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

Grace and spun her around one hundred and eighty degrees away from the oven. ‘I mean, look at her—she’s so vulnerable.’

Grace scuttled across to Morton’s chair and clambered herself up. ‘Dadda,’ she said, offering him a clump of fluff from the floor.

‘Thank you, Grace,’ he said with a grin.

‘Yes, thank you, Grace,’ Juliette said sarcastically. ‘That’s the other problem: I just don’t know how I’m going to get anything done. It’s the party in four days’ time and we’ve barely done hardly anything for it, except to invite loads of people here. And Jack, Laura and George will be arriving on her birthday—in two days’ time. Look at the state of the place.’

‘Stop worrying. I’ll have a clean-up later and do some shopping for the party. It’s all fine,’ he said, reaching out for her hand. ‘Really.’ Morton shoved the last piece of toast into his mouth and bent down to pick up his daughter. ‘Come here, Miss Farrier,’ he said, sitting her on his lap. ‘What do you want to do today? How about helping me find out about the Aldington Gang of smugglers?’

‘How about a trip to the playpark with your daughter and darling wife on her last full day of freedom?’ Juliette suggested. ‘Maybe take them out for a meal?’

‘Sounds good to me,’ Morton replied.

It was Arthur. He had inexplicably returned and was now fussing in the hallway, wondering how he could have forgotten to switch the light off. ‘I’m sure I did,’ he muttered. ‘Is anyone here? Steve? Clara?’ When no reply was forthcoming he said, ‘Nope, just you, Arthur, you silly old fool.’

Phil stood rigidly behind the dining room door, holding his breath as Arthur trundled down the hallway to the lounge, all the while narrating as he went. Apparently, he had forgotten a faulty alarm clock, which he was going to return to the shop in Folkestone.

‘Right,’ Arthur mumbled. ‘Keys. Where did I put those?’

Phil took an incredulous long breath in.

‘Now, remember to switch the light off,’ Arthur reminded himself.

Seconds later, Phil heard the dink of the light switch. Once Arthur was out of the door, he was half tempted to switch it back on again, just to confuse him. He remained still until he heard the door slam shut, then he allowed himself to breathe normally again. He still dared not move, though, not until Arthur had completed his double- and triple-checking of the door.

Silence.

Phil moved slowly towards the front window and just caught sight of Arthur turning back in the direction of the bus stop.

Returning to the bureau, Phil began to sift through the muddle of paperwork. Letters. Bills. Receipts. Take-away menus. Insurances. Notes. Scrap paper.

He let out an infuriated groan.

Then, he reached a bundle of papers bound together with an elastic band. Arthur’s birth certificate was on the top. This is more like it, Phil thought, thumbing through the pile. He caught glimpses of Arthur’s marriage certificate along with the birth and death certificates of his wife. Then he found it: the last will and testament of Arthur Fothergill.

Phil withdrew the document and, skipping over the legal niceties and funeral and burial details, he came to the important information: the distribution of the assets which, he read, were to be divided equally between Arthur’s nephew and niece.

With a triumphant smile, Phil placed the will back in the bundle, returning everything to the bureau as he had found it.

The old man hadn’t been stringing them along, after all. No cats’ homes or sympathetic neighbours or distant cousins. Equal shares between nephew and niece. He was happy with that.

It had been a surprisingly tiring day for Morton. The three of them had taken a Knoops hot chocolate down to the playpark, where Morton had divided his time between pushing an ecstatic Grace on the swings and consoling a miserable Juliette on the bench, who had sat for the most part with her head in her hands. Then, they had sauntered through Rye, popping into various shops before having dinner at The Globe restaurant. Now, Grace was tucked up in bed and Juliette was throwing an iron over her police uniform, which was making its debut outing for the first time in twelve months.

Morton carried a large glass of red wine up to his study and switched on his laptop. It was the first time all day that he had had a chance to look at his emails or do anything resembling work. He guessed that this was how life would be now, for a while at least.

From the twenty-two emails which downloaded into his inbox, he chose to read those associated with the case first. One of them was from the Coroner’s Office: ‘Dear Morton, Thank you for your email and interest in this case. I have spoken with our archiving team and unfortunately, they cannot find any files or information that we have stored regarding this. They did suggest that it may be worthwhile looking in Folkestone Library as they will hold copies of local newspapers from the time of the discovery, or possibly even speaking with the pub where the skeletons were discovered, but we have no information that we can offer on this case I’m afraid. Best wishes, Sandy.’

Visiting the Bell was not a bad suggestion. It was highly unlikely, though, that the owners were the same people from 1963, or that any better recollection of the discovery could be provided than that which he had already heard from Clive Baintree.

The next email was from the Burial Officer at Shepway District Council, who informed him that, upon checking all the municipal cemeteries in Hythe and Folkestone for 1963, she had found no ‘unknown males’ in the registers or anything which might have been the two bodies. The same negative response came from St Leonard’s, the main parish church of Hythe.

On his investigation wall, Morton