The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Phil grinned, pocketed his mobile and switched on the metal detector. He began hurriedly to swing it along the floor, flinching as it beeped the discovery of each and every nail pinning down the floorboards.

  It took under three minutes to complete a full sweep of the room. Nothing but nails. But, he wondered, what if the void was deeper than the range of the detector? He got down onto his hands and knees, trying to see if there were any gaps between the boards, but there were none. He had no choice but to lift them up.

  Taking a long crowbar from a bag of tools which he had brought with him, Phil checked the floor and spotted a short board right in the centre of the room. Perfect, at least to get a look at what was below.

  Balancing his mobile on its side with the light shining towards him, he hammered the thin edge of the crowbar down between two boards, then began to apply downward pressure. An immediate sweat broke out on his forehead at the exertion. The board creaked and groaned and slowly began to yield. Phil pushed and pulled on the crowbar, giving it all of his energy.

  The board gave up with a sharp snap, sending Phil tumbling backwards into the wood pile, dislodging a handful of logs. ‘Shit!’ he said, rather too loudly. He sat up, grabbed the mobile and saw that the floorboard had lifted, but only from one end: he would need to do the same again at the other. What he could do, though, was to lift the board sufficiently high to get a look below. He placed his fingers under the board and lifted it up as far as it would go. It was not much—a couple of inches—but it was enough. He reached for the mobile and held it carefully at the edge of the chasm, illuminating the space below.

  ‘Wow,’ Phil said. The void was, he guessed, ten feet deep with brick walls and a brick floor. Against one wall was an ancient wooden ladder with several rungs missing. Directly below him were two large wooden barrels, lids on the floor beside them, revealing their contents.

  A noise outside made Phil drop the board back into place, thrust his mobile into his pocket and creep to the door.

  He listened carefully.

  Footsteps.

  Heading towards him.

  Somehow, it was Friday morning. The eight-day visit, which he had feared and desired equally, was almost over. Jack, Laura and George were in their respective rooms finalising their packing. Morton was in the kitchen, drinking coffee, watching Grace lift herself up by the table leg and take a few tentative steps, before she would fall backwards with a giggle onto the plump cushioning of her nappy, then repeat.

  He leant on the worktop, half-watching Grace and half-thinking about their imminent departure. No further visits or holidays had been arranged, or even spoken about for the future, and Morton could not help wondering if George was at the root of it. It saddened him that, having discovered a half-brother, they could not be more estranged. The ironic thing was that he had received a text message early this morning from Jeremy to say that he and Guy had found a place on Rye High Street, which might fit the bill for their scone shop. Morton was getting closer to his adoptive brother, who was actually his cousin, whilst his actual half-brother was becoming more distanced.

  ‘Morning,’ Juliette said in a scratchy voice, appearing at the door. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt and pink tracksuit bottoms. ‘Morning, pickle,’ she said, bending down and kissing Grace. ‘Have I got time to shower and put make-up on before they go?’

  Morton shook his head. ‘They won’t be long.’

  Juliette groaned and poured herself a coffee. Her shift had ended at 2am, and she had then arrived home and woken Morton to tell him what had occurred at Braemar Cottage, leaving her just five hours’ sleep. She yawned, as if to prove the point.

  Morton could hear low whispers at the top of the stairs and went into the hallway to see Jack and Laura with their suitcases, wondering how to get them downstairs quietly. ‘It’s okay, everyone’s up,’ Morton said. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

  Morton and Jack lugged the two suitcases down to the front door, joined moments later by George and his case.

  ‘Well,’ Jack began, ‘it’s time we headed to the airport. I just want to say thank you both so much for your hospitality. We had such an amazing time with you. All the trips out, food and, well, just spending time together… and we’re so grateful to have been here for little Grace’s first birthday, of course. Really, it’s been the best vacation…getting to know our English family…’ His words seemed to falter with emotion.

  ‘It’s a true blessing,’ Laura finished. ‘We couldn’t have asked for better family to discover.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks,’ George said, offering a vague smile. He offered his hand first to Morton, and then to Juliette.

  ‘Lovely to meet you,’ Juliette said—a lie, Morton presumed.

  ‘You, too,’ he replied, which Morton also took to be a lie.

  ‘Goodbye, Son,’ Jack said, pulling Morton into him. ‘Thank you so much.’ He broke away, adding, ‘So, it’s your turn to come out and stay with us. I want dates from you soon, okay?’

  ‘They don’t need a turn,’ Laura criticised, ‘they can come as often as they like.’

  ‘Thanks. You, too,’ Morton agreed, hugging Laura, whilst Jack embraced Juliette and thanked her again.

  ‘And goodbye to the star of the show!’ Jack said, bending down to Grace. ‘See you soon.’ He kissed her on the top of her head, wiped a tear from his eye, then opened the front door.

  Morton helped Jack to load the suitcases into the boot, then hugged him again. ‘Take care. Thank you so much for coming,’ Morton said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Jack said. ‘I’ll let you know we’ve landed. Then I want the dates of your visit!’

  Morton smiled, watching on as Jack buckled up and started the engine. After a flurry of waving, the car crept down Mermaid Street and, in a moment, was gone.

  Heading back inside the house, he closed the door to a strange quietness. Not silence, or even stillness, but something manifestly different about the fabric of the house, created by their absence.

  ‘Feels weird to have the house back to ourselves,’ Juliette said, having noticed it also.

  ‘Yeah…’ he agreed, uncertain whether he liked the feeling or not. He was certainly going to miss having Jack around and regretted what the huge geographical distance imposed upon their relationship. Having spent so many years unknown to one another, now the best for which they could hope were regular video calls and sporadic reciprocal visits. But that was not enough.

  ‘So, when are you off to London?’ Juliette asked. ‘Can I shower first?’

  ‘Oh God,’ Morton said, having forgotten that he was supposed to be heading to the London Metropolitan Archives today. He could easily have postponed the trip, but he had a feeling that, with just a little more work, the Fothergill Case could be brought to a welcome close. ‘You’ve got time to shower. I’ll leave when you’re ready.’

  Morton arrived at lunchtime at the London Metropolitan Archives. The building was relatively nondescript and always appeared to him, on the outside, like a 1950s factory. He entered a large open room on the ground floor and headed to a shiny red desk in the shape of a letter ‘C’, upon which was written in white letters ‘Information’.

  ‘Afternoon,’ he greeted the young man behind the desk, as he signed his name and History Card number into the visitors’ book. ‘Could I get a camera licence for today, please?’

  ‘Certainly. It’s five pounds. If you can just complete this short form,’ he said, sliding a piece of paper over to him.

  Morton filled in the necessary paperwork, paid the fee, then strode quickly to the Visitor Lounge, where he deposited his coat and bag in a locker and placed his laptop, notepad and pencil in a clear plastic bag.

  He took the stairs to the first floor, then made his way to the Archive Study Area, where there was another shiny red desk with the word ‘Collection’ in white letters. ‘Hello, I’ve pre-ordered some documents,’ Morton said to the lady behind the counter, who was youngish but w
ith incongruously long grey hair.

  The lady nodded. ‘And your name?’

  ‘Morton Farrier,’ he said, passing her his History Card.

  ‘Lovely.’ She spun her chair around, stood and moved to the long run of black shelving behind her. It was divided into neat oblongs, open at the front for delivery to the researcher and open at the back for loading from the holding rooms below. She stood for a moment, pacing up and down the shelving, stopping to check document references, then, when she reached a stack of several tantalising cardboard boxes, turned to look at Morton. ‘Any preference?’

  He hurriedly withdrew his notepad and scanned down to see what he had ordered. ‘Erm… Domestic Proceedings, please,’ then, when he received a quizzical look back, read the reference number: ‘PS/BOW/05.’

  The lady nodded, pulled out a cardboard box from near the bottom of the stack and handed it over with a smile.

  Morton thanked her and paused a moment whilst he looked around the room for a suitable seat. He found a spot not too far away, but with good light from the windows and vacant spaces on either side, giving him room to spread out and use his laptop, if necessary.

  The box, Morton found, as he carefully withdrew a great stack of sepia paperwork, was arranged chronologically. Each case was separated and bound in the top left corner by a treasury tag. When he had ordered the documents through the LMA website late last night, there had been a warning attached, stipulating that records from the earliest years of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court were incomplete, with some cases or entire years missing altogether. This box contained whatever cases existed from 1825 to 1835.

  The first case comprised just three pieces of painfully thin paper. Morton thought it amazing that time, mixed with almost two hundred years of handling by the public, had not reduced them to dust.

  His index finger hovered cautiously above the document, as he began to decipher the handwriting.

  Date of commencement: 5th July 1825

  Location: Woking, Surrey

  Nature of investigation: Rioting

  By whom directed: Sir Richard Birnie

  Principal Officer(s): Henry Goddard

  Detail: To take notes, observe and obtain information as to the names of the authors and ringleaders attending these seditious meetings. Requires silence, discretion and activity.

  Summary: Having spent fifteen nights in the town working incognito, I acquainted myself with many of the men involved in these riots…

  The description of the case continued onto the second sheet, naming all of the men believed to have been involved in the riots, and with information of the subsequent arrests. The final piece of paper was a breakdown of the £25 bill, the majority being spent on the Principal Officer’s time.

  The next case, directed by a private individual, Mr John Lister, was for an officer to investigate a suspected arson attack on his home, for which he paid £20 for the privilege of a suspect being arrested.

  Morton found himself reading with great interest among the case files—the murder of a parish constable in the Forest of Dean; a bank robbery in Romford; forgery at the Bank of Scotland; defending the King against pickpockets; food riots in Nottingham—to the point that he realised that he had become side-tracked from his actual task.

  He needed to refocus and just check the dates and nature of investigation of each case, before moving on.

  Working under these new parameters, Morton paced quickly through 1825 and into 1826, unhappily skipping over intriguing cases which the Bow Street Officers had investigated.

  He reached the summer of 1826 and sighed with relief; a case file did exist for the capture of the Aldington Gang.

  Date of commencement: 2nd August 1826

  Location: Dover, Folkestone, Aldington, Kent

  Nature of investigation: Smuggling, Murder

  By whom directed: The Admiralty

  Principal Officer(s): Jonas Blackwood & Thomas Nightingale

  Detail: To make enquiries, observe and take notes of sufficient detail to apprehend and bring to justice a barbaric group of smugglers operating on the Kent and Sussex coast, and to specifically identify and bring to justice, the murderer of Quartermaster Richard Morgan.

  Summary: I spent several weeks on the coast, inhabiting a public house popular with the lower classes, obtaining information on this most vicious group of men. I discovered the location of their suppliers and boat-builders in Boulogne, the names of the principal characters and ringleaders, as well as the place which serves as the nucleus of their operations. Herewith is a fair account of the arrests: At 11pm on 16th October, I proceeded with a party of officers and seamen previously assembled from Fort Moncrief, led by Lieutenant Hellard, and having marched in the direction of Aldington, reached that place about 3am in the morning. No time was lost in making the necessary arrangements, so that every house in which I expected to arrest a prisoner was surrounded by sentinels, nearly at the same moment. I then instantly advanced to the dwelling of George Ransley, the leader of this ruffian band, and was fortunate enough to get so close to his house before his dogs were disturbed, that he had not time to leave his bed. The dogs were cut down, and his door forced, when I rushed in and had the satisfaction to seize this man in his bedroom, having handcuffed him to one of the stoutest men in the party. I proceeded to the other houses, and was equally successful in arresting nine others of the gang, whose names I subjoin. On my return to Fort Moncrief at 8am, I immediately embarked the prisoners on board the Industry, for a passage to the Ramillies. Jonas Blackwood.

  Morton photographed the entry, then turned the page to see the names of the arrested men.

  George Ransley, aged 44 years

  Samuel Bailey, aged 36 years

  Charles Giles, aged 28 years

  Thomas Denard, aged 21 years

  Robert Bailey, aged 30 years

  Thomas Gillham, aged 22 years

  William Wire, aged 17 years

  Richard Wire, aged 19 years

  James Hogben, aged 21 years

  Richard Higgins, aged 22 years

  Morton read the names several times. It struck him as curious that, even though Samuel Banister had turned King’s evidence, he had not even been arrested, despite being the gang’s second-in-command.

  The next page contained an itemisation of the £55 bill, the lion’s share going to Jonas Blackwood, followed by Thomas Nightingale, then the next highest and final amount claimed went to the Packet Boat Inn, Dover—presumably where Jonas had stayed whilst conducting his investigation.

  It was an interesting aside to the case but with no mention of Ann Fothergill, it did little to further Morton’s research. From what he could ascertain from the records thus far, Ann had taken ownership of the Bell Inn by this point in time and, quite likely, had little—if anything—to do with the Aldington Gang any longer.

  He placed the case notes to one side and continued looking through the box, taking interest in the range of cases which the officers had been called upon to investigate. He checked the rest of the files for anything familiar, pushing through until the end of the box, in 1835. What appeared to be the final surviving case file for Jonas Blackwood and Thomas Nightingale had occurred in October 1826 with their being summoned by one Mr Bull of Ramsgate to investigate a spate of arson attacks. There was no further mention of smuggling, Aldington nor, as he had expected, anything on Ann Fothergill.

  Morton slid out from his chair, stretched and then carried the box back over to the desk.

  ‘All finished with that one?’ the lady with the implausible grey hair asked, standing from her computer terminal.

  ‘Yes, thank you. Could I have the correspondence file next, please—PS/BOW/B/06.’

  She returned to the same spot on the shelving, momentarily checking the reference details of the top box, before handing it over to Morton.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, taking it to his desk. He sat down, pulled off the lid and, as he placed it to the side, noticed the screen of his mobile
light up with an email from his Aunty Margaret. He unlocked the phone and read the message: ‘Dear Morton. Many thanks for such a wonderful stay in Sussex—it’s always such a pleasure to be back in the area. So pleased that we were able to be there for Grace’s birthday—such a sweetie! In answer to your question, my dad worked in his shop in Folkestone – men’s clothing. Hope that helps. Take care. M xx’

  It was an interesting quirk of his Aunty Margaret’s, that since the revelation that she was actually his biological mother, she had taken to signing off text messages and emails with the letter ‘M’—as if she were the character from James Bond. It made Morton wonder if it was as close as her restrained personality would allow her to get to writing the word ‘Mum’.

  He re-read the last couple of lines of her email. No, Aunty Margaret, it did not help. He could see that he needed to be more specific, and do what he had been loath to do, which was to paraphrase what Jack had told him about Alfred’s not being home for much of the week of his visit. Morton typed a response, mentioning what Jack had said, then clicked send.

  He flipped his attention back to the box of correspondence in front of him. Taking a cursory glance at the loose letters, he could see that there was no definable logic to their arrangement: he was going to have to wade through each and every letter, scanning it for the usual keywords.

  After over half an hour of reading, he had got the measure of the box: the letters were largely appraisals of a case in progress, a kind of justification for the Principal Officer’s being out of Bow Street for days or weeks on end at a time. Some were extremely brief, others gave a full itinerary of each day of the investigation. So far, he had found four letters, written by Jonas Blackwood, dating from 1822 to 1825, of decent length to give Morton an optimism about what he might yet find.