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

‘I’m not sure if it’s colourful or jolly strange,’ Arthur disputed, seemingly critical of Morton’s choice of adjective to describe his great-grandmother. He began riffling through the paperwork, his jittery hands scattering the documents across the table. In his left hand, he held aloft a newspaper report printed from the internet. He clearly knew the report well, for he quoted from it without hesitation: ‘1820. Ann Fothergill…an illiterate vagrant… sent to prison no less than 36 times…’ Arthur said, speaking more forcibly, but without letting his gaze fall from Morton’s eyes. ‘His Worship expressed his regret that the Court could not dispose of her permanently, for she appeared to be a perfect pest to society… committed once again to prison for two months.’ Without pause, he reached for another piece of paper, this time reading it verbatim: ‘22nd July 1827. The Bell Inn, Hythe. Dear Sam, I do hope that you are well and that you have settled out there. I must again refuse your offer. My life, with this inn and the boy, is here and after all the difficult years in this area, things have returned to the quietness of the old ways. It is an opportunity to leave behind the wicked deeds of the past. In answer to your question, and with the imposed distance between us I may now tell you that the barrels of gold guineas were hidden below ground in an outhouse close by, and that is the way they shall remain, being of little use to anyone now. I beg that you will settle your mind on the matter and look instead to your new future. Your ever-loving friend, Ann Fothergill.’ Arthur cleared his throat and asked quietly, ‘From perennially drunk, illiterate vagrant to an articulate businesswoman in seven years. A bit more than colourful, wouldn’t you say?’

All three sets of eyes on the opposite side of the table came to settle firmly on Morton, awaiting his response to the nonagenarian’s diatribe.

Morton considered the question carefully before answering, much to the chagrin of Arthur’s nephew who emitted a large sigh at the unnecessary hole in the conversation. ‘Yes, she certainly does sound enigmatic,’ he admitted.

‘And worthy of your investigation?’ Arthur pressed.

‘That depends on what you want to know about her,’ Morton replied.

Arthur shifted around in his chair, as if he had not considered the question before now. ‘Just a picture—as detailed as possible—of her life during those intervening seven years to understand that shift in her character… Where she lived, who she was associated with and, if it’s possible, to know the identity of my grandfather’s father.’

‘The period that you’re talking about isn’t exactly brimming with archives,’ Morton warned, ‘there might literally be nothing to find in the 1820s about Ann.’

‘Will you at least give it a go?’ Arthur pushed.

The case intrigued him, he had to admit it. Before he could answer, the nephew, whose name Morton had already forgotten, waded in with another question: ‘And what about these golden guineas, then? Any truth in that?’

‘Truth?’ Morton questioned, unsure of what was being asked of him.

The nephew picked up the envelope—clearly not the original, Morton noted—which had contained Ann’s letter and tipped the contents out onto the table: one golden guinea. The coin performed a short pirouette before settling in front of Morton.

‘How much do you reckon that’s going for on eBay?’ the nephew asked. ‘Go on, take a guess.’

‘Well, a guinea, I suppose,’ Morton said with a wry smile. ‘So, one pound five pence?’ His humour fell flat.

‘Nope,’ the nephew said. ‘Try again—my sister’s husband looked it up, didn’t he, Clara?’

The niece nodded her agreement.

‘Two hundred pounds?’ Morton guessed, hoping that this game would be a short one.

‘Nope. Average—,’ he said, stretching the word out. ‘Average—six hundred quid, though if they’re in good nick like this one, about a thousand quid.’

‘Right,’ Morton said flatly.

‘For one,’ the nephew clarified needlessly.

Arthur smiled and patted his nephew on the back. ‘I think what he’s trying to understand is whether these barrels of coins mentioned in Ann’s letter might still be hidden?’

Morton laughed, presuming it to be a joke. When their expressions told him otherwise, he tightened his face into seriousness and said, ‘After a hundred and ninety-odd years? I’ve no idea, but I doubt it.’

‘But if you knew where she’d been living in the 1820s..?’ the nephew pushed.

Morton looked at the three faces vaguely, not understanding. ‘And you think I could just walk up to the house with a metal detector and ask if I can pop into their back garden, start digging, then waltz off with a few carrier bags of guineas?’ he stammered incredulously. He had been asked to do some strange things in his past cases, but this could take the prize for the most bizarre.

‘Not exactly like that, no,’ Arthur said.

‘They might still be there,’ the niece added.

‘I’ve no idea…’ Morton said, happily displaying his bewilderment to the three people sitting opposite him.

‘I can see you’re confused,’ Arthur said. ‘Let me put Ann into context for you with a little recent family history. You’ve heard of Fothergill’s—the big London stockbrokers? They got into a bit of trouble during the credit crisis but seem to have pulled out of it okay…’

Morton nodded, awaiting the inevitable link to Arthur’s family tree.

‘That was set up—initially as a bank—by Ann’s son, William, after she died, using the money that he had inherited from her: a substantial amount, I might add. The business prospered and he passed it to his two sons, Frederick and my father, Harry. Now, not to want to cast aspersions on the deceased, my father was a bit of a gambler. He gambled his marriages, gambled his money and tried to gamble the business, before his brother stepped in