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

waiting, as his one remaining leg did an ungainly jig which struggled to keep time with the swivelling of his wooden crutch.

Ann locked the door and followed him to his horse and carriage. ‘Do you need help?’ she called, seeing him struggle to pull himself into his seat.

James shook his head, grunting as he manoeuvred himself up and on.

Ann climbed into the carriage and pulled her shawl tight; their journey started with a fierce jolt forwards.

The ride to Dover was rough and bumpier than she had ever experienced. A deluge of rain last week had been followed by a dense freezing fog, and now heavy snow, which had left the usual deep ruts and hoof indentations in the road as solid as stone. On several occasions, Ann had been thrown from her seat and was grateful when they finally reached the quay, where the horse was brought to a standstill. She stepped from the carriage to see James tethering the horse to a large iron ring.

‘Ready?’ he asked.

‘I be...I am ready,’ Ann confirmed.

The blizzard, driving hard across the Channel, seemed much heavier here, concealing the long run of businesses which lined the quay behind a veil of white and grey. Ann led them by recollection, rather than by sight, over the cobbles, maintaining the pace of her one-legged companion until they reached a smart red-brick-fronted building. Above the door was a neat painted sign which read, Latham, Rice & Co. Below the name, in a smaller font was written, Agents for Hanover, Vice-Consuls for Russia, Prussia, Spain, Portugal, Sardinia, Sicily & Mecklenburg.

Ann pushed down on the brass door handle and entered a small, yet surprisingly busy office. Their arrival was heralded by a jangling bell just above the door. Six smart men, sitting at individual desks around the room, looked over at the new arrivals, all of them holding a fixed and mechanical rictus that appeared to be the standard greeting for visitors. Ann hesitated, unsure of which desk she should approach; none of the men appeared any more welcoming than the next. A well-dressed gentleman with a white beard entered the room from a door at the rear, carrying two large ledgers, which he deposited on the desk furthest away from Ann and James. The man at the desk whispered something to the bearded gentlemen, which clearly involved the new visitors, for he shot a quick look in their direction, before fixing his own smile likewise and walking towards them.

‘How can I be of assistance?’ he asked, mildly pleasantly.

Ann took a moment to choose her words. ‘I should like to speak with Mr Henry Purdon, agent to the Hanoverian Consulate,’ she said, hoping that her memory of the conversation with Jonas was somewhere close to being correct.

The bearded man frowned and took a lingering look between Ann and James. ‘I’m terribly sorry but Mr Purdon is currently not available. On what business are you enquiring?’

‘It’s about his friend, William Fry,’ Ann said, with feigned confidence.

The man clearly held prior knowledge of the name William Fry, for he emitted a mild gasp, which he promptly tried to conceal. ‘I see. Do bear with me for a moment.’

Ann watched as he hurried through the door at the back of the room, noticing then that their conversation had drawn the attention of all six men sitting at their desks. Some looked away sharply, others continued to stare.

James leant in close and whispered, ‘You be stirring trouble, Ann.’

Ann smiled. ‘I certainly be hoping so.’

Very quickly, the man reappeared at the door; another older man quickly barged past him. His plump face was flush but devoid of any visible emotion and, as he strode towards her, Ann could not tell how she was going to be received.

‘Come with me,’ he instructed, turning on his heel back towards the rear of the room. His voice betrayed no emotion, but it also left Ann with the distinct lack of choice in the matter.

The man held the door, waiting with an impatient look, as James hobbled his way through the office. With Ann and James inside, he slammed the door shut and said, ‘Who the devil are you?’

‘Miss Ann Fothergill,’ she introduced, in her best mimic of Miss Bowler’s voice and accent. ‘This is James Carter. And you are?’

‘Mr Rice, one of the partners here. And what do you know of William Fry?’

Ann guessed, from the manner in which they had been herded out of the earshot of the other men, that she held some unspecified advantage, and decided to try her luck. ‘What do you know of William Fry?’ Ann asked. ‘That’s what I should like to know.’

Mr Rice exhaled as he slumped down into the chair behind his desk. ‘Only that that damned fellow vanished on the same day that half my bloody office were arrested.’

‘Oh, I see,’ Ann said, though she did not see at all. ‘And when do this be… when would this have been?’

‘Two months ago, or so. Do you know of his whereabouts? I’m certain he’s at the root of all these arrests.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t,’ Ann replied, enjoying the haughty sound of her contrived voice. ‘I’m looking for him myself and I were hoping that Mr Purdon might be able to help me.’

‘Well, you’ll find him currently residing in Canterbury Gaol.’

‘Oh. What were he arrested for?’ Ann asked.

‘Fraud—like the rest of them.’

Ann quickly tried to assemble the pieces of information at her disposal to form a picture of what might have taken place. She had last seen Jonas around two months ago, around the same time that men from this office had been arrested and, under his alias of William Fry, Jonas had vanished. It did not make sense to her.

She thought of the last time when she had seen him. It had been at the Packet Boat Inn