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

power of arrest extended from Westminster to the four surrounding counties of Middlesex, Surrey, Essex and Kent, but despite this authority, rolled carefully inside his tipstaff, Jonas carried the magistrate’s warrant of arrest.

Jonas inhaled, then coughed, as the salty air caught in the back of his throat.

‘Oh, dear. The sea is supposed to be restorative,’ someone said from behind, ‘not debilitating.’

Jonas whipped around to see a gruff middle-aged man in naval uniform striding towards him.

‘Lieutenant Hellard,’ the man introduced, thrusting his right hand forward.

Jonas shook his hand and said, ‘Jonas Blackwood, Principal Officer of Bow Street.’

‘I am most sincerely gratified that you are willing to offer an insight into the barbarians behind these heinous crimes. Blighting our damned coastline for too many years.’

‘Lieutenant Hellard,’ Jonas replied, ‘you will be receiving more than an insight; you will be receiving the men themselves—in handcuffs. Now, could you take me to the exact spot where the murder occurred and give me your version of events.’

‘I would be much obliged to do so,’ Hellard answered. ‘If you will follow me.’

Hellard marched through a narrow space between two bathing machines with the striding gait of someone with a life spent in the military. Having made four or five further paces out onto the open shingle beach, Hellard stopped and pointed at the ground. ‘Here.’

Jonas looked down at the area indicated by Hellard’s fat extended index finger. Being just a few feet above the seaweed-strewn tideline, the scene had been spared the intervening days’ tide changes, leaving an obvious, although minor displacement of the shingle. Jonas crouched down and picked up a stone the size of a squashed orange, the top being covered in the rust-brown glaze of dried blood. He placed the stone back exactly as he had found it and looked carefully around him. The beach, being entirely shingle, contained no footmarks or other identifying clues. Jonas thought for a moment longer, then stood and faced Hellard. ‘Tell me what happened, being as precise as you can.’

Hellard nodded, then began his recount: ‘Around one o’clock in the morning on Sunday, Morgan had been delivering mail to the Townsend Battery—just behind us here—when he saw a boat coming into land. He fired his pistol to raise the alarm and he and the sentinel on duty, Pickett, ran down the beach, where they encountered a large group of smugglers. Morgan shouted for them to surrender but was fired upon with three shots from long duck guns, which hit him close to the heart, killing him instantly. Pickett tried to assist Morgan, but was clubbed over the head and knocked out. He’s woken rather insensibly with little recollection of the night.’

‘Surely Morgan’s pistol firing brought assistance from other men?’ Jonas said.

‘It did, but they had to get down from the Casemates–’ Hellard turned and pointed to the castle on top of the cliff, ‘—the tunnels cut into the chalk below the castle. By the time they got here the smugglers and the contraband was all but gone.’

Jonas sighed. ‘All but gone?’

‘Thirty-three tubs were left on the shore.’

‘I’d like to see them. Where are they?’ Jonas asked.

‘Just over in the Townsend Battery stores.’

‘And thus far, you have no further clue where these hundreds of men went to once they left the beach? Not even in which direction they moved?’

Hellard shifted his weight and pointed along the coast. ‘They headed west…towards Folkestone.’

‘On foot or with carts?’

‘Both,’ Hellard confirmed.

Jonas nodded, his earlier involvement with smuggling rendering him certain that it was the Aldington Gang who were behind the murder of Richard Morgan. To arrest them, however, he needed evidence. ‘And their boat?’

‘Cut up and burned,’ Hellard said with a grimace, evidently realising that Jonas might have liked to see it.

‘Show me those barrels.’

Hellard led him across the street to the battery, a double arch of stone and brick cut into the base of the white cliffs. They walked through a long dimly lit room with a low-vaulted ceiling. On either side were six simple bunks. At the far end was a solid oak door which Hellard unlocked, revealing a short windowless room which reeked of damp.

When Jonas’s eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he saw the barrels, stacked neatly on the far wall. ‘Bring me a light.’

Hellard disappeared momentarily, returning with a burning tallow candle, passing it to Jonas, who passed it slowly across the barrels.

The ochre light caught on something, giving Jonas cause to still his hand. He knelt down on the floor, feeling a cold wetness seep into his breeches, as he held the flame closer to the barrel. Small faded lettering: ‘Delacroix, Boulogne.’ Jonas stood up, pushing the candle towards Hellard’s face. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

Hellard shook his head.

‘Where am I staying tonight?’ Jonas asked, blowing out the candle and plunging them into a darkness which signalled that his work here was over.

‘The Packet Boat Inn,’ Hellard answered, walking quickly out of the store room, locking it once Jonas had followed him out.

‘And I trust that the raison d’être for my visit has not been widely communicated?’

‘Not at all,’ Hellard confirmed.

Outside the battery, Jonas shook Hellard’s hand. ‘I shall be in touch in due course.’

Jonas entered the Packet Boat Inn via the rear entrance, keeping his top hat pulled down as he dashed up the stairs to his room. He locked the door, placed his trunk on the single bed and pulled it open.

Minutes later, he descended into the public bar, his hair dishevelled and wearing a grubby smock and pair of torn breeches. Despite the brightness of the day, the inside of the place was cool and dim. ‘Pint of ale,’ he ordered with a snarl. ‘And whatever me old friend here be a-wanting.’

The man beside him, wearing a white fisherman’s smock, was rolling a near-empty pint