The chill from a flurry of overnight snow pervaded the early morning air and began to leach the heat from Ann’s blood. She looked at the closed door, then down at the key in her hand; a sharp feeling of disbelief that she actually owned the inn prevented her from moving.
‘Come on, Ann,’ she whispered to herself, her left foot stepping down into the untrodden snow with undue cautiousness, as though there might be something lurking unseen underfoot. She took another pace to the door, her breath reaching forwards as she raised the key to the lock.
A drift of snow, whipped and buffeted from the sea wind last night, gracefully arced upwards from the ground in a smooth curve, hugging tightly to the base of the door, as Ann turned the key and swung the door wide.
Inside was no warmer. In fact, there was a coldness to the air which carried with it a sense of permanence, despite the fact that it had been vacant for just a small handful of weeks. She glanced at the fire, catching a glimpse, through the open space, of the bar on the other side. The fire grate was unsurprisingly empty, containing just a small pile of ash and a stubborn chunk of blackened wood.
Ann stood still, twisting slowly around to soak up the place fully. It had been left furnished, but without any alcohol, something George Ransley had promised to rectify, as soon as she be ready.
Another smile erupted on her face; the cause of this one not being found in an amazement at what she had achieved, but rather in relief at the realisation that she was free once again. Free from the Aldington Gang, free from the Walnut Tree Inn and free from Braemar Cottage.
Small rippling echoes from Ann’s boots on the stone floor predicted her steady progress through the building to the wooden staircase. She shivered as she began to climb the stairs, all the while feeling as though she were an intruder. Upstairs were three rooms of a comfortable size. The vendor’s definition of furnished was stretched to the extreme up here: one room was entirely empty and with bare floorboards; another held a Windsor chair, a thin bedstead, dresser, wardrobe and an old threadbare rug; the third contained an empty wooden tea chest and what looked like a discarded mahogany table with three legs, which rested on the apex where the fourth leg had presumably once been. Somehow, the sparseness motivated and excited her all the more: anything she did to improve the place, any new furniture which she might purchase, would all be her own.
Ann returned to the room with the bedstead: her bedroom, she decided. It was a curious and strange feeling to have possessions, now. She had spent her entire life owning nothing at all but the clothes in which she had stood. Now she had an entire business and her own home. She stooped down to look through the leaded windows, but a layer of thick grime, compounded with the fresh falling snow, gave little view to the outside. She could just make out the indistinct movement of horses and carts as they rattled past on the busy Dover-to-Folkestone road.
Ann shivered as she left the room and made her way back downstairs. She stood, an elbow resting on the wooden bar top, thinking about her mother and what she would have made of Ann’s success. Her thoughts roamed the maze of indefinable early childhood recollections to the point when her mother had met Isaac Bull, the itinerant apothecary who had taught Ann the rudiments of his trade.
A loud rapping at the door startled Ann, flinging her memories back into the past. She hurried to the door and pulled it open. There, almost as a dark lopsided silhouette against the fast-falling snow, stood James Carter, squinting against the blizzard.
‘You be a-picking a beautiful day for this,’ he said, his voice echoing in the room behind her.
‘Shall we be doing it another time?’ Ann said, quickly standing to one side and gesturing for him to come in.
James shrugged, but did not move. ‘Now be as good a time as any…’
‘Let’s go, then,’ Ann said, waiting, as his one remaining leg did an ungainly jig which struggled to keep time with the swivelling of his wooden crutch.
Ann locked the door and followed him to his horse and carriage. ‘Do you need help?’ she called, seeing him struggle to pull himself into his seat.
James shook his head, grunting as he manoeuvred himself up and on.
Ann climbed into the carriage and pulled her shawl tight; their journey started with a fierce jolt forwards.
The ride to Dover was rough and bumpier than she had ever experienced. A deluge of rain last week had been followed by a dense freezing fog, and now heavy snow, which had left the usual deep ruts and hoof indentations in the road as solid as stone. On several occasions, Ann had been thrown from her seat and was grateful when they finally reached the quay, where the horse was brought to a standstill. She stepped from the carriage to see James tethering the horse to a large iron ring.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘I be...I am ready,’ Ann confirmed.
The blizzard, driving hard across the Channel, seemed much heavier here, concealing the long run of businesses which lined the quay behind a veil of white and grey. Ann led them by recollection, rather than by sight, over the cobbles, maintaining the pace of her one-legged companion until they reached a smart red-brick-fronted building. Above the door was a neat painted sign which read, Latham, Rice & Co. Below the name, in a smaller font was written, Agents for Hanover, Vice-Consuls for Russia, Prussia, Spain, Portugal, Sardinia, Sicily & Mecklenburg.
Ann pushed down on the brass door handle and entered a small, yet surprisingly busy office. Their arrival was heralded by a jangling bell just above the door. Six smart men, sitting at individual desks around the room, looked over at the new arrivals, all of them holding a fixed and mechanical rictus that appeared to be the standard greeting for visitors. Ann hesitated, unsure of which desk she should approach; none of the men appeared any more welcoming than the next. A well-dressed gentleman with a white beard entered the room from a door at the rear, carrying two large ledgers, which he deposited on the desk furthest away from Ann and James. The man at the desk whispered something to the bearded gentlemen, which clearly involved the new visitors, for he shot a quick look in their direction, before fixing his own smile likewise and walking towards them.
‘How can I be of assistance?’ he asked, mildly pleasantly.
Ann took a moment to choose her words. ‘I should like to speak with Mr Henry Purdon, agent to the Hanoverian Consulate,’ she said, hoping that her memory of the conversation with Jonas was somewhere close to being correct.
The bearded man frowned and took a lingering look between Ann and James. ‘I’m terribly sorry but Mr Purdon is currently not available. On what business are you enquiring?’
‘It’s about his friend, William Fry,’ Ann said, with feigned confidence.
The man clearly held prior knowledge of the name William Fry, for he emitted a mild gasp, which he promptly tried to conceal. ‘I see. Do bear with me for a moment.’
Ann watched as he hurried through the door at the back of the room, noticing then that their conversation had drawn the attention of all six men sitting at their desks. Some looked away sharply, others continued to stare.
James leant in close and whispered, ‘You be stirring trouble, Ann.’
Ann smiled. ‘I certainly be hoping so.’
Very quickly, the man reappeared at the door; another older man quickly barged past him. His plump face was flush but devoid of any visible emotion and, as he strode towards her, Ann could not tell how she was going to be received.
‘Come with me,’ he instructed, turning on his heel back towards the rear of the room. His voice betrayed no emotion, but it also left Ann with the distinct lack of choice in the matter.
The man held the door, waiting with an impatient look, as James hobbled his way through the office. With Ann and James inside, he slammed the door shut and said, ‘Who the devil are you?’
‘Miss Ann Fothergill,’ she introduced, in her best mimic of Miss Bowler’s voice and accent. ‘This is James Carter. And you are?’
‘Mr Rice, one of the partners here. And what do you know of William Fry
?’
Ann guessed, from the manner in which they had been herded out of the earshot of the other men, that she held some unspecified advantage, and decided to try her luck. ‘What do you know of William Fry?’ Ann asked. ‘That’s what I should like to know.’
Mr Rice exhaled as he slumped down into the chair behind his desk. ‘Only that that damned fellow vanished on the same day that half my bloody office were arrested.’
‘Oh, I see,’ Ann said, though she did not see at all. ‘And when do this be… when would this have been?’
‘Two months ago, or so. Do you know of his whereabouts? I’m certain he’s at the root of all these arrests.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ Ann replied, enjoying the haughty sound of her contrived voice. ‘I’m looking for him myself and I were hoping that Mr Purdon might be able to help me.’
‘Well, you’ll find him currently residing in Canterbury Gaol.’
‘Oh. What were he arrested for?’ Ann asked.
‘Fraud—like the rest of them.’
Ann quickly tried to assemble the pieces of information at her disposal to form a picture of what might have taken place. She had last seen Jonas around two months ago, around the same time that men from this office had been arrested and, under his alias of William Fry, Jonas had vanished. It did not make sense to her.
She thought of the last time when she had seen him. It had been at the Packet Boat Inn on a pre-arranged meeting where they had drunk rum together and made plans for another meeting the following week, but he had not shown up. Ann had left a hastily written note with the landlord and returned on several occasions to enquire if he had returned, but he had not. Her initial anxiety at his whereabouts slowly shifted to anger as the days since she had seen him became weeks. In the last days, however, the anger had softened again, allowing space for concern to grow inside her, as she began to fear that the worst had happened to him. Two days ago, she had contacted James Carter, the man who Jonas had helped to keep alive after being shot in the leg, to request his help in finding him.
‘It doesn’t sound much like we can assist each other,’ Mr Rice said, ‘so, if there is nothing else…’
Ann nodded in agreement. ‘Thank you for your time. We be seeing ourselves out.’
Mr Rice grunted something of a goodbye, then turned to the open ledger on his desk.
They left his office and, under the curious gaze of the men in the outer office, made their way out through the door onto the street outside, where they found that the descending dusk had brought with it two competing winds, which whipped the snow from the ground in icy blasts.
‘You be wanting a rum?’ James shouted.
Ann thought for a moment, then gratefully accepted and they dashed inside the warm inn, where James ordered them a rum and water each.
‘Well,’ James said, once they were seated. ‘That fellow be of no help in finding Jonas.’
‘No,’ Ann said, somewhat absentmindedly, still trying to assimilate the new information. The most obvious solution was one which she was reluctant to accept, that Jonas had swept into these men’s lives, garnered enough information to blackmail them, then disappeared, but not before informing the officials of their offences. This theory, though, rendered Ann just another play-piece in Jonas Blackwood’s game of self-betterment. She stroked her belly, as she took a long gulp of the drink.
‘How do it be back in Aldington?’ she asked, consciously shifting the subject.
‘Much the same,’ James answered.
‘You still smuggling?’
‘Bain’t got no choice. Course, I be driving the carts now, not lugging the barrels. It be that or double-hard labour bricklaying for half the guineas.’
‘What about Sam Banister?’ Ann asked, trying to sound indifferent to whatever answer he gave.
James smiled, a knowing look lighting his eyes. ‘Certain sure he be a-missing you.’
‘Really?’
James nodded, sniffed and shifted in his seat, revealing to Ann that he had something to say. He drank more rum, then asked, ‘You be with child, ain’t you?’
Ann thought about denying it but what would the point of that be? Everyone would know soon enough. ‘That be so, yes.’
‘What I don’t be a-knowing, though,’ James began, ‘is if you be escaping the father or searching for him…’
Ann met his eyes, perturbed at his perception. In one long swig, she downed her rum. ‘It be time to leave.’
Chapter Twenty-Five
2nd July 1825, Aldington, Kent
Samuel ran his smock sleeve across his forehead and glanced down at the small darkened patch of sweat which it had collected. He was in the children’s bedroom at the front of the house, staring out of the window. His gaze, almost unblinking, was fixed on a thin space offered between two large yew trees, where he could just make out the path which led from the road to the church. He sighed, partly from the intensity of standing in direct sunlight and partly through impatience, having waited here for what was fast approaching an hour.
‘Certain-sure, you must be a-thinking me a fool,’ Hester said, startling him. He glanced behind to see her standing in the doorway but quickly refocused his attention on the church.
‘What do you be blethering about now?’ Sam retorted, pleading ignorance.
Hester snorted. ‘Rose be a-telling me a thing or two.’
‘Rose?’ he repeated with a false laugh. ‘You be a-listening to a cotchering young barmaid?’
‘You bain’t not even able to take your eyes from the window.’
Sam spun around. ‘There,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘Now what do it be what you want to be a-saying to me?’
‘She be back, don’t she,’ Hester said, a matter-of-fact statement, rather than a question.
‘Who be back?’
Hester cackled a ridiculous raucous laugh, which gave rise to an instant nettling anger within him. His fury towards her swiftly overpowered any suggestion of her having the right to be questioning him. ‘Who be back?’ she mocked, frowning in exaggerated deliberation. ‘Who could it be what might be a-turning up at the church for the baptism of her bastard baby?’
Sam saw his own anger amplified and reflected in his wife’s eyes. There was no point in pretending that he did not know to whom she was referring. He choked back his irritation and said, ‘She be the one what saved my life.’
Hester rolled her eyes in contempt for this trite defence. ‘That be four year ago!’ she bellowed, then added softly but firmly, ‘I ain’t the only one what be a-noticing things…’
Sam looked at her with unambiguous disdain, as a crowd of virulent responses came to the forefront of his mind, vying to be spat from his mouth. He drew in a long breath and barged past her, knocking her backwards into the wall. He heard her gasp as he bounded down the stairs, through the parlour and out of the front door. She would be watching him, of that he was certain, as he marched towards the church.
A hollow sinking feeling instantly quelled his anger towards Hester, when he saw Ann appear through the church door with the baby in her arms. Sam stopped dead, the impetus and desperation to reach the church on time having abated: he was too late—somehow, he had missed her. Ann was standing in the stretched shadow of the church vestibule, staring down at the child. She casually glanced up, expecting not to see anybody, and so her eyes briefly returned to the baby, before snapping back up towards Sam.
They held each other’s gaze for some time, neither of them speaking or moving. Then, with a nod of his head, Sam walked slowly towards her.
‘That were a short service,’ Sam muttered, as he approached her, noticing her smart dress. He stood close to her, framing every detail in his mind, trying to work out what was different about her. Her clothes, undoubtedly. But there was something more than that, which he could not quite place—perhaps something in her eyes? She certainly looked and smelled fresh, clean and more attractive because of it.
‘I didn’t want anything fancy,’
she replied. ‘The vicar was good enough to conduct it without questions.’
‘About the baby’s father, you mean?’ Sam said.
Ann flushed with colour. ‘No, I be meaning about where I’m living… no longer of this parish.’
‘And what be the reason for that?’ Sam asked. When Ann merely shrugged, he proposed two of his own competing theories. ‘To be hiding the illegitimacy from your new parish? Do that be it? Or do it be in some way to do with the child’s father?’
‘Maybe it’s not either of those reasons,’ Ann said.
Sam knew from the look of resentment on her face that she was close to snapping. ‘Can I see the little one?’
Ann thought for a moment, then turned the baby to face him. ‘William Fothergill,’ she stated.
Sam looked at the boy’s tiny round head. He was sleeping, and his lower lip was protruding in a mildly comical way. ‘Fine-looking lad,’ Sam said, stroking the boy’s clenched fist. ‘Like his mother,’ he added, noticing the contours of the boy’s pronounced cheekbones and closed eyes. His hopes that this might be a subtle way to get Ann to reveal the identity of the boy’s father failed.
‘We must be leaving,’ Ann said, a curt tone to her voice. She pulled the boy more tightly to her and set off down the path. Sam observed then a new elegance to her gait, as he watched her go. Part of him just wanted to stand and watch her leave but another, more strongly willed part, urged him to settle the internal questions which had plagued him since their dalliance last year. ‘Do you still be looking for Jonas Blackwood?’
Ann stopped abruptly and turned. ‘What do you know about that?’
‘Carter be telling me you be wanting to find him. Says you be desperate.’ The words came out in a way which Sam instantly regretted, sounding critical and goading, not the curiosity that he was actually feeling.
The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) Page 26
