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

Jeremy’s eyes widened, and he glanced at Guy. ‘Well, I’ve got just over a month left, then I’m out. I’ll have done my service.’

‘Really?’ Morton said. ‘It doesn’t seem long ago that you joined up.’

‘Four years, three months,’ Guy chipped in, as if he were counting the days.

‘Wow. So, then what?’

‘Well,’ Guy answered, looking conspiratorially at Jeremy, ‘we’re looking at starting our own business.’

‘Brilliant,’ Morton said without knowing whether or not it was brilliant. ‘What business?’

‘A scone shop,’ Guy answered with a touch of drama.

‘Oh, right,’ Morton said, thinking it quite possibly the last thing that he could have imagined them ever saying. ‘Just scones?’

‘Just scones and drinks,’ Jeremy confirmed. ‘You know there was that craze for cupcakes? We’re hoping to start our own craze for scones.’

‘Sounds great,’ Morton said, trying his best to sound enthusiastic.

‘And…’ Guy started, ‘we’re thinking that our first shop might be somewhere around here.’

‘Really?’ Morton said, now genuinely pleased. Living and working a few streets away from each other, rather than one of them in a God-forsaken warzone, might actually be the thing which could bring them closer together. His relationship with his brother had developed, of that he was in no doubt, but with Jeremy having been posted to various war zones, which were blacklisted by the Foreign Office as potential holiday destinations, it still suffered from a certain stiltedness.

‘Is that okay with you?’ Jeremy asked.

‘Okay? I think it would be amazing,’ he replied. ‘Not that you need my permission.’

‘Morton,’ Juliette called, appearing at the lounge door, ‘can you do another round with the champagne…’ she spotted Jeremy and Guy and rushed over to them. ‘Hello, boys!’ She threw her arms around both of them. ‘I’m so pleased to see you!’

‘Wait until you hear their news, though,’ Morton said, doing his best attempt at solemnity.

Juliette’s face fell. ‘What?’

Morton left the three of them in an excited babble of conversation. He collected the tray of drinks once again and stood back, like some kind of butler, watching in awe at the peculiar conversation combinations occurring around the lounge: Margaret, Laura and Madge were huddled together in one corner; Jim and Margot were chatting and laughing in another; George was clearly flirting with Lucy; Grace and Jack were playing on the floor in the centre of the room.

Jeremy and Guy, taking a flute each, made a beeline for Margaret, Laura and Madge, where a raft of greetings and introductions took place.

Morton turned to see Juliette heading towards him.

‘Where’s my water?’ she asked.

‘Why are you not drinking?’

‘Why are you insisting I drink?’ she countered.

‘I’m not, but I’ve noticed you’ve not been drinking. You’re not…’

Juliette laughed. ‘Pregnant? No, I can assure you that I’m not pregnant—this month at least—unless it’s by some miracle conception.’ She smiled, rolling her eyes, and went to move past him.

‘Hang on. What’s the problem, then?’

She sighed and said nothing for a moment, as if weighing up whether to say what was on her mind. ‘There’s no problem. I just want to lose the baby weight, that’s all.’ She lifted up her t-shirt and gripped a sausage of fat from her stomach. ‘Look at this.’ He went to speak, to say the obvious, but she cut him short. ‘Don’t say it. Anyway, would it matter if I was pregnant? You look horrified at the idea.’

‘Oh, God, no. I’d be delighted,’ he insisted. ‘What about you? How would you feel?’ It was something which they had never discussed. Lucy and she were always bemoaning the fact that they neither of them had siblings and, in the past, had both said how they had wished at various points in their childhoods that that had not been the case.

Juliette shrugged. ‘Yeah. I’d like more, if it happens. I’m not in a mad rush, though. I’m enjoying us and Grace for now.’

‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you that water.’ He kissed her on the lips and returned to the kitchen to get her drink.

‘Can I be cheeky and ask for a cup of tea?’

Morton turned to see Madge loitering tentatively in the doorway, almost as though she might not be welcome in the kitchen. ‘Of course—come in.’

She took a seat at the table and smiled. ‘I’m not a big alcohol-drinker, plus I’ve got to drive home later. This looks a lovely spread,’ she said, nodding to the food in front of her. ‘You have gone to a lot of trouble.’ She looked up at him. ‘Thank you for inviting me—it means a lot.’

‘You’re very welcome,’ he answered, feeling another pang of guilt about how he had almost not invited her. ‘You’re part of the family,’ he found himself saying cheerily, as he made the tea.

‘A much bigger family, so I gather from talking to Laura and Margaret.’

Morton stopped what he was doing. ‘What do you think my dad would have thought about it?’ The moment that the question had passed his lips, he regretted having asked it.

Time hung the question in the air for several seconds, neither of them speaking. ‘He found it difficult at first; I won’t lie. Do you remember that awful meal where you and Juliette came over and I got you into researching that old painting of Eliza Lovekin?’ Morton nodded at the memory. ‘He was just terrible to live with for days after that.’ Madge sighed. ‘Initially, when I asked what the problem was, he’d snap at me that it wasn’t right, what you were doing, but I kept telling him that it was perfectly right and inevitable that you should want to know your past. I felt like there was something more to it and, despite his fiery temper, I kept pushing. Eventually, after he’d returned from the club a little the worse for wear, he told