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

‘They will certainly be of use to me,’ he enthused, leading the way inside.

Sam found the pub a much calmer one than that which he had left. The men were in the process of devouring their bread, cheese and beer and some of the more seriously injured had passed out, though whether from pain or intoxication, Sam could not tell. Dr Papworth-Hougham led Ann over to the first injured man.

Sam found George Ransley, sitting alone at a table, drinking ale.

‘Reckon we lost two tonight,’ Ransley informed him.

‘Unless they be out there somewhere—making their own way?’ Sam suggested.

Ransley sniffed and spat a globule of phlegm onto the floor beside him. ‘Not from what the men be saying. John Hart took a musket to his chest and Richard Hill to the head. I don’t be a-reckoning they be making their own way anywhere.’

‘I be seeing their widows right,’ Sam mumbled.

Ransley nodded his agreement and drank some ale. ‘Be giving the men their dues then we best move on.’

Sam did as he had been instructed and moved around the pub, paying each man according to his role.

‘Let’s be getting these carts loaded,’ Ransley called and the men began to shuffle from their seats to the back door.

In the yard, the men formed four lines which ran from the rear of the carts, converging at the stack of barrels. With meaty grunts, the men heaved the contraband along the line into the awaiting carts, but only two were completely filled—half the expected quantity.

‘That tarnal lot,’ Ransley complained. ‘Be putting the men what be hurt in there.’

On his instruction, the injured men were heaved into the back of the two empty carts.

Sam spotted someone in apparent good health among their number. ‘You, out,’ he ordered. He had the arm of James Carter—the man with the bone protruding from his leg—slung around his shoulder. Sam did not recognise the other man, and the knowledge of from where their smuggling gang operated was strictly withheld from strangers.

‘I’m helping him—he can’t walk for himself,’ the man answered.

‘He be alright—my life be owed to him,’ James Carter defended. ‘Weren’t for him I’d’ve taken another musket.’

‘What be your name?’ Sam demanded.

‘Jonas—Jonas Blackwood.’

‘Which parish do you be hailing from, Jonas Blackwood?’

‘Folkestone of the last seven months, Stockwell before that.’

Sam stared at him suspiciously, saying nothing.

Doctor Papworth-Hougham leant over and whispered in Sam’s ear. ‘That leg will likely have to be removed tomorrow. I need someone to watch him overnight.’

‘Alright,’ Sam conceded to Jonas. ‘But this doctor needs to be finding him alive in the morning.’

Jonas nodded.

‘Right!’ Sam called up to George Ransley, who was one of the four horse riders. ‘You be ready to go.’

Ransley dug his ankles into his horse’s sides and proceeded from the yard, followed by the second and third cart. Sam clambered into the back of the fourth and nodded for the rider to follow on.

‘Where do that be leaving me?’ a voice demanded.

Sam turned to see Ann with her arms folded and her eyes reeling with rage. ‘Hold!’

The horse was pulled to an abrupt halt.

‘Here,’ Sam said, offering her his left hand.

She stood motionless, holding his gaze, saying nothing.

Sam motioned for her to take his hand.

‘Ready?’ the rider barked down.

Ann reached out and climbed inside the cart, squeezing into a tiny space beside Sam.

‘Go!’ he called out and the horse trotted from the yard.

As they progressed in silence through the back roads and dirt tracks towards Aldington on this starkly cold night, Sam took some ignoble gratification from the warm closeness of Ann’s body pressed to his.

‘Why don’t you be coming back?’ Sam whispered to her.

Ann grinned and placed her hand on his leg.

Chapter Nine

18th November 1821, Aldington Frith, Kent

Ann delighted in the way that the room danced in time with the music. Richard Wire, a local smuggler was playing Robin Hood on his violin. Three topless women from the village were parading around, their breasts heaving to the beat of the music. By some clever trick Richard Wire had made the walls move to the rhythm of the song. Even the floor was undulating beneath her feet. Men from the village were sitting at small tables, gambling with cards and dice, their feet tap-tapping a unified beat into her head. In stark opposition to the bitter temperatures outside, in here the air was clammy and sticky, permeated with the heady stench of male sweat, smoke and spilled beer.

Ann closed her eyes and took another sip of her rum, savouring its warmth at the back of her throat, then she began to sing, ‘The sheriff attempts to take bold Robin Hood. Bold Robin disdains to fly: Let him come when he will. We’ll make merry in Sherwood, vanquish boys or die.’

Someone spoke inside her head: ‘Interesting place,’ he said.

Ann opened her eyes and turned from side to side. A man was staring at her. A handsome man, by all accounts. Tall muscular and tidy-looking. ‘What be?’

The man held an open hand to the room. ‘Here—this place.’

‘The Bourne Tap?’ Ann said. ‘Ransley’s new home don’t make for a bad place, no.’

The man picked at the tips of his dark moustache as he considered her words. ‘And with its own unlicensed beer house attached. Middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of woodland, serving his own smuggled rum and beer at low prices…’

‘You’ll not see many, save the bruff landlord of the Walnut, complaining at the price of liquor here!’ Ann stated.

‘I don’t suppose so,’ the man agreed. ‘And yet no sign of the man himself.’

‘Ransley be too shrewd for that.’

‘So it seems,’ he said, sinking the last mouthful of his beer. He licked the froth from around his mouth, then