The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘Oh,’ Morton said, realising the implication of what Jack had just told him.

  ‘A long time ago…’

  ‘Yes,’ Morton agreed and then, when he saw that Jack was turning back towards the car, added, ‘can I ask something?’

  ‘Sure—fire away.’

  ‘What’s up with George?’ Morton said.

  Jack smiled, seemingly not needing further explanation. He sighed and bit his lower lip, as though wondering how to impart whatever the problem was.

  ‘It’s fine if it’s because he just doesn’t like me,’ Morton said, not quite truthfully.

  ‘No, it’s not that. I don’t imagine he’s even given you the chance to know if he likes you or not. Last year, after we met up for the first time, Laura and I sat down and had a very long talk, which culminated in us changing our wills to benefit the both of you equally.’

  ‘Oh…’ Morton said. Suddenly George’s conduct towards him made sense. ‘And he’s unhappy about it… I get it.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why we kind of insisted he came on this trip—so that he could see what a great guy you are.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you to do that,’ Morton said. ‘You shouldn’t have…’

  ‘Yeah, I did,’ Jack countered. ‘It’s in no way trying to make up for the lost years, it’s simply that you’re as much my son as he is.’

  The words meant more—so much more—to Morton than the gesture and his eyes welled. ‘Thank you,’ he said, pulling Jack into a hug.

  ‘You’re welcome, Son.’ When they broke away, Jack said, ‘The best thing you can do is to ignore it; he’ll come around in his own good time.’

  Morton nodded uncertainly at the advice, fairly confident that if it had not happened whilst they had been living under the same roof, the intervening four thousand miles between their homes would give little opportunity for George to ‘come around’.

  ‘Shall we go get something to eat?’ Jack suggested.

  ‘Yes, let’s do that,’ Morton said, as they crossed back over to his car. While they waited for Laura and Grace to return, Morton pulled out his mobile, intending to send a message to Juliette about what he had just learned, seeing then that he already had a message from her. ‘Two officers being sent to B cottage tonight. You’d better be right!’ she had written, followed by a grimacing emoji and pair of kisses.

  Phil Garrow was sitting on the sofa in his grey tracksuit, with Katie’s laptop perched on his legs. A teatime gameshow was playing on the television in front of him, causing him to shout random words at the screen to the questions to which he knew—or thought that he knew—the answers.

  ‘Jesus, hurry up,’ he said to the laptop, as a pixelated map began to load on-screen. He had typed ‘Aldington Church’ into Google Maps and the computer was now struggling with his latest request to switch to satellite mode. ‘Japan!’ he shouted at the television.

  ‘And the answer is North Korea,’ the gameshow host announced, to a rapturous applause from the audience.

  ‘Pretty sure it wasn’t North Korea,’ Phil replied. The map finally loaded, and he zoomed into the farm adjacent to the church. There, among several properties, he found one labelled, ‘Braemar Cottage.’ The garden was long and widened out like a fan from the back of the house. He saw what looked from his bird’s-eye view to be a greenhouse. Then there was a children’s trampoline and a pair of thin wooden sheds. He punched the air with delight when he saw, at the far end of the property, some kind of an outhouse. He centred the building and pushed in closer to it. It appeared to have a tiled roof, which pitched in the centre.

  He might just have found the end of the rainbow.

  ‘Blueberries!’ he yelled with delight, just as the front door slammed shut and Katie entered the lounge.

  ‘What about blueberries?’ she asked, tossing her handbag onto the sofa beside him.

  ‘A kind of berry harvested from the bogs of New England,’ Phil revealed.

  ‘Isn’t it cranberries?’ Katie asked, flashing a look at the television, receiving confirmation of her answer.

  Phil picked up the remote control and switched off the television. He closed the lid of the laptop and stood up. ‘Can I borrow your car?’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘No, I’m going back out. I’ve got another shift in an hour’s time. I’m only home to pick Kyle up from afterschool club. I need you to babysit this evening.’

  ‘You’re joking me?’ Phil exclaimed.

  Katie shook her head. ‘That was part of the deal of you staying here rent-free that you did some babysitting.’

  ‘Okay,’ he mumbled, not really in a position to argue. It did not actually have to be tonight, but he was so close that he could not help feeling disappointed.

  The rainbow’s end would have to wait a bit longer.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Morton was sitting at the desk in his study, a low amber glow from his lamp lighting the room. Today had been Jack, Laura and George’s final full day and, since the weather had been favourable, they had spent it together, using the miniature railway to explore the Kentish coastal towns of Hythe, New Romney and Dymchurch. Morton had taken several opportunities in the day to talk with George, but each attempt had felt as painfully difficult and strained as speaking to someone with little grasp of the English language. Still, he had enjoyed spending time with Jack and Laura and filling in the backstory of their past lives. Since they would be leaving early tomorrow morning, they had all taken an early night, and Morton had used the opportunity to retreat to his study to work on the Fothergill Case.

  Having reviewed all the photographs taken at the National Archives, Morton had printed the key documents, which he was now analysing for any content which might give further clues as to Ann Fothergill’s connection to the Aldington Gang. He came to the letter written to the Admiralty by the captain of the Ramillies, Hugh Pigot, shortly after the arrests, and read it again: ‘18th October 1826. Sir, With reference to my letter of the 30th July last detailing the particulars of the murder of Richard Morgan, first-rate quartermaster, I have the honour to inform you that warrants having been obtained against the parties implicated – the same were entrusted to the execution of Lieutenant Samuel Hellard superintending the Right Division assisted by Jonas Blackwood and Thomas Nightingale, officers from Bow Street – and now have the pleasure in communicating to you the successful arrest of George Ransley and nine of his gang. I cannot abstain from congratulating you upon these men’s work, particularly when it is considered that the leader of this ruffian band has defied the whole Civil Power of the county for the last six years. I am most anxious to impress upon your mind my unqualified opinion of the energy, zeal and address and indefatigable exertion upon the present and upon all occasions of these three men. I further beg leave to acquaint you that the tender to this ship, Antelope will proceed immediately to Deptford with the prisoners beforementioned, accompanied by Messrs Blackwood and Nightingale in order to their being disposed of as the case may require. I have the honour to be, Sir, your most obedient, humble servant, Captain Hugh Pigot.’

  Morton studied the letter for a moment longer, before moving on to the next significant letter from Pigot to the Admiralty: ‘24th October 1826. Sir, with reference to the attack on the parties of the Coast Blockade, by armed parties of smugglers, and the murder of Richard Morgan, first rate quartermaster, I do myself the honour to acquaint you, for the information of my Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty that, following the investigations of Mr Blackwood, the Bow Street officer, a person named Samuel Banister has had several interviews with Lieutenant Hellard, superintending the Right Division of the Blockade, and offered to give information as to the persons actually engaged in the outrages in question. I most respectfully submit for consideration, that their Lordships may be pleased to authorise their solicitor to send for, and examine Samuel Banister and take such measures as shall be found expedient on any information this man may give. I have aut
horised the aforesaid Samuel Banister to be supplied with a small sum of money for subsistence, until their Lordships pleasure is known. I most respectfully hope that they may be pleased to direct their solicitor to discharge the same. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, Captain Hugh Pigot.’

  It had taken the Bow Street officer, Jonas Blackwood, little more than two months of investigation to track down Samuel Banister, who had willingly, it seemed, given evidence against his fellow smugglers. But why? The implication, towards the end of the letter, was that the reason had been financial. If Samuel had needed money for subsistence, then receiving the reward pay-out for the conviction of the other smugglers would have been life-changing. He looked back over the notes which he had made at Dover Library and saw that the reward offered for the capture of Richard Morgan’s murderer had been a hefty five hundred pounds. An online historical pricing website converted the amount to approximately £429,500: a fairly big incentive for a labouring man who had needed the help of the parish to survive. But that still gave no explanation as to why he would leave his wife and children behind, unless simple greed had been the reason.

  Morton’s eyes shifted to Ann’s name on the investigation wall in front of him, wondering how—or even if—she had figured in Samuel’s apparent shifting of allegiance. By the time of Richard Morgan’s murder, she was well into her tenure of the Bell Inn and he wondered if perhaps the Bow Street investigator had made enquiries there.

  He quietly moved around his desk to the timeline at the base of the investigation wall and began to add the information gleaned at the National Archives, feeling somewhat frustrated that no further connection to Ann Fothergill had emerged.

  Back at his desk, he briefly turned to the other aspect of the case, to which he had given little time: finding the father of Ann’s son, William. He logged in to his Ancestry account and, from among the many DNA tests in his name, selected Arthur Fothergill’s. Lab Processing, it told him, meaning that the results would not be much longer.

  Morton was startled as his mobile ringtone shrieked loudly into the air. He quickly scrambled to hit the silent button, hoping that it had not woken the rest of the house. Juliette’s name appeared on-screen. ‘Hi,’ he whispered. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Well,’ she began, and Morton knew that he was in trouble. ‘They sent a car and two officers to Aldington last night—terrified the residents there, who’ve got young kids—stayed until daylight with no sign of Phillip Garrow. How sure are you that he’s going to turn up there?’

  The truth was, he did not know how sure he was; a hunch based on his previous behaviour was all he had, but he knew that Juliette needed more than that. ‘Pretty sure,’ he answered confidently.

  Juliette went quiet. ‘Well, they’re there again tonight but that’s it and that was really only because the people living there were so scared.’

  ‘They didn’t park the car outside the house, did they?’ Morton asked. ‘Or make it obvious they were there?’

  Juliette tutted. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘They’ve all gone to bed ready for their flight tomorrow,’ Morton said, changing the subject. ‘And Grace went down well at bedtime.’

  ‘What are you up to, dare I ask?’

  ‘In the study, working.’

  ‘Okay… well, I’d better go. See you later.’

  ‘See you later.’ He ended the call, wondering if he had made a mistake in getting Juliette to involve the police. As he imagined the two officers cooped up in the outhouse of Braemar Cottage, with the frightened residents hidden upstairs behind locked doors, his hunch began to seem a little ridiculous.

  Morton continued scrutinising the documents from the National Archives and building up a shortlist of next steps that he would need to take. At the top of the list was a visit to the London Metropolitan Archives to search the records pertaining to the Bow Street officers involved in bringing down the Aldington Gang.

  As the evening pushed into night, so Morton began to lose focus. His tired eyes settled on the photographs of his family on the desk and, as he looked again at the picture of Jack and Margaret together in 1974, recalled what Jack had said—that Margaret’s father, Alfred, had been barely present during the time of Jack’s visit to Folkestone. He typed out a rushed email to Margaret, asking what Alfred’s occupation had been at the time of Jack’s visit, wondering if he had got it wrong about the clothing shop.

  A yawn, long and protracted, was enough for Morton to close the lid of his laptop, switch off the desk lamp and quietly leave the room.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, he was consumed by another great yawn and momentarily considered making himself a coffee but reasoned that instead, he should just admit defeat and go to bed. He switched off the lights and headed up to his bedroom. As he began to undress, his mobile beeped with the arrival of a text message. It was from Juliette and read simply, ‘He’s there.’

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  2nd August 1826, Dover, Kent

  Jonas Blackwood stepped from the private chaise onto the side of the road, taking a moment to observe the hectic passing of horses and carts, running to and fro in the busy port. He paid his fare and watched the carriage as it quickly became lost among the harbour traffic.

  He pulled out his silver pocket watch and took the opportunity of being seven minutes ahead of his scheduled meeting to take a preliminary look around. Behind him, across from the street and butted into the chalk cliffs, was the Townsend Battery, a station at which the Blockade Service maintained a night sentry with the sole purpose of preventing smuggling in this vicinity. And yet, past the long row of wheeled bathing machines in front of him, several hundred men had gathered here three days ago to receive illegal contraband and, in the ruckus which had followed, a first-rate quartermaster had been murdered.

  Today as that murdered man, Richard Morgan, was laid to rest, so it marked the beginning of a new case for Jonas to solve; or, at least the conclusion of an old one. As such, he was dressed in a manner befitting his office: immaculate black coat, top hat and spotless cream buckskin breeches. He had come directly from Bow Street Magistrate’s Court in Westminster, holding his tipstaff: the badge of his office, a hollowed tube of wood, capped with a crown. Bearing the most senior rank of police officer, Jonas’s power of arrest extended from Westminster to the four surrounding counties of Middlesex, Surrey, Essex and Kent, but despite this authority, rolled carefully inside his tipstaff, Jonas carried the magistrate’s warrant of arrest.

  Jonas inhaled, then coughed, as the salty air caught in the back of his throat.

  ‘Oh, dear. The sea is supposed to be restorative,’ someone said from behind, ‘not debilitating.’

  Jonas whipped around to see a gruff middle-aged man in naval uniform striding towards him.

  ‘Lieutenant Hellard,’ the man introduced, thrusting his right hand forward.

  Jonas shook his hand and said, ‘Jonas Blackwood, Principal Officer of Bow Street.’

  ‘I am most sincerely gratified that you are willing to offer an insight into the barbarians behind these heinous crimes. Blighting our damned coastline for too many years.’

  ‘Lieutenant Hellard,’ Jonas replied, ‘you will be receiving more than an insight; you will be receiving the men themselves—in handcuffs. Now, could you take me to the exact spot where the murder occurred and give me your version of events.’

  ‘I would be much obliged to do so,’ Hellard answered. ‘If you will follow me.’

  Hellard marched through a narrow space between two bathing machines with the striding gait of someone with a life spent in the military. Having made four or five further paces out onto the open shingle beach, Hellard stopped and pointed at the ground. ‘Here.’

  Jonas looked down at the area indicated by Hellard’s fat extended index finger. Being just a few feet above the seaweed-strewn tideline, the scene had been spared the intervening days’ tide changes, leaving an obvious, although minor displacement of the shingle. Jonas c
rouched down and picked up a stone the size of a squashed orange, the top being covered in the rust-brown glaze of dried blood. He placed the stone back exactly as he had found it and looked carefully around him. The beach, being entirely shingle, contained no footmarks or other identifying clues. Jonas thought for a moment longer, then stood and faced Hellard. ‘Tell me what happened, being as precise as you can.’

  Hellard nodded, then began his recount: ‘Around one o’clock in the morning on Sunday, Morgan had been delivering mail to the Townsend Battery—just behind us here—when he saw a boat coming into land. He fired his pistol to raise the alarm and he and the sentinel on duty, Pickett, ran down the beach, where they encountered a large group of smugglers. Morgan shouted for them to surrender but was fired upon with three shots from long duck guns, which hit him close to the heart, killing him instantly. Pickett tried to assist Morgan, but was clubbed over the head and knocked out. He’s woken rather insensibly with little recollection of the night.’

  ‘Surely Morgan’s pistol firing brought assistance from other men?’ Jonas said.

  ‘It did, but they had to get down from the Casemates–’ Hellard turned and pointed to the castle on top of the cliff, ‘—the tunnels cut into the chalk below the castle. By the time they got here the smugglers and the contraband was all but gone.’

  Jonas sighed. ‘All but gone?’

  ‘Thirty-three tubs were left on the shore.’

  ‘I’d like to see them. Where are they?’ Jonas asked.

  ‘Just over in the Townsend Battery stores.’

  ‘And thus far, you have no further clue where these hundreds of men went to once they left the beach? Not even in which direction they moved?’

  Hellard shifted his weight and pointed along the coast. ‘They headed west…towards Folkestone.’

  ‘On foot or with carts?’

  ‘Both,’ Hellard confirmed.

  Jonas nodded, his earlier involvement with smuggling rendering him certain that it was the Aldington Gang who were behind the murder of Richard Morgan. To arrest them, however, he needed evidence. ‘And their boat?’