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

Juliette and Grace would be home at any minute. Having added his latest research to the investigation wall, Morton was rushing around the house doing what he considered to be tidying up. There was no time left to clean the kitchen, which resembled a student hovel. He grabbed the necks of three empty bottles of wine, wondering how he had managed to work his way through them all by himself, and dumped them in the recycling bin outside.

He was standing by the front door considering where to tidy next, when he heard a key in the door. He turned to see Juliette stepping inside, carrying Grace in one arm.

‘Welcome back!’ Morton greeted, throwing his arms around the pair of them. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said, planting a kiss on each of their mouths.

Juliette sighed and passed Grace over to him.

‘Dadda!’ Grace said, with a smile.

Morton, mouth agape, stared at Juliette. ‘She just called me Dadda!’

Juliette grinned. ‘Typical that’s her first word. I’ve spent most of the last two days trying to get her to say Mummy.’ She leant in to Grace and spoke softly: ‘Mummy. Mummy.’

Grace stared at Juliette. ‘Dadda.’

Morton laughed.

‘Looks like she’s going to be a daddy’s girl. Right, well, you stay with Dadda, then,’ Juliette said, going back outside for her suitcase.

Morton squeezed his daughter tightly. It was a strange thing to think, but Morton felt that Grace had grown in the few days since he had last seen her and her new ability to speak only compounded that feeling. He carried her into the lounge and sat her down on the carpet, watching as she sped off on all fours in the direction of the telephone.

‘So, what have you been up to, then?’ Juliette asked, dropping her bag at the door. ‘Judging from the mess in the kitchen sink, just drinking and eating.’

‘Work, mainly,’ he countered.

‘Oh, God, don’t say the ‘W’ word,’ she groaned, sinking into the sofa. ‘Two days of freedom left.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Morton reassured her, watching Grace as she picked up the house phone and held it to her ear, babbling a lot of nonsense. ‘Sounds like you when you’re talking to your friends.’

‘Very funny,’ Juliette said. ‘Look, she’s going to try and walk.’

They watched as Grace used the edge of the sofa to haul herself up onto her feet. Still gibbering into the phone, she took one step then fell backwards onto her bottom, unperturbed.

‘You’ll get there,’ Morton said.

‘Have you eaten?’ Juliette asked.

‘Not yet—I was waiting for you two,’ he answered, sitting down beside her and placing his hand on her leg. He turned to face her. ‘Is it just me, or is all we talk about food, drink and Grace?’

Juliette looked up at the ceiling for a moment. ‘I think that pretty well sums it up.’ She placed her hand on his and tapped it lightly. ‘You get the wine and I’ll watch Grace then make dinner.’

Morton smiled, placed a kiss on the top of her head and stood up.

Just then, his mobile began to ring with an unidentified caller. ‘Hello?’ he said, moving into the kitchen and plucking a bottle of red from the wine rack.

‘Good evening, is this Morton Farrier?’ a male voice asked.

‘Yes, speaking,’ he said, pulling the last two clean glasses from the cupboard.

‘This is Clive—Clive Baintree—you sent me a message earlier today about the skeletons in the Bell pub?’

‘Ah, yes—thanks for getting back to me,’ Morton said. ‘I’m just doing some research into one of the pub’s former owners and happened upon the story of the two bodies. I was wondering if you could tell me anything you can remember?’

‘Of course,’ Clive began, ‘The landlord at the time was a friend of mine and, knowing my interest in maritime history, he called me in when they found them. Living in the street opposite the pub, I actually got there before the police arrived. What was it you wanted to know, exactly?’

‘Anything at all that you can remember about the bodies.’

‘Erm, they were in pretty good condition. Their uniforms, despite the long passage of time, were in pretty good order, too. It caused quite a stir in the area, I can tell you.’

‘I bet. Do you know if a time period was ever established when they were put in there?’ Morton asked, as he poured the wine. ‘Because this could actually be totally irrelevant to the person I’m researching.’

‘Well, what kind of time period are you looking at?’ Clive asked.

‘The 1820s,’ Morton replied. ‘The person I’m looking into, Ann Fothergill, took ownership of it in 1825. It was hers until her death in 1869.’

Clive snorted, but Morton wasn’t sure at what.

‘Those two skeletons,’ Clive said with a theatrical revelation, ‘were buried in that fireplace at some point after 1822.’

‘Right,’ Morton said. ‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Their uniforms. These men were wearing coastguard uniforms, which was only formed in 1822 with the amalgamation of the three smuggling prevention services—Revenue Cruisers, Riding Officers and the preventative Water Guard,’ Clive explained. ‘The pub was used by smugglers at this time, so I shouldn’t wonder that these two chaps from the preventative service got clobbered then bricked up in the fireplace.’

‘Okay,’ Morton said, carrying the two glasses from the kitchen. He thrust one at Juliette, who was pulling an inquisitive face regarding who was on the phone, then strode upstairs to his study and stood before the investigation wall. ‘So, it could have happened before Ann Fothergill took over the pub…or after.’

‘Well, yes. My money—for what it’s worth—would be on it having happened after 1825,’ Clive said.

‘Really? Why’s that?’

‘Smuggling of one kind or another has been occurring in Kent and Sussex since the 1700s and it’s still going on to this very day, but instead of rum