The Wicked Trade (The Forensic Genealogist Book 7) by Nathan Goodwin (types of ebook readers TXT) 📕

hands of those with whom she had shared the journey, they would all be swinging by their necks. Ann had struggled to find accommodation in the busy town, the trial having drawn people from way out of the town and county. Eventually she had found a room in the Royal Oak, intending to remain in the town until the verdict had been delivered.

Now she was standing, with barely a view of the judge, crushed between two stinking labourers.

‘Ransley be sure to hang,’ the one to her left said, his breath marginally worse than his body odour. His head was turned in her direction, but he seemed to be offering his opinions to any who might be interested.

Ann craned her neck around, pretending to search the crowds for someone. She looked at the great number of people gathered here. Many were outsiders, come from far and wide to catch sight of the notorious gang; others she recognised from in and around Aldington. Intermingled with the curious visitors were the smugglers’ wives and family, along with many uniformed men from the Blockade Service.

At last the judge, Justice Park, a large man whose uncompromising face scowled into the court room, blustered for complete silence. When his instructions had been obeyed, a quick jolty nod of his head to a guard protecting a side entrance brought about the quiet scuffling of boots against the floor and a clinking of metal, as the prisoners were led inside.

Their arrival caused a general stir amongst the crowd; heads twitched from side to side, necks were angled, calves were strained as folk pushed up onto tiptoe—anything for a better view of the gang.

With a slight raising of her head, Ann could see some of the men shuffling in, each wearing a smock-frock, and each having their feet chained together. The men, whom she could see, appeared fatigued in their features, although surprisingly calm.

The judge spoke only to open the conclusion of the case trial which, he stated, would be brief, delivering the men to their fate.

The Solicitor-General, Sir John Singleton-Copley, took the stand. He cleared his throat and set his chin onto a heavy dewlap, before nodding deferentially to the judge and jury. ‘My Lord, members of the Grand Jury. The prisoners, having pleaded guilty to the charges brought before this court, have forfeited their lives to the laws of the country. However, it is not my intention to offer any evidence against them on the charge of murder. I cannot say that their lives may be spared, but, as my recommendation to His Majesty goes, they should have the benefit of it.’

A wave of incoherent murmurings and mutterings shuddered around the room before the judge demanded silence once again. He paused, then faced the prisoners. ‘You have pleaded guilty to an offence of a most heinous nature, the commission of which struck terror into every well-disposed mind. You have assembled in numerous bodies to aid in the running of uncustomed goods, and in so aiding had fired upon persons who were only doing their duty. Your offences were so serious against the laws of man, and a breach of the laws of man is also an offence against the laws of God; and smuggling led to the commission of the greatest crimes, even the crime of murder. If the mercy of our gracious sovereign were extended to you, I trust you would receive it with due gratitude, and be still more grateful to your God, whom you have all so very grievously offended.’ Here the judge stopped and cast his eyes carefully over the court, before returning them to the prisoners. ‘Given that you have pleaded guilty to a capital offence, I have little alternative but to serve upon you all a sentence of death.’

Ann’s gasp was lost among a dozen other similar reactions, mixing in with an unholy cacophony of jeers, roars, and shouts for clemency.

‘You will be duly executed on the fifth day of this month,’ the judge shouted over the din.

All the individual sounds around Ann melded into one deeply penetrating shrill, and she threw up her hands to cover her ears as she looked over to see the reaction of the Aldington Gang to their fate. Ransley turned to Richard Wire, who was standing beside him. The two men looked bizarrely accepting and simply shrugged. Ann leant to her right and saw a look of disbelief on the next man, Charles Giles. His disbelief turned to an angry shout, which was lost in the noise around the court. She was unable to see the rest of the gang and could only imagine their reactions at being told they had less than one week to live.

The men were going to hang. Sam would be sent away forever. Her despicable actions to stop the trial had failed colossally. In fact, the absence of Jonas and his colleague had only merited a minor mention at the beginning of the trial, when counsel for the prosecution had said that, although it was usual for the Principal Officers to deliver their own evidence, the two men had undertaken their investigation with such diligence that the Crown could muster some seventy-three witnesses to testify against the gang.

Ann found herself moving, being pushed along in a mass of unfamiliar faces, towards the rear of the court.

Her jumbled thoughts returned to her last conversation with Sam. He had arrived unannounced at the Bell Inn a week after the arrests had been made, somehow changed. He had looked drained and haggard, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, that much had been clear, but, as he had sat beside the hearth shivering, there had been something more than that, she had quickly realised, something much more profound, like a degradation of his very spirit.

He had sat beside her, clasping a glass of brandy in front of the fire, although the shivering had refused to stop for the entire