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

and bought him out of the company. Fothergill’s flourished. Frederick died a multi-millionaire; my father died penniless.’

It suddenly dawned on Morton, sitting in this small, neglected bungalow, what was being asked of him. He held his hands aloft, as if surrendering, and gathered up his belongings. ‘Listen, I’m a forensic genealogist, not a gold hunter—you need to employ somebody else—a private detective or… somebody; I don’t know.’ He pushed his chair back and stood to leave.

Arthur held up his hand. ‘Wait, wait, please,’ he said. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. Yes, there’s an interest—’ he flicked a quick sideways glance to his nephew, ‘—in the guineas, if they still exist, but what I really want to understand is that chasm in Ann’s life between 1820 and 1827, because it clearly had a deep-reaching impact on several generations of the Fothergill family—one, yes, being financial. I don’t want to hire a private investigator—I want to hire you. We’ve read up on some of your past cases and think you’re the right man for the job. What do you say?’

Morton didn’t know what to say. The case did hold an odd appeal for him, he had to admit. He sat back down, hearing himself saying, ‘I’ll see what I can find, so long as you understand that my research will be directed at Ann Fothergill’s life, with particular reference to the 1820s. What I’m not offering are treasure-hunting services.’

Arthur smiled. ‘Wonderful. And how will you go about it, exactly, may I ask?’

Morton supressed a sigh, not liking the implication that his methods were being questioned before he had even begun working on the case. ‘I use a mixture of methods: traditional, like visiting archives, libraries and churchyards; and modern, like DNA testing, the internet and photo analysis. I’ve got subscriptions to all the major genealogy companies and I go to local, regional and national archive centres to find whatever I can—that might be letters, photographs, wills, certificates, newspaper reports… I pull it all together on a wall in my study at home. Basically, I do whatever it takes to complete the case.’

Arthur nodded. ‘I see.’

‘And how long will this take?’ the nephew asked.

Morton shrugged. ‘If, like your uncle says, you want the job doing thoroughly, then it takes as long as it takes. Some cases I wrap up in a couple of weeks, others take more time.’

‘Take as long as you need,’ Arthur reassured.

‘Okay. With regard to identifying the father of Ann’s baby, one avenue, which can help corroborate anything else I might find out, is if you take a DNA test,’ Morton said.

The corners of Arthur’s lips turned down as he nodded in consideration. ‘Yes, if you think it would help.’

‘Excellent,’ Morton said, pulling his bag up to the table.

‘You’ve got one here already?’ Arthur said.

‘I buy a stock of them whenever Ancestry drops the price,’ he said. ‘If we do it now, then I can get it sent off today.’

‘Okay,’ Arthur agreed.

Morton unwrapped the test kit, instructed Arthur to spit into the small test tube, then sealed it and placed it in his bag. A brief smile, then he stood and indicated to the pile of documents on the table. ‘Can I keep hold of these while I work on the case?’

‘By all means,’ Arthur said.

‘Not this,’ the nephew said, snatching up the gold guinea.

‘Can I photograph it, then?’ Morton asked, trying to contain his annoyance.

The nephew slid the coin back across the table and Morton pulled out his mobile and took several photos of it.

‘Thank you. I’ll be in touch,’ Morton said, shaking their hands, and then making his way to the front door, with Arthur following closely behind.

‘Cheerio,’ Arthur said.

Morton said goodbye, stepping out into a cold, windy afternoon and hurried to his Mini. He started the ignition and pulled away—homeward-bound. As he took a fleeting glance back at Arthur Fothergill’s bungalow, an uneasy feeling about this case murmured inside of him. It intrigued him, yes, but it also slightly troubled him.

Morton arrived back at his home in Rye, East Sussex twenty minutes later. His main reason for taking this ominous case in the first place had been due to its proximity to home. He did not like being away from his wife, Juliette, and their eleven-month-old daughter, Grace, for longer than was absolutely necessary. He bounded up the stairs to his home—The House with Two Front Doors—with an inane grin on his face. In truth, the recent genealogical cases, which he had undertaken, had paled in comparison with his new role as a father, which he loved.

‘Hi,’ Morton called out. ‘Hungry and thirsty forensic genealogist here.’

‘Shh!’ Juliette whispered, rushing from the kitchen.

But it was too late. From upstairs came Grace’s startled scream.

Juliette rolled her eyes: ‘Thanks.’

‘Sorry,’ Morton apologised. ‘I’ll go.’ He took the stairs two at a time and entered Grace’s darkened bedroom. ‘Hey, hey,’ he soothed, bending over her cot and lifting her out. ‘Did I wake you up?’ He held her to his shoulder and gently jiggled her against him. Her sobbing began to subside, and Morton sank down into the chair beside her cot. Holding her small hands in his, he stood her up on his thighs, and her brown eyes widened as she blinked away her final tears. She looked a comic sight, bouncing up and down with glee, as her dark brown hair—too short to be styled or tied back—shot about in its own dogmatic direction.

Morton’s eyes began to adjust to the low light. The room was painted in soft pink and white, complemented by drawings of rabbits and flowers in the same colour scheme—a far cry from the room to which they had brought her home eleven months ago. Owing to a slight blunder at the twenty-week scan, they had decorated the room in various shades of blue, believing that they