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

His hand stayed there, although its initial weight quickly waned, and Morton took a surreptitious glance to the side to see if it still remained there. It did, leaving him wondering if Jack was consciously keeping it there, perhaps as a manifestation of his pride, or whether perhaps it had been a mechanical action of which he had not really been aware.

‘Two large coffees,’ the man said, drearily handing over two cardboard cups.

‘Thanks,’ Jack said, his hand sliding from Morton’s shoulder as he reached out for the drinks.

‘Grab a seat and I’ll bring the food over,’ Morton said.

Jack headed to a table with two large red chairs and sat facing in Morton’s direction. A long low beep emanated from somewhere behind the counter, prompting the man to turn with a pair of metal tongs and withdraw the two paninis from the contraption which had just heated them up. Morton watched as he dropped them into two paper bags, then thrust them over the counter, addressing the next man in the queue with a dull parroting, ‘Can I help?’

‘So,’ Jack began, as Morton sat down. ‘How does what we’ve achieved this morning compare to your other cases? Are we at an expected point? Or…?’

Morton nodded, while he chomped through a mouthful of panini. ‘It’s okay, yeah. To be honest, most of the cases that I work on are difficult and involve following a scent and seeing what comes up. I couldn’t have known, when I was sitting in Arthur Fothergill’s lounge, that I would need to order letters from the captain of HMS Ramillies; one document leads to another and… here we are.’

‘Yeah, I get that. So, you think you’ll crack this one?’

‘I think so, yes.’ Morton tilted his head to one side as he considered the question. Arthur had ostensibly requested three things of him during the 1820-1827 period: where Ann had resided; the rather nebulous question of what Ann had been up to; and finally, the identity of her son’s father. The first point Morton considered practically achieved. The second, was continuing in a satisfying manner. On the third he had made little progress and hoped that, with a little work, the results of the DNA test might verify this in the next few days.

‘Excellent. Are you going to be working tomorrow?’

‘Erm…’ Morton looked at Jack, wondering at his question. Was Jack wanting him to be working more, perhaps so that he could help? Or was he hoping that Morton would take the day off, so that they could spend it together doing something more interesting or relaxing? ‘Well, work can happen at any time. What do you want to do?’ He hoped his diplomatic answer gave Jack the space in which to say what he actually wanted to do.

‘Okay. I was wondering if maybe you wanted to take a trip over to Folkestone?’ Jack asked.

‘Yes, of course. What do you want to see there? It’s not exactly the cultural capital of England.’

‘I’d like to go back and take a look at the place we stayed when we came over in seventy-four—show it to Laura and George.’

Morton nodded, for some reason finding it odd that he should want to show his wife where he had fathered a child with another woman forty-four years ago. ‘That’ll be nice. Juliette’s working all day, so I’ll have Grace.’

‘Shame she’s working but great that I get to spend more ‘Gandpa’ time with little Grace.’ Jack smiled and tucked into his panini.

Having finished their food and drink, Morton led the way to the first floor. They passed through the security search, swiped their cards and entered a lobby area, containing rows and rows of translucent orange lockers, each embossed with a large number and letter. Morton headed to 10B and opened the locker door to see three large cardboard boxes stacked neatly on top of each other. ‘We can have one each,’ Morton said, taking the top box and passing it to Jack, then withdrawing the second for himself. ‘Follow me.’

Opposite the bank of lockers was the Document Reading Room, set behind a wall of glass. Morton proceeded through the set of double-doors into the room, which was filled with desks and busy with researchers.

 ‘That’s you,’ Morton said, indicating the seat, 10A, beside him on the octagonal table.

‘So, what have I got here, then?’ Jack asked, pulling out the yellow slip from the side of the box. ‘ADM 37/7670.’ He shrugged.

‘The log book for Ramillies, first of September 1826 to thirty-first of October 1826. You’re looking for any mention of the usual suspects.’

Jack removed a large bound volume and placed it down with genuine deference. ‘Wow,’ he said, opening the first page.

Morton checked his own yellow slip—ADM 51/3400—Captain’s log, July 1825 to March 1830. The ledger was large with sepia pages, headed with the words, ‘Remarks, HMS Ramillies in the Downs.’ Each day, divided by a neat ruled line, seemed to vary in length according to the events and incidents which had necessitated recording. It took Morton a few minutes to decipher the long sloping style of handwriting, as he read through the first day’s account on the 1st July 1825: ‘AM moderate and cloudy. At 2 same weather. At 4 fresh breeze. Washed clothes. At 7 cleaned decks. At 8.30 communicated with office. Carpenters employed repairing boats. Armourers at the forge cleaning arms. At 11 the Captain came on board and punished Thomas Marchant with 48 lashes for acknowledged bribery, William Coffee, 36 lashes for 5 sovereigns being found secreted in the soles of his shoes, James Clark, 36 lashes for absenting himself from the watch-house for two days, Sergt. O’Keefe, 12 lashes for drunkenness and insolent conduct. Noon fresh breezes and fine. PM moderate and fine. At 6 same weather. Sent a galley with Lt. Reed to look out for smuggling boats. At 11 fresh