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

Yes, the letter from Jonas Blackwood, dated 7th August 1826, gave the name of the man he believed to have murdered Richard Morgan.

Chapter Thirty-One

16th October 1826, Aldington, Kent

The barren trees under which they marched were touched with a milky blue light from the full moon, and the path through the woods clearly illuminated, despite its being almost three o’clock in the morning. The brightness unnerved the three men leading the expedition. More than eighty armed uniformed seamen were trooping behind them for anyone who happened to be awake to witness and to raise the alarm. Paradoxically, however, it was the very presence of the full moon which guaranteed that the members of the gang, whom they had come to arrest, would be tucked up in their beds and not several miles away on the coast, embarking on another smuggling run.

Jonas, heading the marching men, slowed his pace slightly. Somewhere around here was the invisible boundary line of the village. By the time they would leave the woods on the other side—neatly avoiding passing too close to the Walnut Tree Inn—they would be in the centre of Aldington.

A pleasant autumnal smell wafted up from the decaying leaves, which were being kicked up by the marching troops, and Jonas found himself feeling oddly relaxed. He was certain that, if they could take Ransley alive, and possibly some of the other key gang members, the group would quickly crumble. But he was not expecting the gang to capitulate quietly. During the course of his investigation, Jonas had heard that Ransley had boasted on several occasions that he would never be taken alive.

His mind was drifting over his association with the Aldington Gang, sensing a dichotomy of feeling between bringing the criminals to face justice and his personal experience of the men—working labourers, struggling with basic subsistence—when Hellard brought the troops to a standstill.

‘We’re almost at the road. Denard’s place is just over there,’ Hellard said quietly, pointing at the dark horizon.

The plan of the night had been created some days ago and had been rehearsed many times over. As such, one of the senior officers stepped forward without discussion and led twenty men off, a portion of whom would surround Thomas Denard’s house, maintaining guard, whilst the others would continue on to surround the home of the Wire brothers, Richard and William.

Another officer spoke quickly to Hellard, then led another large group of seamen off to the houses of Samuel and Robert Bailey and Charles Giles. A further group were led by another officer to the houses of Thomas Gillham, James Hogben and Richard Higgins.

The potential conflict in hierarchy between Jonas and Hellard had been tactfully avoided: Jonas had left all organisation, mustering and preparing of the seamen to Hellard, whilst Hellard had left the investigation and the strategy for the arrests to Jonas; the end goal being identical for both officers. By the end of the night, all being well, the work of the two Principal Officers would be over.

‘Ready?’ Jonas said with his mouth upturned nervously.

‘Very,’ Hellard confirmed, passing instruction back that it was time to move towards the main prize.

The men understood the need for discretion. Jonas, up front beside Hellard, could not hear the footfall of a single one of the men behind them, as they continued on to Aldington Frith.

As they neared the top of the hill, Hellard brought them all to a standstill. Unseen, just over the brow, was the Bourne Tap. As they had planned, Hellard and Jonas tucked themselves close to the hedgerow and edged forward until the house came into view. Both men raised their telescopes and spent time carefully searching the property. Fortune was on their side. Not only was there nobody in sight but also the wind was blowing towards them head-on, giving them more time to deal with one remaining problem.

‘Dogs,’ Hellard whispered, evidently seeing them at the same time as Jonas.

Four mongrels, curled up beside each other, close to the street door of the house, needing dealing with as quickly and quietly as possible.

‘I’ll do it,’ Jonas said. ‘You ready the men.’

Hellard slid past Jonas and, moments later, he heard the faint clicking of multiple pistols being loaded.

Jonas stowed his telescope, drew his cutlass, then, stepping just proud of the hedgerow, padded lightly down towards the Bourne Tap, checking the ground before him as he approached.

He was just a handful of yards from the house and the dogs had not stirred. He paused, his heart racing and his breathing quickening. Behind him, Hellard was slowly inching the troops forwards and Jonas could feel the weight of their eyes upon him and the action which he was about to commit, knowing that, if he failed, chaos would break out and Ransley could very easily escape.

Jonas felt a light quiver in his hand, as he took small careful steps towards the sleeping dogs.

He froze as a crunching sound—like a dead branch being stepped upon—pierced into the air behind him, stirring the dog closest to the street door. It lifted its head in the direction of the sound, then sank back into sleep, oblivious to Jonas’s standing just five yards away.

Jonas found that he was holding his breath and slowly released it.

He took a final check around him, then looked at the dogs, reckoning that, as it had just stirred, he would take out the one closest to the door first.

It was time.

Positioning his cutlass in both hands, he moved forwards, deftly bringing the blade down on the back of the dog’s neck, a spray of blood and brief crack of bone confirming that the deed was done. Without hesitation, he repeated the action on the second and third dog without them even stirring. The fourth raised its head, emitting a low growl before Jonas cut across