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

time, during which he had been with her. He had explained in a low, monotone voice that he had given evidence to a man named Lieutenant Hellard and another man—a solicitor from the Admiralty—of every smuggler whom he had ever known, and of every smuggling run which he could remember ever having taken place.

‘I only ever be doing it to keep us from the poorhouse,’ he had said several times, staring into the fire.

Ann had not been sure if he had been talking to her or to himself, but she had agreed.

Then, Sam had laughed. It was a strange hollow laugh, one that Ann had never heard from him before. ‘Do you be remembering that night what we met?’

Ann had nodded. ‘Yes, I do. You were feverish, nigh-on dead,’ she had said.

‘Gold,’ Sam had remembered.

‘Pardon?’ Ann had said.

‘Two barrels of gold guineas underneath his aunt’s pigpen—that be what old Quested be telling me.’ Sam had snorted and drunk more of his brandy. ‘What life might’ve bin were that true…’

‘It was true,’ Ann had found herself saying, ‘but they’re gone now—empty.’

Sam had shot her a look of shocked disbelief. ‘What?’

‘The guineas—there were two barrels full—now they’re empty.’

‘Did you…?’

Ann had shaken her head vehemently. ‘No—not me.’

‘Who?’

‘It doesn’t matter, now…’

Sam had either accepted her flimsy assertion, or had not the energy to counter it, for he had nodded in acceptance and gazed at his dwindling drink. ‘No, what matter do it be to a condemned man?’

‘You might yet be spared the trial,’ Ann had said.

Ann’s eyes had darted to the new wall in the hearth, then she had chosen her words carefully, turning to face Sam. ‘You don’t yet know that there will be a trial—anything might happen.’

‘Yeah,’ he had said, ‘Happen I grow a pair of wings and be flying away.’

‘I’m serious, Sam,’ Ann had pushed.

He had given her a wooden smile. ‘Will you be coming with me?’ he had asked.

‘Where?’

‘Chicago be where I planning on going after the trial be done—I got an old mate out there.’

‘But…Hester?’

Sam had grunted. ‘She bain’t coming.’ He had looked her in the eyes earnestly. ‘Please, Ann? Nobody be knowing us there, we can be man and wife… New start.’

She had sighed, a long, drawn out exhalation of feeling and then he had taken her hand in his, leaned across and kissed her.

The freezing cold seemed to slap Ann hard across the face, bringing her sharply back to the present. Somehow, she was alone outside the court, her red shawl standing out brightly against the thick falling snow.

Chapter Thirty-Five

As Morton approached Arthur Fothergill’s bungalow, he saw the large crowd of bemused onlookers, held back behind a long line of police tape. Among their number, he spotted Clara Garrow, quietly sobbing into her hand.

Morton reached the corner of the bungalow; at least, what was left of it. All that now remained was a scorched brick shell. The roof had collapsed and all of the front-facing windows had shattered. Narrow plumes of grey smoke rose from the indescribable ruins.

He looked at Clara’s devastated face, unsure of how to approach her and what he would say, exactly.

He hesitated for a few seconds longer, then walked over to her with a concerned expression. ‘Hi, Clara.’

She took a moment to recognise him, then quickly sniffed, wiped her eyes and tried to put on something resembling a brave face. ‘Oh, hello… Sorry.’

‘No need to apologise—it must have been a big shock,’ he said.

She nodded, as she hurried to catch a tear running down her left cheek.

‘I just knew…had a feeling from what Phil said to me on the phone that he was going to do something stupid,’ she managed to say through her sobs. ‘But I really didn’t think he was capable of this.’ She nodded towards the smouldering wreck in front of them. ‘I feel so stupid. To think I let him just steal my uncle’s guinea like that and then sell it on eBay. I feel sick. My poor uncle…’

‘Yes,’ Morton said, casting his eyes over the bungalow. ‘How is he?’

‘Bewildered, but absolutely fine,’ she said, sobbing. ‘The police came and got him after I told them that I was worried Phil was about to do something reckless.’

‘And they’ve got him now,’ Morton said, a statement more than a question, Juliette having already given him a summary of what had happened.

‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘They were waiting for him as soon as he left the house, but it was too late to stop the fire.’

A pause stretched out before them, then Morton said, ‘I don’t know if your uncle is still interested but I’ve almost finished on the case…’ Given all that had happened, it sounded a slightly pathetic and ridiculous thing to be discussing.

Clara smiled. ‘Thank you. Yes, he’s still interested in it. He wants to know all about Ann and her life. It was Phil who kept pushing those blasted guineas into everyone’s face.’

‘Okay, well I’m just waiting on the DNA results, then I’ll be in touch to arrange a meeting.’

‘Thank you,’ Clara said.

Six days later, Morton was sitting in the Coach House Coffee Shop in New Romney with Clara and Arthur. On the round table in front of them was a bulging folder, filled with his report and all of its associated evidence on the Fothergill Case. He had just finished giving a brief rundown on the gang and some of their exploits along the coast in the 1820s.

‘Smugglers!’ Arthur said, clearly delighted with Ann’s association with it. ‘I’ve heard of the Aldington Gang! To think that my great-grandmother worked for them as an apothecary. Well, I’ll be jiggered...’

‘Who’d have thought it?’ Clara said, nudging Arthur gently.

‘At some point in 1825, Ann took ownership of the Bell Inn—’