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

Having taken some photographs of the church and its surroundings, Morton opened Google Maps. It appeared that the village, although small, was sprawled out over a large area, constituting, as it had done during Ann’s time here, a patchwork of agricultural fields. What looked like the centre of the village—including the majority of the houses, the school, pub and village hall—were all a good twenty-minute walk away. As he stood in a coin of sunshine, he contemplated leaving the car and enjoying a walk along the country lanes, but time was short, and he convinced himself that the forty-minutes roundtrip could be put to better use elsewhere.

He unhurriedly returned to his car, then drove along the Roman Road, taking stock of the buildings that he passed as he went. An assortment of properties, from crude post-war social housing to grand fourteenth-century homes, clustered around the village centre.

Morton parked up beside a children’s playpark. A young man was in the throes of pushing a toddler on a swing and two older children were climbing the steps to the top of a slide. Morton smiled, beginning to walk the main street of the village, thinking about Grace and how much he was missing Juliette and her, despite their having only been gone for one day. Then he remembered Grace’s upcoming birthday and he felt a pang of anxiety. He still had not spoken to his Aunty Margaret. Every time that he had dialled her number, he had immediately ended the call in cold fear of the discussion which would have ensued. Last night, spurred on by the uninhibited courage which had emanated from having polished off a bottle of red wine by himself, he had rehearsed what he was going to say to her. Then, he had phoned her, listening to the ringing tone for what felt like an age. He had been about to hang up when she had answered with a gruff ‘Hello?’ Her voice had shredded through his prepared speech, leaving his mind wiped and his mouth empty of words. He had hit the red button and ended the call without uttering so much as a single syllable. Now, he felt foolish. A foolish coward. What was the worst that could have happened? That her reaction would have been frosty and that she might have changed her mind about attending the party?

Morton walked the main stretch of the village absentmindedly, unable to shake a muddy and uncomfortable question that had entered his mind: if it came to a choice, which one of his biological parents would he prefer to have at the party? His sugar-coated memories of Aunty Margaret held the more deeply seated longevity of close family, beginning at some stage in his hazy formative years, the specific date or occasion now indiscernible. Of his biological father, Jack, memories had begun to form with a jolt just nineteen months ago. By comparison, the latter were shorter and fewer in number, yet had taken on a profound and unexpected intensity which were absent from those of his Aunty Margaret.

It was not a choice which he could make, he realised. Nor one which he should have to make. It was his daughter’s first birthday and both grandparents were openly welcome to attend; the multifarious threads of their emotions and feelings could not be his to unravel.

He breathed in at length, working the pernicious thought from his mind, noticing then that he was standing beside a bed of bright yellow daffodils, out of which rose the Aldington village sign. It was in black metal cut in the shape of a shield. At the top was the village name, at the bottom was depicted a range of farming tools and sheep, indicating a rich heritage of agriculture. Above the sheep were three wavy lines, on top of which stood three men with large barrels upon their backs. Smugglers, Morton supposed. He photographed the sign, then continued through the village.

He reached his car, opened the door, then glanced to the other side of the road at the Walnut Tree Inn. He looked at his watch: almost twelve. Lunchtime, sort of. He crossed the road and entered the pub, finding himself in a deserted room with a short bar.

‘Afternoon. Are you after food or…?’ a barmaid greeted. She was young—late teens, Morton guessed—with olive skin and incongruously bright red hair.

‘Food and drink, please,’ Morton answered.

‘Take your pick of tables,’ the barmaid said, handing him a menu. ‘Specials are on the board.’ She pointed at a blackboard behind him. ‘See what you fancy and I’ll be over to take your order.’

‘Thank you,’ Morton replied, distracted from the specials board by the surrounding decorations. Tankards, barrels and old pistols were displayed on almost every wall and shelf around the bar. On one wall, written on the light wood in large black letters was a poem:

Smuggler’s Song by Rudyard Kipling.

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,

Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,

Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

‘Ready?’ the barmaid asked.

‘Oh…’ Morton said, not yet having moved from the bar. He quickly glanced at the blackboard and plucked the first thing upon which his eyes settled. ‘Chicken and mushroom pie with new potatoes and veg, please. And a small glass of house red. Thanks.’

The barmaid tapped his order into the till. ‘Fourteen pounds fifty, please.’

Morton handed over his credit card. ‘Was this a smugglers’ pub?’ he asked, gesturing to all the apparel dotted around the room.

The barmaid handed over the credit card machine. ‘I don’t know to be honest, I’ve not been here long. It might just be decoration. I can ask the landlord if you like.’

‘If they’re around, thank you,’ Morton replied, typing his PIN number into