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

on a pre-arranged meeting where they had drunk rum together and made plans for another meeting the following week, but he had not shown up. Ann had left a hastily written note with the landlord and returned on several occasions to enquire if he had returned, but he had not. Her initial anxiety at his whereabouts slowly shifted to anger as the days since she had seen him became weeks. In the last days, however, the anger had softened again, allowing space for concern to grow inside her, as she began to fear that the worst had happened to him. Two days ago, she had contacted James Carter, the man who Jonas had helped to keep alive after being shot in the leg, to request his help in finding him.

‘It doesn’t sound much like we can assist each other,’ Mr Rice said, ‘so, if there is nothing else…’

Ann nodded in agreement. ‘Thank you for your time. We be seeing ourselves out.’

Mr Rice grunted something of a goodbye, then turned to the open ledger on his desk.

They left his office and, under the curious gaze of the men in the outer office, made their way out through the door onto the street outside, where they found that the descending dusk had brought with it two competing winds, which whipped the snow from the ground in icy blasts.

‘You be wanting a rum?’ James shouted.

Ann thought for a moment, then gratefully accepted and they dashed inside the warm inn, where James ordered them a rum and water each.

‘Well,’ James said, once they were seated. ‘That fellow be of no help in finding Jonas.’

‘No,’ Ann said, somewhat absentmindedly, still trying to assimilate the new information. The most obvious solution was one which she was reluctant to accept, that Jonas had swept into these men’s lives, garnered enough information to blackmail them, then disappeared, but not before informing the officials of their offences. This theory, though, rendered Ann just another play-piece in Jonas Blackwood’s game of self-betterment. She stroked her belly, as she took a long gulp of the drink.

‘How do it be back in Aldington?’ she asked, consciously shifting the subject.

‘Much the same,’ James answered.

‘You still smuggling?’

‘Bain’t got no choice. Course, I be driving the carts now, not lugging the barrels. It be that or double-hard labour bricklaying for half the guineas.’

‘What about Sam Banister?’ Ann asked, trying to sound indifferent to whatever answer he gave.

James smiled, a knowing look lighting his eyes. ‘Certain sure he be a-missing you.’

‘Really?’

James nodded, sniffed and shifted in his seat, revealing to Ann that he had something to say. He drank more rum, then asked, ‘You be with child, ain’t you?’

Ann thought about denying it but what would the point of that be? Everyone would know soon enough. ‘That be so, yes.’

‘What I don’t be a-knowing, though,’ James began, ‘is if you be escaping the father or searching for him…’

Ann met his eyes, perturbed at his perception. In one long swig, she downed her rum. ‘It be time to leave.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

 

2nd July 1825, Aldington, Kent

Samuel ran his smock sleeve across his forehead and glanced down at the small darkened patch of sweat which it had collected. He was in the children’s bedroom at the front of the house, staring out of the window. His gaze, almost unblinking, was fixed on a thin space offered between two large yew trees, where he could just make out the path which led from the road to the church. He sighed, partly from the intensity of standing in direct sunlight and partly through impatience, having waited here for what was fast approaching an hour.

‘Certain-sure, you must be a-thinking me a fool,’ Hester said, startling him. He glanced behind to see her standing in the doorway but quickly refocused his attention on the church.

‘What do you be blethering about now?’ Sam retorted, pleading ignorance.

Hester snorted. ‘Rose be a-telling me a thing or two.’

‘Rose?’ he repeated with a false laugh. ‘You be a-listening to a cotchering young barmaid?’

‘You bain’t not even able to take your eyes from the window.’

Sam spun around. ‘There,’ he said, folding his arms. ‘Now what do it be what you want to be a-saying to me?’

‘She be back, don’t she,’ Hester said, a matter-of-fact statement, rather than a question.

‘Who be back?’

Hester cackled a ridiculous raucous laugh, which gave rise to an instant nettling anger within him. His fury towards her swiftly overpowered any suggestion of her having the right to be questioning him. ‘Who be back?’ she mocked, frowning in exaggerated deliberation. ‘Who could it be what might be a-turning up at the church for the baptism of her bastard baby?’

Sam saw his own anger amplified and reflected in his wife’s eyes. There was no point in pretending that he did not know to whom she was referring. He choked back his irritation and said, ‘She be the one what saved my life.’

Hester rolled her eyes in contempt for this trite defence. ‘That be four year ago!’ she bellowed, then added softly but firmly, ‘I ain’t the only one what be a-noticing things…’

 Sam looked at her with unambiguous disdain, as a crowd of virulent responses came to the forefront of his mind, vying to be spat from his mouth. He drew in a long breath and barged past her, knocking her backwards into the wall. He heard her gasp as he bounded down the stairs, through the parlour and out of the front door. She would be watching him, of that he was certain, as he marched towards the church.

A hollow sinking feeling instantly quelled his anger towards Hester, when he saw Ann appear through the church door with the baby in her arms. Sam stopped dead, the impetus and desperation to reach the church on time having abated: he was too