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

He looked over his afternoon’s findings, having researched the three pubs of which Ann had ended up as the proprietor. According to the internet, all three—the Packet Boat Inn, the Palm Tree and the Bell Inn—had links to smuggling at some point in the 1820s. Most had been used as a muster point for the hundreds of men pulled from the surrounding countryside, a place to converge before heading to the beaches and retrieving the illicit goods. The problem was trying to link the three pubs with Ann; he had no idea when she had taken ownership of them. His research had confirmed, though, what the landlord had said: that a smuggling group by the name of the Aldington Gang had been active in the area in the 1820s under the leadership of a man named George Ransley; a man whose two cousins had been hanged in 1800 for the same crime. Even if Ann herself had not been involved in smuggling, she had certainly surrounded herself by the people embroiled in it.

He yawned again. It was time to stop for the day.

He turned to collect his mobile from the desk and, as he did so, caught sight of the photograph of his Aunty Margaret and his father, Jack, together. He had to ring her. Now.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled up her name in his contact list and hit the call button.

It was answered almost instantly. ‘Hello?’ It was her voice.

‘Hi, Aunty Margaret, it’s Morton,’ he said.

‘Oh, hello, love. How are you?’ she asked.

‘Good thanks. Erm… I’ve got something that I need to talk to you about.’

‘Go on,’ she said.

 Chapter Seven

Morton felt like he couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs to get the next sentence out of his mouth. ‘Do you remember what we spoke about on Christmas Day in 2014 when Juliette and I came down to stay?’

‘About your roots, do you mean?’ she asked.

‘Yes. You made me promise that I wouldn’t tell you anything about it,’ Morton said. ‘I’m afraid I am going to need to break that promise.’

The line went quiet and all that Morton could hear was her soft exhalation at the other end. It was her turn to speak, to say something. To grant him permission to break his promise or to refuse it and put down the phone. Not to stay silent.

‘I’ve met him. Jack, I mean,’ Morton blurted.

‘I know,’ Margaret finally said.

‘You know? How?’ he begged, his brain presenting and rejecting various connections which could have led such a crucial piece of information to wind its way down to his Aunty Margaret in Cornwall. ‘Jeremy,’ he spat. It had to be him.

‘Does it matter that I know already?’ she asked with a light chuckle. ‘I was just about to find out, anyway.’

It didn’t matter, he supposed. It had just caught him off-guard.

‘I take it there’s a reason behind you telling me now?’ she probed.

‘He’s planning on coming to Grace’s birthday party. I did try and explain that…’

‘And do you need me not to come up?’ she interjected.

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I mean no, not at all—I do want you there—that’s why I’m phoning.’

There was another short pause in the conversation before she spoke again. ‘Well, I don’t think it’s a problem but it’s something I haven’t given any thought to. Given that more than forty years have passed since I last clapped eyes on him, I didn’t think the day would ever come when I’d have to consider how I’d feel if I were to see him again.’

‘I understand,’ Morton said.

‘I’d love to be at Grace’s party, Morton, really I would. I just don’t know…’

‘You don’t have to decide now. Have a think about it. We’d love to have you there, obviously, but I understand that it could be a little awkward.’

Margaret sighed. ‘I’ll have a chat with Jim and…we’ll see. Anyway, how is my little great-niece getting on?’

‘She’s good, thank you. She and Juliette have gone to stay at Juliette’s mum’s for a couple of days.’

Morton shared some recent anecdotes of what Grace had been up to, before winding up the phone call. She said goodbye, telling him that she would be in touch with her decision.

Morton blew out a puff of air as he strode down the stairs from his study. He was relieved that the conversation was over, but the relief was tarnished by a sense of aggravation that had washed over him. He was irked that Jeremy had told her about having found Jack and questioned his motivations in doing so, imagining Jeremy’s gleeful face as he spilled the beans down the phone.

Morton poured himself a large glass of red wine, sensing that his glumness did not just stem from Jeremy’s gossiping; something else about the conversation had bothered him. He sat at the kitchen table with his head propped in his hands, gazing at his wine as he replayed their discussion. His spooling thoughts settled on the problem: she had asked him how her great-niece was getting on. Great-niece. Why didn’t she just prefix it with the word ‘adoptive’ to demonstrate clearly her steadfastness to their established relationship? Could she really not bring herself to say granddaughter? Since Margaret’s own two daughters had yet to produce any offspring, Grace was her first grandchild. Christ, but his family was complicated. When the truth that his Aunty Margaret was actually his biological mother had first been revealed to him, he hadn’t expected any shift in their relationship, largely out of respect to his adoptive father. But, following his death three years ago, Morton had hoped for some subtle change, particularly since Grace had been born. But no, she was the same Aunty Margaret as she had always been. It saddened him immensely to think of the physical and emotional distance that might always