Morton’s eyes shifted to Ann’s name on the investigation wall in front of him, wondering how—or even if—she had figured in Samuel’s apparent shifting of allegiance. By the time of Richard Morgan’s murder, she was well into her tenure of the Bell Inn and he wondered if perhaps the Bow Street investigator had made enquiries there.
He quietly moved around his desk to the timeline at the base of the investigation wall and began to add the information gleaned at the National Archives, feeling somewhat frustrated that no further connection to Ann Fothergill had emerged.
Back at his desk, he briefly turned to the other aspect of the case, to which he had given little time: finding the father of Ann’s son, William. He logged in to his Ancestry account and, from among the many DNA tests in his name, selected Arthur Fothergill’s. Lab Processing, it told him, meaning that the results would not be much longer.
Morton was startled as his mobile ringtone shrieked loudly into the air. He quickly scrambled to hit the silent button, hoping that it had not woken the rest of the house. Juliette’s name appeared on-screen. ‘Hi,’ he whispered. ‘You okay?’
‘Well,’ she began, and Morton knew that he was in trouble. ‘They sent a car and two officers to Aldington last night—terrified the residents there, who’ve got young kids—stayed until daylight with no sign of Phillip Garrow. How sure are you that he’s going to turn up there?’
The truth was, he did not know how sure he was; a hunch based on his previous behaviour was all he had, but he knew that Juliette needed more than that. ‘Pretty sure,’ he answered confidently.
Juliette went quiet. ‘Well, they’re there again tonight but that’s it and that was really only because the people living there were so scared.’
‘They didn’t park the car outside the house, did they?’ Morton asked. ‘Or make it obvious they were there?’
Juliette tutted. ‘Of course not.’
‘They’ve all gone to bed ready for their flight tomorrow,’ Morton said, changing the subject. ‘And Grace went down well at bedtime.’
‘What are you up to, dare I ask?’
‘In the study, working.’
‘Okay… well, I’d better go. See you later.’
‘See you later.’ He ended the call, wondering if he had made a mistake in getting Juliette to involve the police. As he imagined the two officers cooped up in the outhouse of Braemar Cottage, with the frightened residents hidden upstairs behind locked doors, his hunch began to seem a little ridiculous.
Morton continued scrutinising the documents from the National Archives and building up a shortlist of next steps that he would need to take. At the top of the list was a visit to the London Metropolitan Archives to search the records pertaining to the Bow Street officers involved in bringing down the Aldington Gang.
As the evening pushed into night, so Morton began to lose focus. His tired eyes settled on the photographs of his family on the desk and, as he looked again at the picture of Jack and Margaret together in 1974, recalled what Jack had said—that Margaret’s father, Alfred, had been barely present during the time of Jack’s visit to Folkestone. He typed out a rushed email to Margaret, asking what Alfred’s occupation had been at the time of Jack’s visit, wondering if he had got it wrong about the clothing shop.
A yawn, long and protracted, was enough for Morton to close the lid of his laptop, switch off the desk lamp and quietly leave the room.
Downstairs in the kitchen, he was consumed by another great yawn and momentarily considered making himself a coffee but reasoned that instead, he should just admit defeat and go to bed. He switched off the lights and headed up to his bedroom. As he began to undress, his mobile beeped with the arrival of a text message. It was from Juliette and read simply, ‘He’s there.’
Chapter Twenty-Eight
2nd August 1826, Dover, Kent
Jonas Blackwood stepped from the private chaise onto the side of the road, taking a moment to observe the hectic passing of horses and carts, running to and fro in the busy port. He paid his fare and watched the carriage as it quickly became lost among the harbour traffic.
He pulled out his silver pocket watch and took the opportunity of being seven minutes ahead of his scheduled meeting to take a preliminary look around. Behind him, across from the street and butted into the chalk cliffs, was the Townsend Battery, a station at which the Blockade Service maintained a night sentry with the sole purpose of preventing smuggling in this vicinity. And yet, past the long row of wheeled bathing machines in front of him, several hundred men had gathered here three days ago to receive illegal contraband and, in the ruckus which had followed, a first-rate quartermaster had been murdered.
Today as that murdered man, Richard Morgan, was laid to rest, so it marked the beginning of a new case for Jonas to solve; or, at least the conclusion of an old one. As such, he was dressed in a manner befitting his office: immaculate black coat, top hat and spotless cream buckskin breeches. He had come directly from Bow Street Magistrate’s Court in Westminster, holding his tipstaff: the badge of his office, a hollowed tube of wood, capped with a crown. Bearing the most senior rank of police officer, Jonas’s
