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

When a stream of black film passed across the screen, followed by ‘1827’ in stark white, Morton looked at the time. He had a maximum of half an hour left.

He fidgeted in his seat, then sat up straight, trying to force himself to concentrate harder, but it was pointless; he had to do the job thoroughly.

When he found the trial in the 13th January 1827 issue, he had almost no time left to read the story. He quickly read the opening paragraph: ‘TRIAL OF THE ALDINGTON SMUGGLERS. Yesterday, at Maidstone, came on the trial of the persons committed on the charges in the above affair. Immediately on the Court being opened, ten individuals, viz, George Ransley, Samuel Bailey, Thomas Denard, Thomas Gilham, James Hogben, James Smeed, Richard Wire, Thomas Wheeler, Richard Higgins, and William Wire, were placed at the bar, and arraigned for the murder of Quartermaster Richard Morgan, on the beach at Dover on the night of the 13th of July last—to which they severally pleaded Not Guilty…’ The article went on with several further indictments against the men for breaking revenue laws and unlawfully assembling with firearms on numerous occasions in 1826. Morton hurriedly photographed the story, then rewound and boxed the film.

He just had time for one final thing: he opened his laptop and ran a search for George Ransley on the National Archives website. Zero results. When he searched instead for the Kent Assizes, he received more than a thousand results. A trip to the National Archives seemed to be in order.

‘Thank you,’ Morton said to Amber, placing the microfilm box on the desk in front of her.

‘Oh, you’re very welcome. Hope to see you again soon.’

Morton walked up the steps to his house feeling a welcome sense of calm that everything was okay in the world; in his world, at least.

‘Dadda!’ Grace called, scuttling along the corridor at a somewhat bewildering pace for a crawl. ‘Dadda!’ She reached his feet and hauled herself up, grappling with the folds and ripples in his jeans.

He reached down and picked her up, planting a big kiss on her cheek. ‘Hello, darling. Have you been a good girl for Mummy?’ he asked and, seeing Juliette appearing from the kitchen, placed great emphasis on the final word.

‘No!’ Grace answered with a comical frown.

Morton’s amused eyes and mild laughter met with Juliette’s.

‘Yes, we’ve learned another new word today,’ she said through a fixed smile. ‘Do you want some lunch? No. Shall we go home now and play? No. Let’s go and change your nappy. No.’ She held her smile, directing it towards Morton. ‘So now we can say “Dadda”, “doggy”, “Gandpa” and now the word that we won’t hear the end of until she leaves home, “no”.’

Morton carried Grace towards Juliette and kissed her on the lips. ‘You wait—her next words will be “yes, Mummy”.’

Juliette rolled her eyes and headed back into the kitchen. ‘Drink?’

‘Coffee, please,’ he replied.

‘Are we ready for the party tomorrow?’ Juliette asked, the severe doubt in her tone answering her own question. She took the mugs from the cupboard and looked at him for an answer.

‘I think so. We’ve bought the food…the house is reasonably tidy…we’ve invited people…we’ve got a cake. She’s going to be one; it isn’t the time—yet—for fancy venues, magicians and entertainers.’

‘I know,’ Juliette agreed. ‘But still, people have come a long way to stand around just eating sandwiches and crisps.’

‘They’re coming to see my little Grace,’ he said, stroking her hair. Juliette was right, of course. A lot of people had travelled a long way for what would ostensibly amount to a simple get-together. Yet he knew, and was deeply grateful, that they were coming for a greater purpose: because they were family. ‘It will be fine,’ Morton assured her.

Juliette sighed and accepted his assurance. ‘So, how’s your day been? Did you manage to get much work done?’ She carried the two mugs of steaming drinks to the table and sat down opposite him.

Grace began to wriggle and point at the floor, so Morton set her down, and then began to give a brief rundown of his day. She then relayed the highlights of her day, ending by downing the last mouthfuls of her drink and saying, ‘And now I need to go and get ready for work. Joy.’

Morton watched her leave the room with a slight flounce. ‘Shall we go and play with your animals, Grace?’

‘No.’

Morton had just put Grace into her bed and was backing out of the darkened room when, simultaneously, his mobile began to ring in his pocket as someone was lightly tapping on the front door. He whipped his phone from his pocket and hurried downstairs so as not to disturb Grace. It was Juliette calling.

‘Hello,’ he whispered, almost at the front door. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah, good as can be expected,’ she said.

‘Hang on a second, someone’s at the door. I expect it’s Dad—’ he stopped himself short at his slip-up, ‘—Jack…and Laura, back from London.’ He opened the door to see their contented-looking faces. ‘Hi, come in. I’m just on the phone—won’t be a minute.’

They entered the house making polite apologetic faces.

Morton closed the door behind them and then returned the phone to his ear. ‘Sorry—back again. You should know better than to phone at bedtime,’ he joked, hoping that his blunder had gone unnoticed.

‘I know. I just wanted to ask something about this case you’re working on. You know that bit of paper you showed me that got ripped… Am I right in remembering that it said something about the Bourne Tap?’

‘Yes, that’s right—why?’

‘Just that there was an attempted burglary there last night and I thought I recognised the house name. Bit of a weird coincidence,’ she laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ll let you get back to it.’ She was making sounds as