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

‘How do you be managing, with money I be meaning?’ Sam asked, turning his back on Quested’s body.

Martha shrugged. ‘I bain’t managing,’ she muttered.

‘Before he died, he were talking of having some gold guineas hidden away at his aunt’s place,’ Sam ventured.

Martha emitted a low laugh of derision. ‘That what he been telling you?’

‘You never be knowing my husband well. He were full of fanciful tales, full of promises,’ she derided. ‘Now be looking at him.’ Her eyes glistened, as she shot them to the coffin. She folded her arms and met Sam’s gaze. ‘He died with nothing. Not a shilling. That what you here for? What he be owing from smuggling runs? I bain’t got nothing to give you.’

Sam shook his head. ‘No, that weren’t it. I be wanting to see that you be alright.’

‘Thank you,’ she replied, although Sam couldn’t determine whether she was being genuine or not.

‘I best be going,’ he said, moving towards the street door. ‘Again, I be truly sorry. If there be any help I can be giving…’

‘Thank you,’ Martha said, following him to the door. ‘Goodbye.’

Sam found himself back out in the freezing night, having not had opportunity to rest his tired legs. He was desperate to return home but his work for the night was unfinished.

The aching in his legs determined the slow trudge through the snowy lane. At a fork in the road, he turned away from the village and began to climb a dirt track that wound its way through an unmanaged woodland. Here, his pace further dwindled as the trees obscured what little light there had been and the incline of the hill was nigh-on unbearable. As he ploughed on, thoughts of despair began to creep into his mind. What if he couldn’t make it back home? What if he collapsed here? What would happen to Hester, John and the baby? Peculiarly, he thought again of Ann Fothergill, envisioning that she would return heroically to Braemar Cottage to help his family once again. Absurd, he told himself, nudging the thought to one side.

Sam paused as a squat wooden house came into view, cowering under a fleece of white. The combination of the surrounding snow and the flickering amber light from within gave the property a pleasing romantic feel that belied its dilapidated condition. He watched the slow silhouetted movement from inside, whilst giving each leg in turn a brief respite by standing flamingo-like on the other.

Snow had obliterated the path which ran past the house. Sam had been a few times before, casual-labouring for Widow Stewart’s now-deceased husband. He had fitted fences here and repaired a stone wall on her boundary, and so knew from memory that the path would bring him perilously close to the house; so, he opted instead to stick to the dark treeline.

He slogged on, putting one foot in front of the other, stumbling and falling at regular intervals over snow-cloaked hazards. By the time he reached the top, Sam had become convinced that the wickedness of his deeds bestowed upon him the misfortune of finding each and every rabbit-hole, boulder or fallen branch.

In every way imaginable, the pigpen was unremarkable and the most unlikely storage facility for a barrelful of gold guineas.

Sam felt a sudden rush of foolishness. His cheeks flushed with anger and, even though nobody knew of his being here, embarrassment. Slumping down on the low wall, Sam finally gave in to the pain in his legs. As he exhaled noisily, the relief from his muscles gripped him.

Several minutes passed and the cold began to permeate through his clothing. He stood again and looked at the pigpen. Now that he was here, he might as well take a look in the cellar. Clambering over the wall, he headed towards the stone enclosure. He poked his head inside the unilluminated room, startling the swine into a panicked squeal. ‘Sshh!’ he urged, brushing his left foot around the excrement-covered wooden floor, trying to feel for an indentation or perhaps a handle to gain access to the floor below.

His foot caught on something and he reached down, touching with something sticky and wet. He traced the cold surface, realising that it was a pull ring. Exerting some degree of force, he pulled until the heavy door creaked open, falling backwards in a giant stretch.

Sam crouched down and stared below. For all that the blackness revealed, the cellar might have been just a foot deep or the county’s deepest cave. Having no method of lighting the space, he had no choice but to try and get inside it. He sat down over the hole and began to dangle his legs into the void. He couldn’t feel the bottom. ‘Tarnal place be damned!’ he yelled.

As far as he could see, he had two choices: he could leave now without the knowledge of what was down there, or he could drop down into the abyss and risk breaking his legs with little possibility of ever getting back out again.

He thought no longer and pushed himself off the edge. He landed with a jolt just a few feet below. He sighed as he glanced up and saw the black outline of an inquisitive pig.

With his hands outstretched in front of him like a blind man, Sam began to search the cellar. It took little time, bouncing off the four walls, to realise that the room was empty. Completely empty. He even shuffled his boots around the stone floor to check that nothing had spilled out.

Sam made one final sweep of the cellar before hoisting himself up into the foul mess of the pigpen floor. Slamming the door shut, he stormed back out, over the wall and down the path beside the house, not caring whether he was seen or not. What was Widow Stewart