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

He downed his wine and stood up, wanting to shake off his morose mood. It was time for bed.

Morton dropped his empty take-away coffee cup into a bin outside the Dover Discovery Centre and strode through the automatic doors. He recalled from previous visits the layout of the building and marched confidently through the Adult Lending Library to the Local Studies section tucked, as they often were, at the rear of the building. The area, comprised of several tables and two microfilm readers, was deserted. Morton paused to take in the various sections of shelving which lined the walls of the open-plan room. Family Research. Local Studies. Dover Collection. Oversize. He spotted that for which he was searching: Directories of Kent. He headed over to the shelving and scanned across the various titles until he found a run of several volumes of Pigot’s Directory of Kent. He needed to be methodical, to check every year of the period in question, until he had identified exactly when Ann Fothergill had taken ownership of the three pubs. Selecting the chunky red book, dated 1820, Morton sat at the nearest table and carefully pulled it open. It was arranged alphabetically, featuring the county’s larger towns and cities. Skipping through several pages, he settled on Dover, then ran his finger down the various services offered in the town at that time. Academies. Agents. Attorneys. Bakers. Bankers. Basket-makers. Baths. Book-binders. Braziers. Brewers. Bricklayers. He turned the page and continued checking until his finger came to rest on Inns. Packet Boat, Josh. Hoad, Strond Street. Palm Tree, Robert Griggs, Elham. Moving on to Hythe, the town in which the Bell Inn was situated, he found its proprietor to be one Henry Marshall. As Morton had expected, Ann had owned none of the pubs in 1820. Having made a note on his pad, he placed the tome back onto the shelf and selected the edition for 1827. The Packet Boat Inn had changed ownership to a John Finnis, while the Palm Tree had remained in the care of Robert Griggs. The Bell Inn, however, was now owned by Ann Fothergill. Morton smiled as he photographed the entry and scribbled the information onto his pad.

‘The Bell,’ someone said beside him with a Southern American voice.

He looked up, seeing the inquisitive face of a young lady with a staff lanyard around her neck, which read Amber Henderson. ‘They do a scrumptious bacon and onion suet pudding—making me hungry just thinking about it.’

Morton smiled politely.

‘Ever been there?’ she asked, squinting at him.

‘No,’ he answered. Time was ticking and he had wanted to make some progress on this case before Juliette and Grace returned home.

‘What’s your interest in it—if I may ask?’ Amber said. Keeping the page with one finger, she flipped the book shut and looked at the title: ‘Pigot’s. 1827.’

‘Yes,’ Morton confirmed, starting to lose patience.

She flicked the book open again and folded her arms, oblivious to Morton’s growing exasperation. ‘You know all about the bodies, don’t you?’ Amber asked cryptically.

‘Bodies?’ he repeated.

Amber’s eyes opened with delight and she hurried off to the bookshelves in the Local Studies cabinet. She plucked out a book with an inaudible mumble and brought it to Morton’s desk, laying it on top of the Pigot’s directory.

‘Kent Smugglers’ Pubs,’ Morton read, watching as Amber turned back and forth between several pages.

‘Here we are,’ she began. ‘In 1963, a builder made a gruesome discovery of two skeletons when he uncovered the back of the old inglenook fireplace. They were identified as being Revenue Officers because their boots, belts, hats and badges had survived. All were taken to the local coroners.’

‘Oh, right,’ Morton said, his demeanour towards her softening. ‘Does it say what happened to the bodies? Or when they were put in there?’

Amber turned up her nose. ‘No, that’s all. I’m not an expert on smuggling, but I guess that puts it to around the early nineteenth century.’

‘Smuggling?’ Morton questioned.

‘Revenue Officers,’ Amber clarified. ‘They were employed by the Admiralty to prevent smuggling.’

‘Of course,’ Morton said, feeling a little foolish for not having made that connection for himself. ‘Do you have any more information on the discovery of the bodies?’

‘The Folkestone, Hythe and District Herald would be your best bet—see if it made the local paper.’

‘Do you have them here?’ Morton asked.

Amber shook her head. ‘No, we’ve got a few old local papers, like The Cinque Ports Herald, but not for this period—you’ll need to visit Folkestone Library for that. Do you know where it is?’

‘Yes, I’ve been there a few times,’ he answered, wondering how an American came to know so much about Kent local history. He knew Folkestone Library well. Among several visits for genealogical cases, on which he had worked in the past, it had also been the place in which he had made his first big strides in locating his biological father, when Morton had learned of his stay in Folkestone in January 1974.

‘Good luck with it,’ Amber said, sliding off into the lending library.

‘Thanks,’ Morton muttered, as he returned the directory to the shelf and selected the previous year, 1826. He found Ann there, proprietor of the Bell Inn, the place in which, he had just learned, the bodies of two Revenue Officers had been discovered in 1963. He photographed the page, then swapped the volume for the previous year. Ann was there again. He then checked the years 1821-1824, but the pub had still been in the ownership of Henry Marshall, meaning that Ann had taken it on in the year of her son’s birth, 1825.

One thing, he realised, which might help him to ascertain a more precise timing of her tenure of the Bell Inn, was the date upon which the Pigot’s guide had been written. He took down the 1825 edition again, and began to