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

late—somehow, he had missed her. Ann was standing in the stretched shadow of the church vestibule, staring down at the child. She casually glanced up, expecting not to see anybody, and so her eyes briefly returned to the baby, before snapping back up towards Sam.

They held each other’s gaze for some time, neither of them speaking or moving. Then, with a nod of his head, Sam walked slowly towards her.

‘That were a short service,’ Sam muttered, as he approached her, noticing her smart dress. He stood close to her, framing every detail in his mind, trying to work out what was different about her. Her clothes, undoubtedly. But there was something more than that, which he could not quite place—perhaps something in her eyes? She certainly looked and smelled fresh, clean and more attractive because of it.

‘I didn’t want anything fancy,’ she replied. ‘The vicar was good enough to conduct it without questions.’

‘About the baby’s father, you mean?’ Sam said.

Ann flushed with colour. ‘No, I be meaning about where I’m living… no longer of this parish.’

‘And what be the reason for that?’ Sam asked. When Ann merely shrugged, he proposed two of his own competing theories. ‘To be hiding the illegitimacy from your new parish? Do that be it? Or do it be in some way to do with the child’s father?’

‘Maybe it’s not either of those reasons,’ Ann said.

Sam knew from the look of resentment on her face that she was close to snapping. ‘Can I see the little one?’

Ann thought for a moment, then turned the baby to face him. ‘William Fothergill,’ she stated.

Sam looked at the boy’s tiny round head. He was sleeping, and his lower lip was protruding in a mildly comical way. ‘Fine-looking lad,’ Sam said, stroking the boy’s clenched fist. ‘Like his mother,’ he added, noticing the contours of the boy’s pronounced cheekbones and closed eyes. His hopes that this might be a subtle way to get Ann to reveal the identity of the boy’s father failed.

‘We must be leaving,’ Ann said, a curt tone to her voice. She pulled the boy more tightly to her and set off down the path. Sam observed then a new elegance to her gait, as he watched her go. Part of him just wanted to stand and watch her leave but another, more strongly willed part, urged him to settle the internal questions which had plagued him since their dalliance last year. ‘Do you still be looking for Jonas Blackwood?’

Ann stopped abruptly and turned. ‘What do you know about that?’

‘Carter be telling me you be wanting to find him. Says you be desperate.’ The words came out in a way which Sam instantly regretted, sounding critical and goading, not the curiosity that he was actually feeling.

‘Have you seen him?’ Ann asked.

Sam shook his head and walked hurriedly towards her. He reached out for her hand and she allowed him to take it, hold it. ‘Come back.’

‘No, Sam,’ Ann said, a firmness to her voice that told him that it would be futile to persist. ‘Let me go.’

Sam allowed her hand to drop. She turned and walked the remainder of the path to the road and was quickly gone. As he pulled in a long breath and took in his surroundings, he realised that he was standing in the sunlit space between the two tall yew trees. He looked to the side and there, in the upper window of the house, was Hester.

Chapter Twenty-Six

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ Morton said, as the display screen on his car dashboard revealed who was calling him. ‘It’s Arthur—again.’

‘Maybe it’s important?’ Jack suggested from beside him on the passenger seat.

They were just pulling into Rye, having finished for the day at the National Archives. Perhaps Jack was right; Arthur Fothergill had tried calling multiple times on the journey home, quite what the urgency could be, however, Morton had no idea.

He hit the hands-free answer-button. ‘Hello?’ he said, trying to conceal his annoyance.

‘Is that you, Morton Farrier?’ Arthur’s soft voice asked.

Morton flashed a quick look at Jack, then answered, ‘Yes, that’s me. What can I do for you?’

‘It’s Arthur Fothergill here. I don’t mean to pester, but how is the work on my great-grandmother coming along?’

‘Great,’ Morton said, ‘I think. I’ve been working on her today at the National Archives.’

‘Oh, right. So, it’s close to finishing, then?’ Arthur said.

Morton wondered how Arthur had reached that conclusion based on what he had just told him. ‘Well… there’s still work to do—if you want it doing thoroughly.’

There was just enough suggestion hanging in Morton’s words that the case could be ended prematurely at any moment for Arthur to quickly say, ‘Yes, yes—I want it done thoroughly…’ The line went quiet. Seconds passed and Morton glanced at the display to see if the signal had failed, leaving poor Arthur chatting in an unheard soliloquy. But, he spoke again. ‘And, with regard to Ann’s places of residence during this time, have you… identified anything?’

Morton looked again at Jack, both of them believing that Arthur’s nephew had clearly pushed him into making the phone call. Given what had happened at the Bourne Tap the responsibility for what might happen if he told Arthur about Braemar Cottage momentarily skewed Morton’s thinking. But he couldn’t not tell him. As he turned the car onto Mermaid Street, an idea struck him. ‘Just one place,’ he lied. ‘Somewhere called Braemar Cottage, next to Aldington Church.’

‘Braemar Cottage,’ Arthur said, taking his time to enunciate the words.

Jack mouthed the words, ‘Writing it down.’

‘Near Aldington Church, you say?’ Arthur repeated.

‘That’s right,’ Morton answered, a hollow sense of disappointment settling on him, as he realised that for Arthur and his family the main focus of the case was on a ludicrous treasure hunt, not anything which he might find out about