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

lines of ‘tell me how you have settled out there.’ It had not read as though she had been referring to another town or county, but rather a different country. At this stage, it was purely speculation, but very much worthy of further investigation. The second thought which struck Morton, was the involvement of an officer from Bow Street. Although he was no expert in this area, he knew that they had been the forerunners of the modern police force, operating out of the Bow Street Magistrate’s Court in Westminster.

He glanced down to pick up his reader’s ticket and saw that it was sitting beside Jack’s. A warm proud feeling rested on him, as he stared at the two cards. The colour headshots, taking up a third of the right-hand side of each card, clearly showed that they were related. The same face shape and hairline; the same chestnut-brown eyes, with a hint at potential mischief; the same strong jawline. Evidence of their dissimilarities were largely those unavoidable traces of aging, which featured more prominently on Jack’s picture. The other difference—their names—seemed, now that he was looking at them more closely in large white letters, to dominate the cards. Perhaps a casual passer-by, upon seeing the cards sitting side by side would actually not think the two men related at all: ‘Mr Morton Farrier’ and ‘Prof. Harley Jacklin.’ His gaze switched dolefully between the two names, as he half-heartedly wished that they shared the same surname. Bizarrely, he had never really thought about the implications of that difference before now. ‘Morton Jacklin,’ he mouthed silently, the two words with one fewer syllable somehow sounding clunky together, unnatural.

‘Pardon me?’ Jack said.

‘Oh…’ Morton said, embarrassed, and hoping to goodness that Jack had not heard him. ‘I was just talking to myself about what to do next.’ He hastily reached down for his reader’s ticket and hurried to the computer terminal, typing ‘Bow Street’ into the search engine. Four thousand, three hundred and twenty-two records were listed as having a reference to Bow Street. Morton filtered the results by date to the nineteenth century, quartering the number of suggestions. He quickly noticed that all of the relevant documents—correspondence, court registers, extradition ledgers, gaoler’s records, applications for warrants, accounts—were held at the London Metropolitan Archives. He looked at the clock; there was no way that they would have the time—at least an hour—to travel across London to the LMA building in Clerkenwell. It would have to wait.

Morton typed a new search term into the box: Ramillies.

The search results—two hundred and fifty-nine for the nineteenth century—comprised mainly of ships’ logs, muster rolls and letters from the captain. More irrelevant results appeared further down the list including, Morton noted, a convict register from the 1860s when the ship was used to transport prisoners out to Australia.

Having spent a few minutes filtering and fine-tuning the results, he placed an order for the ships’ logs for the last quarter of 1826, the captain’s log 1825-1830, and letters from the captain, 1826.

‘Everything okay?’ Jack asked, when Morton returned.

‘Yep, I was just jumping ahead to the next step. Any new developments?’

Jack screwed up his nose, placed a finger on the document as a place-holder, then looked at Morton. ‘Not really, no. It’s just pages and pages of the indictments being read against all of those guys. Samuel Banister still seems to be the most important witness; but no mention of Ann, I’m afraid.’

‘Let’s finish with these records, then go and get some lunch. By that time the stuff I’ve just ordered will be up.’

‘Great,’ Jack replied, ‘I sure could use a coffee right now.’

‘Me too,’ Morton agreed, settling back to reading the letters to and from the Board of Customs and Excise.

For the next thirty-five minutes, Morton silently worked through the book, occasionally scribbling a note on his pad and intermittently reaching for his mobile, which he and Jack were sharing to photograph their respective documents. There had been no mention of Ann, Samuel or the Aldington Gang specifically, although various smuggling incidents along the Kent and Sussex coasts had been reported. Jack completed the Felony File moments after Morton had finished with his book of letters. Having returned them, they gathered their belongings and descended to the ground floor.

‘Café or restaurant?’ Jack asked, his eyes flitting between the two possible outlets, both of which opened onto a spacious seating area.

‘I think Juliette might be cooking something tonight, so we probably should just use the café.’

‘Sure, let’s not get into trouble.’

They strolled across the wide space, dotted with chairs and tables, to the small café across from the bookshop. Two elderly ladies, engrossed in conversation, were queuing in front of them.

‘What are you having?’ Jack asked, pulling a bulging black wallet from his back pocket, as he squinted up at the menu board.

‘I’ll get these,’ Morton insisted. ‘You’re slaving for me, after all.’

Jack grinned, still holding his wallet uncertainly and gazing at the menu. ‘I’m loving it.’

Morton turned to him with a frown, unsure if he was being sarcastic. ‘Yeah, I bet.’

‘No, really,’ he insisted, meeting his eyes. ‘I can see why you love this job. It’s like you’re a detective, lifting the slabs of history to dig down to the truth—it’s very similar to my job… I think you might just have inherited my tenacity.’

If such a personality trait were hereditary, then he supposed Jack was correct; he certainly would never have described his Aunty Margaret as ‘tenacious’.

‘Can I help?’ a pasty-faced young man asked, barely looking at them.

‘Two large coffees, please,’ Morton ordered. ‘And I’d like the goat’s cheese panini and—’ he faced Jack, ‘—what did you want to eat?’

‘I’ll have the same, please,’ he answered, freeing a twenty-pound note from his wallet and passing it over the counter to the pale man.

‘Thanks,’ Morton said.

‘No problem, son,’ Jack replied, placing