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

‘I be wanting…’ Ann murmured, before correcting herself. ‘I am wanting to open an account.’

The man passed a not-particularly-subtle look of wonderment to his colleague. ‘And what, may I enquire, is the nature of your business?’

‘A surgeon-apothecary,’ she lied.

Both men struggled to contain a light snigger. ‘How enthralling,’ the other man said, now laughing out loud. ‘A surgeon-apothecary.’

‘Yes,’ the first man chimed in, ‘And yet he seems to be dressed as a woman!’

‘A poor woman, at that,’ the other added.

Time seemed to slow down for Ann and she saw the men mocking her, as if their movements were severely slackened by something cloying in their veins and muscles: sand, she imagined. She used the opportunity of extra time to think. She had choices. She did not have to succumb to the internal screams and pleas, which steered her out of this awful place into the Packet Boat Inn to sink a few glasses of rum, only then to return here with a deliverance of coarse invectives. She could return to St James’s Street and politely ask Miss Bowler to accompany her to the bank and assist her in opening an account. She was certain that Miss Bowler would do it and that her station in life would satisfy the two bankers. Somehow, that seemed a worse option, as though the new Ann Fothergill was in some way weak and diffident and wholly reliant on other people, an unwelcome feeling which she had never felt in her entire life. She decided on simplicity and laughed with the men. ‘I don’t be too sure that Mr Henshaw Latham be happy about how long this be taking.’

The men stopped laughing and looked at each other.

‘Mr Latham—the mayor?’ said the one who had first spoken to her in a tone which suggested complete disbelief.

Ann shrugged. ‘That be the man what sent me. He said—’ here she drew on Miss Bowler’s expressions and fancy words, ‘—to go and see the gentlemen at J. Minet and Fector bank and they will open an account for me.’ She looked around her with exaggerated movements. ‘Do this not be J. Minet and Fector bank?’

‘Yes, Madam, it is,’ the other man said flatly. He faced his colleague earnestly. ‘If Mr Latham has recommended us, and if the lady is seeking to deposit, rather than seeking credit, perhaps we could assist.’

A nod of acquiescence from the first man and a false smile to Ann. ‘If I could take some particulars…’

He pulled a large burgundy ledger from below the counter and opened it to a page with printed writing, which made Ann think of the Dutch printers randomly adding letters to make words longer. She wondered if any of those small upside-down words contained any pointless letters. Dipping a white quill into an inkwell beside him, the banker noted down Ann’s name and address, and then asked, ‘And how much will Miss Fothergill be depositing with us, today?’

Ann pulled out her purse and tipped the contents onto the counter.

The banker’s bony index finger began greedily plucking at the coins, drawing them one at a time towards him.

Ann reached out, pulling sufficient money back to cover her coach fare, before grabbing a further six pence from the dwindling pile of cash.

‘Two pounds and five shillings,’ the banker confirmed, writing the amount in the ledger.

‘Thank you,’ Ann said, taking the proffered receipt.

The man placed the tome back under the counter and stood back level with his colleague, both with their hands tucked behind their backs.

Ann stared at them both mistrustfully. She had never handed money to anyone in her life and received nothing in return. She looked at the small piece of paper in her hand, trying to decipher what had been written. She smiled politely and tucked the piece of paper into her purse. ‘Good day,’ she said.

‘Good day, Madam,’ said the banker who had opened the account, with a wintry smile.

‘Please pass our regards to Mayor Latham and tell him that we look forward to seeing him later in the week,’ the other uttered.

 Ann sighed as she stepped out into the warm afternoon. She was certain that her lies would find her out. But what was the worst that could happen? That they might close her account and hand back her money.

The clock tower struck one-thirty, just as she was looking at it. An hour and a half before the coach would depart; plenty of time for one glass of rum.

 Inside the coolness of the Packet Boat Inn, Ann felt herself relax. Muscles, which she hadn’t realised were tense, now slackened. The air in here—thick with the smoky exhalations of unwashed mariners and beer-infused belches of the labouring classes—was somehow easier to breathe than that in the bank. She stood impassively at the bar, awaiting her turn, among those of her kind: slop-sellers, cowmen, hawkers, vagrants and itinerants.

She always kept an eye out for any signs of Jonas Blackwood, but there had been none. She had mentioned the oddity of seeing him among the town’s dignitaries at Alexander Spence’s hanging to both Sam Banister and George Ransley, who both had not seemed especially interested, dismissing the likelihood of it having been him. Now, ten months distant, she too doubted the memory of that day. The figure that her recollection provided her with now was faceless, like a time-worn statue. And yet, as she had pointed out, Jonas had not returned to smuggling since that day.

She heard a coarse laugh and turned with a grin to see the unholy tripartite alliance sitting at the table nearest her: Jacob Reuben, the rope-maker, John Pittock the undertaker and the Dover hangman. ‘You be but awaiting the Grim Reaper?’ Ann asked with a laugh.

The three men looked up, but seemed not to understand, and returned to their beer and—judging by the words which Ann