but no mention of Ann, I’m afraid.’
‘Let’s finish with these records, then go and get some lunch. By that time the stuff I’ve just ordered will be up.’
‘Great,’ Jack replied, ‘I sure could use a coffee right now.’
‘Me too,’ Morton agreed, settling back to reading the letters to and from the Board of Customs and Excise.
For the next thirty-five minutes, Morton silently worked through the book, occasionally scribbling a note on his pad and intermittently reaching for his mobile, which he and Jack were sharing to photograph their respective documents. There had been no mention of Ann, Samuel or the Aldington Gang specifically, although various smuggling incidents along the Kent and Sussex coasts had been reported. Jack completed the Felony File moments after Morton had finished with his book of letters. Having returned them, they gathered their belongings and descended to the ground floor.
‘Café or restaurant?’ Jack asked, his eyes flitting between the two possible outlets, both of which o
pened onto a spacious seating area.
‘I think Juliette might be cooking something tonight, so we probably should just use the café.’
‘Sure, let’s not get into trouble.’
They strolled across the wide space, dotted with chairs and tables, to the small café across from the bookshop. Two elderly ladies, engrossed in conversation, were queuing in front of them.
‘What are you having?’ Jack asked, pulling a bulging black wallet from his back pocket, as he squinted up at the menu board.
‘I’ll get these,’ Morton insisted. ‘You’re slaving for me, after all.’
Jack grinned, still holding his wallet uncertainly and gazing at the menu. ‘I’m loving it.’
Morton turned to him with a frown, unsure if he was being sarcastic. ‘Yeah, I bet.’
‘No, really,’ he insisted, meeting his eyes. ‘I can see why you love this job. It’s like you’re a detective, lifting the slabs of history to dig down to the truth—it’s very similar to my job… I think you might just have inherited my tenacity.’
If such a personality trait were hereditary, then he supposed Jack was correct; he certainly would never have described his Aunty Margaret as ‘tenacious’.
‘Can I help?’ a pasty-faced young man asked, barely looking at them.
‘Two large coffees, please,’ Morton ordered. ‘And I’d like the goat’s cheese panini and—’ he faced Jack, ‘—what did you want to eat?’
‘I’ll have the same, please,’ he answered, freeing a twenty-pound note from his wallet and passing it over the counter to the pale man.
‘Thanks,’ Morton said.
‘No problem, son,’ Jack replied, placing his hand on Morton’s shoulder.
His hand stayed there, although its initial weight quickly waned, and Morton took a surreptitious glance to the side to see if it still remained there. It did, leaving him wondering if Jack was consciously keeping it there, perhaps as a manifestation of his pride, or whether perhaps it had been a mechanical action of which he had not really been aware.
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 24
