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

he recalled some of the anecdotes and stories shared by Jack and Laura. He wondered when—or even if—he would ever reach a point when he stopped learning about his family’s past. He doubted it.

He printed the Tithe map, then took it to his investigation wall, where he attached it close to the piece of paper, which had been mysteriously torn, and ran a red string line from the words ‘gold guineas’ across to the map of Braemar Cottage, not really sure why he was bothering to even consider the absurdity of where barrels of gold guineas might have been buried almost two hundred years ago.

Morton crouched down and looked at the timeline of Ann Fothergill’s life. She had been resident with the Banister family in February and March 1821 but had moved to the Bell Inn, Hythe by August 1825. Just one month prior to that, her son, William had been baptised in Aldington Church, although that did not necessarily mean that she had been living in the village at the time.

His eyes moved around the investigation wall, settling on the word ‘Smuggling?’ He was certain of her connection to the Aldington Gang, but could not quite join the dots together. What need did the group have of her? In her role from mid-1825, as landlady of a pub on the Kent coast, it was easy to imagine her use. Morton had read several accounts of how pubs had been the meeting point for smuggling runs, as well as being a storage location and, obviously, an outlet for the smuggled goods. But Ann’s usefulness to the group prior to 1825 was a mystery.

He returned to his desk and flicked through his notepad to his research into the Aldington Gang, re-reading them for any clue which he might have overlooked. One thing he soon spotted: ‘Ashford Museum—exhibits & artefacts for Aldington Gang.’ Pushing the pad to one side, he ran a quick Google search for the museum and found, among their list of exhibits ‘Smuggling and the lives and demise of the ‘Aldington Gang.’ And they were open right now. Perfect.

Within ten minutes he was on his way to Ashford.

Despite being just a stone’s throw away from Ashford’s busy main shopping thoroughfare, the museum was situated on a quiet square which bounded St Mary’s Church. The building was red brick and appeared to Morton, as he entered it, like a Victorian former school.

‘Good morning to you, sir,’ a red-faced, elderly man greeted through an open internal window. ‘Welcome to our humble museum.’

‘Good morning,’ Morton replied, taking a quick scan around the room. It was small and dominated by a model train track on the opposite wall to the counter behind which the man was sitting. Each wall was adorned with various pictures, paintings and plaques and a glass cabinet to one side appeared to contain war artefacts. Morton could not immediately see anything related to that for which he was searching and asked, ‘I’m looking for information on the Aldington smuggling gang.’

‘Upstairs. Right above where we are now,’ the man explained. ‘Go left along the corridor–’ he pointed through the open door beside him, ‘—then up the stairs. Then it’s the first door on the right.’

Morton thanked him, then followed the instructions. As he had suspected, the building was the former Ashford Grammar School and, as such, came with a veritable labyrinth of narrow corridors, winding staircases and many small interlinking rooms. Upstairs, he found the room, which might once have been a master’s bedroom, its being much too small for a classroom. On one wall was a large display cabinet, beside which stood a mannequin, dressed as a smuggler, holding a wooden bat and an oil lamp. Opposite to the cabinet were three chairs and a series of watercolour paintings depicting smuggling runs. It was the display cabinet which most interested Morton and he took his time examining and photographing the exhibition. Sitting at the bottom of the display, on a bed of purple silk, were various objects pertaining to smuggling in general: a cutlass, a pistol, a barrel of rum, a model galley, an example of smuggled lace. On the back-left side of the cabinet was pinned the Ransley family tree. It appeared that, at some point after George Ransley’s transportation, his wife and children had followed him out to Tasmania. On the right-hand side was the Quested family tree and below it, was a tiny wooden shoe, the caption reading: ‘Made by Cephas Quested. He was hanged in 1821 following a battle. While he was in prison he made this little wooden shoe for one of his children.’

Morton read the explanations on the gang, inexplicably typed in the hard-to-read Old English font. Much of it he had already learned from the internet, but then he read a list of ‘Known Aldington Smugglers & Their Associates.’ The list was unsurprisingly headed by George Ransley. Below his name was Samuel Banister, suggesting to Morton that he might have held a senior role in the gang. The names of more than a dozen men were followed by a short gap under which appeared the names of the gang’s associates: ‘Langham and Platt, Solicitors. Doctor Ralph Papworth-Hougham, Surgeon. Ann Fothergril, Apothecary.’ Her name had been misspelled but it was undoubtedly her. Morton smiled. Here was the evidence which not only provided the link between Ann and the Aldington Gang, but also answered Morton’s previous question about what function she had performed for the group.

He photographed the list, then read the final piece of information: the demise of the group, which, as he had read online, came as a direct result of the murder of Ramillies’ Quartermaster, Richard Morgan in 1826.

Taking one final glace around the room, Morton made his way back downstairs.

‘Did you enjoy our little display, sir?’ the man behind the front desk asked.

‘Yes. It was very helpful and interesting, thank you,’ Morton answered, dropping some