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

the desire to marry or have children repressed. The day that he had married Juliette would certainly be among the best of his life, but its significance went way beyond a handful of hazy fleeting moments in the company of friends and family.

He drank some more wine, sighed thoughtfully, then turned back to his laptop.

Logging in to The Genealogist website, Morton ran a search in the Tithe & Land Owner record collection for Braemar Cottage, Aldington. Receiving just one result, he clicked it and a large-scale map of the village loaded before him. Dated 1842, the map carved the village up into its composite parcels of land, with houses and buildings marked and annotated with the owner and occupiers’ names. Braemar Cottage was, by 1842, occupied by one Thomas Tutt.

Zooming in closely, Morton could see that Braemar Cottage was one of several tied to the estate of Court Lodge Farm. Directly beside the farm was the parish church, and it dawned on Morton then, that he had seen the farm and some of the small tied cottages when he had made the trip to the village three days ago. From what he could remember, they were small and modest affairs.

Before printing the map, Morton spent some time moving his cursor around the village, zooming in to various areas of interests. He found Hester Banister living in what appeared to be sizable cottage close to the Walnut Tree Inn. Crucial to his theory that her husband, Samuel was no longer in the country was the fact that Hester was among only a handful of women without the prefix of ‘widow’; those other women being the wives of transported smugglers.

Morton was startled by the house phone ringing beside him. The area code—01326—told him exactly who was calling him. He paused, staring at the phone. He might not have answered it but for the fear of the continual ringing waking Grace making his decision for him. ‘Hello?’ he said, in way which suggested he had no knowledge of the caller’s identity.

‘Hello, Morton, it’s your Aunty Margaret, here,’ she said brightly.

‘Oh, hi,’ he answered casually. ‘How are you?’

‘Muddling along as usual,’ she said. ‘What about at your end?’

‘Great, thank you. Grace is tucked up in bed and Juliette went back to work today.’

‘Oh, dear. I don’t imagine she liked that,’ Margaret sympathised. ‘I was more than happy to give up work when I had the girls.’ She chuckled.

‘I think she went back with mixed feelings—it was her choice to go back,’ he said, feeling an odd sense of defensiveness, as though he had been the one forcing her back to work against her will.

‘It’s the way these days,’ she said.

‘Yes,’ Morton found himself agreeing, although to what, he wasn’t quite sure.

A pause in the conversation began to swell as they both circumvented what she needed to say, and what he was waiting to hear.

He decided to plough straight in. ‘So, have you—’ but his words collided with her saying, ‘So, I’ve made a decision…’ Another awkward pause. ‘Sorry, go on,’ he said.

‘I’ve made a decision about coming down,’ she repeated, before adding an unnecessary moment of suspense akin to a television talent show host on the verge of announcing a winner’s name.

‘Right,’ Morton said coolly, as though he had forgotten all about it.

‘Jim and I will be coming to Grace’s party.’

The curdling mixture of anxiety and elation instantly returned to Morton’s stomach. ‘Brilliant,’ he replied. ‘I’m so pleased you’ll be there.’

‘So, we’ll be arriving at the hotel across the road from you just after lunchtime tomorrow.’

Morton felt a cold lurch inside him as the reality of the situation dawned on him. Jack, Laura and George were arriving just after lunchtime tomorrow. He glanced at the clock in the top corner of his laptop: 8.56pm. In fact, if their flight had been on time, they would be in the air right now.

‘Excellent,’ Morton muttered, wondering if he should go to the hotel to greet them, or have them come to the house. Since they would be meeting at the party, he opted to plummet straight into the abyss. ‘Jack, Laura and George will be here around that time; would you like to come for dinner, as it’s Grace’s actual birthday tomorrow?’

Margaret cleared her throat. ‘Yes, that would be lovely if it’s not too much trouble?’

‘No trouble,’ Morton answered.

‘Smashing. We’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, then.’

‘Great—have a good journey.’

‘Bye.’

He said goodbye, ended the call and looked with bewilderment at the photograph of Jack and Margaret together in 1974, wondering what an earth kind of awkward mess dinner tomorrow night was going to be.

‘What have I done?’ he said to himself.

Chapter Twelve

 

26th March 1822, outside the town boundary of Dover, Kent

The cold night sky seemed endless to Sam, as he stared up in awe at the tiny white dots littered against the pale grey backdrop. His neck stiffened, and he gently rolled his head around, grimacing at the clicking of his bones. He glanced sideways, in the direction of where Alexander Spence and Thomas Brazier had disappeared some minutes before. On this part of the coastline, just outside of Dover, nothing moved or stirred but the gentle roll of the tide. He gazed out at the erupting, cream-tipped waves, breaking a short distance from him, seemingly conjured from a dark hem sewn between earth and sea.

He turned to stroke the horse which was tethered beside him, after it had snorted and impatiently pawed one of its hoofs on the ground.

‘They not be long,’ Sam said, giving a firm slap to its shoulder.

He looked again into the darkness, but there was no sign of the two men.

In a drunken agreement last night, Spence and Brazier had accepted Ransley’s request for two volunteers to earn extra money. Sam had brought them