The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7), Nathan Goodwin [little red riding hood ebook TXT] 📗

The barmaid turned behind her and yelled, ‘Dave!’

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline and potbellied stomach appeared with a tea-towel, wet wine glass and a slightly disgruntled look on his face. ‘What’s up?’

‘This gentleman wanted to know if the pub was used for smuggling.’

The landlord smiled at Morton. ‘The wicked trade—yes, it went on here. It was a kind of headquarters for the Aldington Gang—have you heard of them?’

Morton shook his head. ‘Do you know when that would have been?’

‘Around the 1820s,’ he answered. ‘They were quite a big deal at the time, so I gather. They used to meet here before and after landing their contraband on the Marsh.’

‘Interesting,’ Morton said. ‘Do you know any of the names of those involved?’

The landlord thought for a moment. ‘I think the leader was a man called Ransley. Other than him, no, I don’t.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re welcome,’ the landlord said, turning back towards the rear of the bar.

‘Where are you going to sit?’ the barmaid asked, pouring his wine.

Morton turned and pointed to a round table. ‘Over there by the window.’

‘Lovely,’ she said, handing him his drink.

Morton carried the wine over to the table and took a sip, as he mulled over what the landlord had just told him. If what he had said was correct, then smuggling was going on in this very village at the time when Ann had resided here. It raised a possible question: Was Ann somehow involved? He re-read the Kipling poem above him: Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by. Then, he tried to recall the contents of Ann’s 1827 letter. Something about life returning to the old quiet ways and the chance to leave behind the wicked deeds of the past. The landlord had just described smuggling as ‘the wicked trade’. Had Ann been referring to smuggling in her letter? For a woman so linked to the combination of trouble and alcohol, it was certainly a possibility to be taken very seriously.

Shattering the stillness of the room and Morton’s train of thoughts came the sound of his mobile ringing. He pulled it out and looked at the caller identity: Juliette. ‘Hiya,’ he greeted warmly. ‘How are my girls?’

‘We’re very good, thanks. Just been to the park with my mum and fed the ducks. Played on the swings and had an ice-cream. What about you?’ she asked.

‘Just doing some research for the latest case,’ he answered.

‘Here we go,’ the barmaid said, placing his plate down in front of him. ‘Any more wine?’

Morton shook his head vigorously. ‘Thanks.’

‘Wine?’ Juliette quizzed. ‘Where are you?’

‘A pub in Aldington—it’s with my lunch,’ he defended.

‘Lunch? It’s not even midday yet.’

‘It’s all in the name of work.’

‘Hm… I’m sure it is. What did your Aunty Margaret say about Jack coming to the birthday party?’

‘I haven’t managed to get hold of her yet,’ he lied.

‘Morton,’ Juliette scolded. ‘That’s ridiculous—stop dithering and get on with it.’

‘I’ve been too busy,’ he mumbled.

‘Well, find the time—it’s not fair on her. The party’s in six days, for goodness’ sake.’

‘I’ll do it,’ he promised.

‘Right, I’d better go, Grace’s eating stones. Love you.’

‘Love you, too. See you in a couple of days.’

‘Phone her,’ Juliette said, swiftly ending the call before he could speak again. He stared at his phone, thinking that he could do it now. He took a swig from his wine, still focused on his mobile. What was stopping him from phoning her? Fear of losing what little relationship they had? Another mother-figure gone from his life?

‘Everything alright?’ the barmaid called over.

The imbalance of his quandary polarised and he pocketed his phone. ‘Yes, fine, thank you.’

He picked up his knife and fork and began to tuck into his food.

Phil stood in the queue at the Post Office, fidgeting nervously. He rolled the small package over in his hands several times checking that the address was clear and the edges taped down sufficiently. When it was his turn at the counter, he sent the package Royal Mail Special Delivery Guaranteed and with a grand’s insurance, even though it cost him all the cash that he had on him. But there was more money coming. £1,120, to be precise. And hopefully that would just be the start of it. It needed to be, he was up to his eyes in serious debt.

He slung his hands into his grey tracksuit bottoms and walked out of the Post Office. He strode for a short distance before arriving at the bungalow. He pressed the bell several times repeatedly. The old man hardly ever heard the first two or three rings. He was probably asleep.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ Arthur Fothergill said emotionlessly. ‘You coming in?’

Phil shrugged. ‘Ain’t really got the time. Has he been in touch yet?’

‘Who?’ Arthur quizzed.

‘That genealogist bloke. Farrier.’

‘No, but it’s only been a few days. I’m just making a cup of tea. Would you like one?’ Arthur asked, pulling the door wider open.

Phil shook his head. ‘Let me know as soon as he phones.’ He turned back down the path towards the road.

‘You haven’t seen that guinea anywhere, have you? I can’t seem to find it,’ Arthur called after him.

Without turning back, Phil shook his head again and continued walking.

Morton wrote SMUGGLING in large letters on a piece of blank paper, looping a circle around the word for good measure. He stared at it, then added a question mark to the end. It was still just a possibility that Ann had somehow been involved in smuggling; the link was tenuous to say the least.

He slid his chair out from under his desk and stood up with a yawn. He carried the piece of paper to the investigation wall and fixed it up