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

and brandy coming over, now its immigrants or drugs,’ Clive said with a mild titter. ‘The mid-1820s marked a turning point where local gangs had, to all intents and purposes, industrialised smuggling. We’re talking hundreds of men a night bringing tons of contraband across the Channel. Three groups in particular: the North Kent Gang, the Hawkhurst Gang and the Aldington Gang. They had the market covered in the South-East of England. Because of this the government, via the Admiralty, stepped up their efforts to end smuggling… These two factions clashed and the period from the mid-1820s was the worst for murders and revenge-killing. Dozens were killed every month on both sides… The two skeletons in the pub are really only worthy of comment because of how long they had lain undisturbed… put them back into a contemporaneous setting and they’re just two men among hundreds who died because of smuggling.’

‘Thank you very much—that’s really helpful,’ Morton said, scribbling notes onto his pad. ‘Was it ever established how they died?’

Clive was quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t think so, no. I had a good look at the skeletons—morbid, I know. My wife wouldn’t let me go near her for a few days afterwards, thinking I could have picked up some germs from them! Ha! I remember that there were no physical signs of injury. I’m certainly no doctor but the bones were pretty intact. I would have expected a gunshot wound or a knife wound, but there was nothing.’

‘Right,’ Morton said. ‘And then they were taken to the coroners then buried—do you know where?’

‘Sorry, no, I don’t.’

Morton thanked him again and ended the call.

Leaning on his desk, with the investigation wall before him, Morton gazed at the timeline. Something was bothering him. He moved closer to the wall and re-read his copy of Ann’s letter, written 22nd July 1827: ‘…after all the difficult years in this area, things have returned to the quietness of the old ways...’ If, as Clive Baintree had just suggested, the smuggling gangs, along with the concomitant violence, were at their peak in the mid-1820s, then how had life suddenly become quiet once again by 1827? It made no sense.

One thing about which he was now becoming almost certain was that the ‘wicked deeds of the past’, to which Ann had referred in her letter, had been smuggling. He did not yet know for certain of her involvement and, at this stage most of his links were unsubstantiated, but he was determined to find out.

Chapter Eight

10th November 1821, Sandgate, Kent

They had chosen a spot to the west of Sandgate Castle, some half a mile from the nearest blockade men stationed at Martello Tower number four. Still, Sam was nervous at the thought of being seen by the Riding Officers who patrolled the coast on horseback throughout the night. So far, the crescent moon had not betrayed them; a passing patrol would see nothing on this stony beach but the breaking of the stormy November seas. Even he, from his crouched position on the shingle, doubted the presence of the three hundred men who he knew surrounded him, all with their eyes fixed on the breaking waters. Somewhere to his immediate right was George Ransley, holding a small lamp which only projected light in one direction—out to sea—to guide in the boat.

‘Where do they be?’ Sam whispered impatiently.

‘Darned if I be knowing,’ Ransley answered. ‘But I don’t be doubting the storm to be the cause of the delay.’

Sam mumbled his agreement as he watched the undulating and lurching waves rise up threateningly, just yards before them. He was thankful not to be out there on the boat this night, as he had been on several previous runs, when Ransley had requested that he oversee operations from launch in Folkestone to the loading up of the cargo in France, to the return journey to the shores of Kent. Ransley, for his part, had always been true to his word, handing him three guineas at the end of each week, regardless of the illicit cargo which they had managed to smuggle in. Some weeks he had done nothing whatsoever to earn his money, which had gone some way to appeasing Hester, who had begged and pleaded with him not to become embroiled with the gang. But he had had little choice, as the few shillings, which she had previously earned from her laundry work, had ceased since the birth of their daughter, Ellen. It was for Ellen, John and Hester that he was out here—exhausted and ice-cold before any goods had even been landed.

‘There!’ a voice exclaimed from the darkness. ‘I be seeing a boat.’

Shingle shifted under the men’s boots, as they shuffled to gaze more closely at the rolling horizon.

‘I see it!’ another voice said, pointlessly adding, ‘over there!’

‘Do you see it?’ Ransley called to him.

‘Not yet,’ Sam answered, scouring the almost imperceptible black seam which zipped together sky and sea.

‘There!’ another voice called.

‘Whist your tongues!’ Ransley erupted. ‘It mayn’t be ours.’

The sounds from the men lulled below the noise of the rancorous waves and southerly wind.

‘She’s ours!’ Ransley confirmed. ‘She’s ours! Be readying yourselves!’

The news cascaded quickly through the group of men, each one poised to get into position the very moment that they knew of the boat’s precise landing point.

Now that they knew for certain that the boat was theirs, Ransley aimed the lamp definitively towards them, guiding them in to shore.

The boat drew closer, becoming less of an abstract silhouette. Sam could now see the oars, then the low grunts and curses of the men fighting against the heavy water reached his ears.

Finally, on the crest of a large wave, the galley’s bow hit the beach with a crash.

Without a word from Ransley, the tubmen poured towards the boat, whilst the batmen formed two opposing lines through