Morton finished reading the article with a slight smile on his face. She certainly was an interesting character, he thought, as he printed the report and fixed it to the investigation wall. He returned to the newspaper search results and worked through the remaining stories. The bulk of Ann’s thirty-six crimes had been recorded in the papers. The vast majority were for being drunk and disorderly. According to the various articles dealing with her criminal propensities, they had begun in 1817 when Ann was just fourteen years old; the final mention of a criminal act—at least for which she had been charged—had occurred in 1821. Morton concentrated on this particular report, wondering what had changed after this moment: ‘18th October 1821, Maidstone Petty Sessions. Ann Fothergill, a well-known visitor to the bench, was charged with stealing a pair of shoes, the property of Mr R. Cousins, of Dover. The prisoner pleaded guilty and was sentenced to two months hard labour.’
Morton wondered what had taken place following her release. Judging by the lack of reports, her criminality had ceased. Perhaps she had seen the error of her ways, he wondered, or perhaps she had simply become better at not being caught.
He read Ann’s letter of 1827, making salient notes as he went: Sam—departure. Settled ‘out there’—Ann worried for him. Difficult years in the local area—quiet now (July 1827). Wicked deeds of the past (her crimes / his crimes?). Gold guineas hidden nearby.
Sitting back in his chair, Morton re-read the letter several times, on each occasion possible scenarios springing into his mind, but with nothing quite fitting. He stuck the letter to the wall and moved on to the photos of the gold guineas. Having zoomed in to the photograph of the coin and establishing that it was dated 1810, Morton ran exhaustive searches online. Described as ‘The Third Guinea,’ they had been issued between 1797 and 1813, owing to a shortage of gold in Britain caused by the Napoleonic Wars. Morton thought back to Ann’s letter. Could they be the ‘difficult years’ to which she had referred? It seemed a bit of a stretch, given that it was all over by 1815, some twelve years before the letter had been written. Just as Arthur’s nephew had suggested, a coin of this period and in this condition, was worth around a thousand pounds. It was little wonder that the nephew was practically salivating over the frankly ridiculous prospect of discovering long-lost barrel-loads of them.
Morton opened a packet of blank postcards and began to transcribe the key events of Ann’s life onto separate cards, attaching each to the bottom of the wall. Stepping back to take in the complete timeline, he could clearly see the gap between Ann’s final court appearance on the 18th October 1821 and writing the letter to Sam on the 22nd July 1827. He needed some records to help fill in that gap—but what?
An odd drain-like gurgle erupted from Morton’s stomach. He was hungry. He looked at the time: it was only just gone eleven in the morning—coffee time, he reasoned, strolling downstairs to the kitchen.
Switching on the kettle, he smiled as his eyes came to rest on the adornment hanging just above it: a piece of snow-fence wood, upon which had been painted a northern cardinal—a beautiful and striking red bird from North America. It had been painted by his Aunt Alice and given to him and Juliette as a present last summer, when they had visited Cape Cod to try to track down Morton’s elusive biological father. The sight of it made him smile every time, epitomising, as it did for him, their incredible honeymoon.
He selected the largest mug upon which he could lay his hands; one concealed at the back of the cupboard and one so large that it would surely have been confiscated by Juliette, had she known of its existence. He lifted up the coffee jar and, with absolute horror, opened the lid to find it empty. Not a single coffee granule. Just a note: ‘I needed it more. You need to cut down xx’
Morton couldn’t help but chuckle and slightly agree; his already-high coffee consumption had skyrocketed since Grace’s birth. Rummaging in the cupboard for anything resembling caffeine, all he could find were attractive boxes whose labels looked as though they were describing the undergrowth in his back garden. Nettle. Echinacea. Rosehip. Hibiscus. Elderflower.
Delicious. Time to brave the delightful English weather, then, he decided, heading into the hallway and pulling on his thick winter coat and boots.
Outside was every bit as ghastly as it had appeared from his study window. With a grimace, he hurried down the steps of his house onto Mermaid Street, pulling his coat tight and keeping his head down, as he marched up the road. He was not in the mood to sit in a café today—he just wanted to get a drink and get back to his work and, since he was supposed
