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

He had no time left in which to ponder—he had to leave.

Having rewound the film and handed the two boxes back to the single-finger typist, Morton gathered up his belongings and carried the printouts to the main reception desk then left.

‘Jesus, Morton,’ Juliette greeted him when he arrived back home. ‘I’ve literally got to leave in thirty seconds.’

Morton looked at his watch and shrugged: ‘You said be home by 2.30. It’s 2.29.’

‘Heaven forbid you’d want to sit down and have a drink with me before I go,’ she snapped, pulling her work shoes from the cupboard beside the front door.

‘Sorry, I didn’t think…’

‘Hmm,’ she responded, bending down to tie her laces.

‘Where’s Grace?’ he asked.

‘Afternoon sleep. You’ve got a good hour to get the house cleaned and tidied before she wakes up.’ Juliette stood up and tugged at various parts of her tight uniform, which had gathered up in unsightly places. ‘Right, bye.’

Morton kissed her on the lips, then pulled her tight to him. ‘It will all be fine,’ he whispered.

He felt her body relax in his grip, as she began to breathe more deeply. ‘I hope so.’ She broke away, pecked him on the lips again and said, ‘See you in the morning.’

With a moody sigh, she turned, opened the front door and was gone.

Morton plodded into the kitchen, made himself a coffee, then carried it, along with his bag, up to his study. He sipped at the drink and studied the investigation wall. His eyes roamed from one record to another, whilst his brain tried to join the dots together. From his bag, he pulled out the printouts and his notebook and began to add the new information to the wall and timeline. Ann Fothergill, lodging at Braemar Cottage, had, at the end of February 1821, applied to the parish for a doctor to see Hester. Days later, she had received coal and candles. Shortly after that, Samuel Banister had undertaken half a day’s work on the parish farm, for which he had received no payment. Morton’s current assumption was that Samuel was himself ill at the time when Ann had sought help from the overseers and had then attempted half a day’s labouring. The implication for receiving no pay was that his work was unsatisfactory or uncompleted: perhaps he had been too ill to work, Morton mused. And then, the family had needed no further financial support from the parish—ever again. Why? The answer—smuggling—was obvious; the documentary evidence to substantiate this, however, was paper-thin. As Morton re-read his notes on the Aldington Gang, he was drawn to the transition period between the two leaders. The pivotal moment had been the Battle of Brookland on the 11th February 1821. Was it too much to consider that perhaps Samuel Banister had been injured in the battle, thus unable to provide for his family?

One thing was certain to Morton: Samuel Banister’s connection to Ann Fothergill was proving to be a crucial one and he needed much more detailed research.

Just as he opened his laptop to begin searching the Aldington parish registers online, Grace announced that she was awake with a glass-shattering cry.

For a day which had started out so badly, it was ending in a much more constructive way, Morton ruminated, as he sipped from a mercifully large glass of wine. He was back up in his study, having fed Grace, played with her, bathed her, then put her to bed. He had run a series of searches in the Aldington parish registers and had found, in 1795, Samuel Banister’s baptism record, meaning that he had been around six years older than Ann. Morton had been unable to locate a marriage, but did find the baptism of two children: John and Ellen. The burial register had revealed only Hester’s death in 1852. There having been no sign of Samuel, Morton ran a search in the civil death registers from 1837 onwards, but to no avail. He had not been unduly surprised. He believed that Ann’s letter of 1827 had been written to Samuel and that he was not living in England at that point, a fact confirmed by both the 1841 and 1851 censuses, which stated Hester to have been married, yet with no sign of her husband.

Morton’s phone beeped an announcement of a text message. It was from Juliette: ‘Hi. How’s it going? Did Grace go down okay? You did remember to give her dinner?! Grim here. Sent out alone to pull a suicide attempter off a bridge. Told off for not letting the station know I was okay. Want to come home xx’

He stared at the message for sufficiently long enough for the screen to go black. He did not know how to respond. Sarcasm and suicide attempts were not exactly great bedfellows. And she never took well to being pandered to. Simple and neutral was best, he decided. ‘Hi. All good here. Grace ate her dinner and went to bed nicely. Sorry the first shift isn’t great. See you later. Love you. Xxx’ He re-read the message and found it to be sufficiently simple and neutral, then clicked send.

His gaze seemed to gravitate of its own volition towards their wedding photograph on his desk. People often spoke about their wedding day as having been the happiest of their lives, which Morton had always found an odd thing to say; the implication being that nothing thereafter could ever match up to those precious few hours. The truth, for him, was that the wedding had been a pinnacle moment—he could see that now. It was the closing of a chapter of his life. The years, which had followed his being told that he had been adopted, had been marred by anger, frustration and an insatiable search for the truth, and which, until Juliette had entered his life, had left him restless, with