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

finger at the gang without naming specific individuals. According to several sources, there was a man who frequented the inn outside of which he was standing, who had bragged of being involved in last Sunday’s smuggling run.

Jonas pushed open the heavy door of the Bell Inn and stepped inside. He lumbered to the bar, only slightly exaggerating his exhaustion and ordered a pint of ale from the young barmaid. ‘I be a-looking for a man by the name of Edward Horne,’ Jonas muttered quietly to her.

‘That black-tan over there,’ she said, nodding her head to a man sitting alone beside the fireplace.

‘And what do he be drinking?’ Jonas asked.

‘Rum.’

‘Pint of that, then, if you please,’ Jonas ordered.

Jonas paid for the drinks and ambled over to Edward’s table. ‘Here you go. A gift.’

Edward’s glazed eyes, puffy and bloodshot, stared at him but he said nothing. He was young, possibly in his mid-twenties, with a labourer’s dry and sun-baked skin. He wore a short untidy beard that looked as though he had recently abandoned an attempt to cut it.

‘You be looking like Ransley had you out again last night,’ Jonas said with a light chuckle.

Edward blinked, then scowled, as if only just becoming aware that a stranger had sat down opposite him. He noticed the drink and took a giant gulp. ‘What do you be wanting?’ he asked, then belched.

‘Nothing more than the company of a fellow smuggler,’ Jonas said, raising his glass to Edward.

‘Certain-sure, I don’t be a-knowing your face,’ Edward said.

‘That be the drink mabbling your mind,’ Jonas said, dropping his voice down and leaning forward. ‘I be there on Sunday night. One of the tubmen. I be a-seeing, from a way off, like, what happened in front of the bathing machines…’

Edward nodded slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on Jonas’s.

‘Three shots to the heart be what I heard,’ Jonas said, seeing the first signs of acceptance in the man’s face.

‘So I be understanding,’ Edward said.

‘Dropped like a stone,’ Jonas muttered, taking a long mouthful of drink.

Edward looked around, as if checking who was within earshot. ‘I were stood right there! Watched him fall to his death, I did.’

‘Hope he suffered,’ Jonas mumbled.

‘”Lord, look down upon me!”. Thems were his last mortal words,’ Edward said with a smirk.

Jonas laughed. ‘I be thinking the Lord got better things to do than be watching Richard Morgan breathe his last.’

‘”Lord, look down upon me!”,’ Edward repeated, holding his hands to the ceiling with a laugh.

When yesterday Jonas had visited the wounded sentinel, Pickett, he had learned almost nothing about the attack, the man’s injuries having severely impacted on his memory. One thing he did say, however, was that Morgan’s last words had been “Lord, look down upon me”, a fact his addled brain was keen on repeating.

Jonas smiled, wondering how to elicit from Edward the crucial information about who had fired the gun. Unless he was simply boastfully regurgitating something overheard from another smuggler, then he had been present at the time and would certainly know the identity of the murderer. ‘I suppose having shot a member of the Blockade Service, he be laying quite low, now.’

‘Bit of a ruckle for him, I should say,’ Edward agreed, his eyes glazing over once again, before returning to Jonas’s. ‘What be your name?’

He had been about to answer, with a false name, when he heard a familiar voice. His eyes darted through the open fireplace to the bar on the other side and saw her face. He quickly looked away, hoping that perhaps she had not recognised him.

‘Good afternoon,’ Ann said brightly, as she approached the table, her eyes flicking constantly between the two men.

Jonas nodded, without looking up. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘I must apologise,’ Ann began. ‘I’m not sure which name you be going by today?’ She edged around the table and Jonas could see then that she was carrying a small child. She angled herself to address Edward. ‘Is he Jonas today? Or William? Or…?’

Edward shrugged, glancing between them uncertainly.

‘I should be most careful, if I were you,’ Ann said to Edward. ‘This man here, he likes to dress up and pretend he ain’t himself. He likes extorting folk, then sailing off to God only knows where—so be warned.’

Jonas heard every word Ann had said and he had seen in Edward’s face the revelation of the murderer’s name slipping away, but what Jonas had been focussing on was the sleeping child in Ann’s arms. Having no children of his own, he was by no means an expert, but her baby looked to be around a year old, placing its conception to last summer. ‘Is that your child?’ he asked, meeting Ann’s fiery eyes for the first time.

For the briefest of seconds, Ann seemed taken aback. She looked down at the child then laughed. ‘Mine? No fear.’ Ann turned towards the bar and indicated the young barmaid who had served Jonas his drinks. ‘He’s hers. Illegitimate.’

‘Why do you have it, then?’ Jonas pushed, his feigned accent quivering back towards authentic.

‘Because she be working for me,’ Ann answered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘This inn—it’s mine,’ Ann said. The free smile and clear pride in these words made Jonas suspect all that she had said previously about the baby to have been lies. ‘Good day to you both.’ She started to walk away.

‘Ann, wait!’ Jonas called after her but he could see her through the fireplace enter the bar on the other side, then disappear. He jumped up and followed her, witnessing a hasty conversation between her and the barmaid, as Ann passed her the baby. It might have been a convincing display for some but for Jonas it held a certain air of rash pretence and subterfuge, which he had witnessed before among the criminal classes.

The barmaid moved into a room behind