‘I think so, Sarge.’
‘It’s Sergeant or Ed, Jayne. I can’t stand Sarge.’
‘Right, Sarge. I mean, Sergeant.’
She was a young naïve copper then, just starting out. But under McNally’s tutorship she learnt more in six months pounding the beat in Manchester than she had in six years at school. Should she go back after the meeting and see if any of the old gang were still there? Or should she drive out to see Robert and Vera? She hadn’t seen her stepfather for three days and it would be great to go to see him.
Perhaps. She’d see how the client meeting went first.
She glanced at the clock again.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
She rushed upstairs and quickly changed into a shirt and slacks, tying her long hair into a tight ponytail.
In the hallway, she grabbed her jacket and Marmot padded coat. Not the most elegant of clothes, as it made her look like a pregnant penguin, but it kept her warm and dry even in the heaviest of Manchester downpours.
She popped her head into the kitchen to check Mr Smith had water, then rushed out of the door. She could put a dab of lipstick on in the car at the traffic lights if she needed it.
Putting the BMW into gear, she headed out past Parrs Wood, turning left on to the A34. If there weren’t too many red lights, it would be a straight run past Manchester Grammar and on to the A6 into the town centre.
She put an old Bowie CD into the player and chose ‘Jean Genie’ to put her in the mood. As the first chords belted out, she thought about the person she was meeting, Michael Underwood.
The call had come in yesterday. ‘Hello, is that Jayne Sinclair, the genealogist?’
‘Speaking.’
‘My name is Underwood. I saw your website and it says that you specialise in genealogical investigations, is that correct?’ The voice was educated and urbane, with no hint of a Manchester accent.
‘I specialise in difficult investigations, particularly ones where there may be a brick wall that seems insurmountable. I usual find if you work hard and dig deep, an answer can be discovered. But there are no guarantees. Sometimes the documentation just isn’t there, particularly far back in the past.’
‘I understand. Could we meet up? I think I may have a job for you.’
Jayne sucked in air between her teeth. ‘I’m not sure I can take any new work on at the moment, Mr Underwood. I’m very busy and it is close to Christmas.’
The truth was she didn’t have too much on, but she wanted to treat herself to a break over the festive period. Last year, she had worked right up until Christmas Day on the Roberts case. It had been wonderful finally finding the truth about the Christmas Truce, but it had been exhausting.
This year, she was determined to take life a bit easier until the New Year. She felt quite tired at the moment and a little unsettled.
‘Let’s meet up, at least. I think I have a very interesting case that may challenge your skills.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Please. It’s important to myself and my colleague and we don’t have much time. Let me explain to you in person. I’ll even buy the coffee and cake. Please…’
There was a pleading in the voice. For some reason, Jayne found herself saying yes.
Now here she was, parking in Addington Street and rushing to the meeting in the Mackie Mayor, a café-cum-restaurant in the old Smithfield market.
One thing had intrigued her about the call.
Why was this job so important to this man?
Chapter FOUR
October 3, 1843
The train from London to Birmingham
Dickens relaxed back in his seat, and stared out of the window as the train gave a final toot and pulled out of the station. Luckily, he had this carriage to himself and, as there were only three other passengers, two of whom seemed to be elderly spinsters from Eastbourne, he was unlikely to be disturbed.
The train gathered speed as it crossed over Hampstead Road. On the right, the slums of Camden were smothered in a brown fog. Not a place of happy memories for Dickens; he had lived in Bayham Street, in a small tenement with a wretched little back garden abutting a squalid court. It had been the start of the bad times for his family. His father was constantly in debt, living from day to day. Debts which would take him and the family off to Marshalsea to reside at His Majesty’s Pleasure. While Dickens himself was abandoned and forced to work in a blacking factory off the Strand.
He smiled ruefully at the memory. Sitting in a window facing on to the street, affixing the labels by hand on to the blacking bottles while passers-by craned in to watch his work. A horrible, wretched time, slaving twelve hours a day for Mr Warren and barely getting enough to eat, living on bowls of gruel and scraps of leftovers.
Abandoned at twelve to live by his wits.
A shiver went down his spine.
Never again would he face those times. He would rather write his fingers to the bone than ever suffer those feelings of loneliness and fear and hunger.
But it might come to that if he were not careful. He’d received news from his bankers, Coutts, that morning. He was overdrawn, disastrously so. Sales of Chuzzlewit were not going well, the story did not seem to resonate with readers in the way his previous serialisations had done. He had spent many worrying hours trying to work out why.
Added to these pressures, Catherine was pregnant. He only had to look at her these days and she would find herself with child. And to tap it all, to add the final shoe to the horse of penury, his father had visited him two weeks ago, explaining that he was in debt again. ‘A trifling sum’ he’d said – they were always ‘trifling sums’ – as he asked for another bail-out. Just a few days ago, Dickens had received a threatening letter from his father demanding the money immediately. Money he didn’t have any more.
As ever, he was amazed and confounded by the audacity and ingratitude of the man. A man who had put his own son to work in a blacking factory rather than send him to school.
He ran his fingers through his long dark hair. Didn’t he realise the life of an author was one of constant fear of running out of ideas, being discovered as a talentless hack or having the public turn from fawning over him to sinking their teeth into his body?
What if his success so far had been a flash in the pan? Perhaps he would soon be discovered by the public as the charlatan author he was, not fit to put pen to paper.
Look what had happened to his friend, Harrison Ainsworth. His readers turned from devoted subjects to merciless assassins of his reputation because of the dubious testimony of a dubious servant who had killed his master.
Even his damned publishers seemed to be losing confidence in him. The venerable firm of Chapman & Hall were invoking some obscure clause in his contract to ensure he paid them for the pleasure of publishing his books.
Again, with money he didn’t have and couldn’t spare.
Cant, humbug and arrant hypocrisy. His solicitor had advised him the contracts were unfair, but in his desire to see Boz published, he had signed them anyway.
Outside, the trees and hedgerows were displaying the colours of autumn in a rainbow of browns, greens, yellows, golds and reds. The smoke, dust and dirt of London had been left far behind.
He loved this time of year in the English countryside, when the air had a freshness, a clarity far removed from the brown fogs and clamour of the city.
In a field bordering the railway line, a horse kicked up its rear legs and raced away from the noise of the train, its mane flowing in the wind and its head held high, glorying in the power of its muscles.
He made a mental note of the image for use in his books. He recognised his style; he was like a magpie picking up ideas, images, words and speech from everywhere, and filtering them to create his novels.
The train pulled away from the horse despite its speed and power.
‘If only I could be so free,’ Dickens whispered to nobody but himself. Then, ‘Enough!’ he said, louder, causing the steward to co
me forward to the compartment to ask if he required anything.
Dickens shook his head.
‘Some tea, sir?’
‘No, thank you,’ he insisted.
The steward nodded his head and withdrew.
Dickens pulled out the parliamentary report on Child Labourers in Britain’s Factories , written by Thomas Southwood Smith, and began reading it again.
It was shocking. He had promised to write a pamphlet in support of this cause but he wanted to see for himself the conditions under which the children worked before he did so.
But what good would another pamphlet do? There were thousands of such broadsheets on the streets, and in the libraries and bookshops of London.
There must be something more he could do, but he didn’t know what.
He had recently visited one of the Ragged Schools, created to educate the children of the poor. The visit had been depressing; there were so many children out there in dire straits; with little or no food to eat and even less with which to feed their minds.
What could he do to highlight the problem? To force people to take some sort of action, however small?
Today’s journey to Manchester was a beginning.
Along with Disraeli and Cobden, he had been asked to give a speech in support of a fund-raising soiree at the Athenaeum in Manchester, a library and meeting place for the education of the middle and working classes.
It was a start, a small start in the process of universal education which he felt was key to the problems of the country. If everybody could read and write, surely they would make better choices about their lives and their futures.
It was a hope, a small hope.
He checked his speech once again.
Dear Friends and Colleagues,
It gives me great pleasure to give a speech in support of this temple to learning; the Athenaeum. Here, it is hoped the residents of Manchester will discover the glories, knowledge, power and beauty of learning, books and reading.
They may even discover my own worthless attempts at literature…
He stopped. It was hopeless. The tone was wrong. Too self-satisfied, too self-congratulatory, as if by merely funding a library they had achieved their goal of improving society.
He threw it down on the seat in front of him.
It was one of those days; the best of times and the worst of times.
He prayed it would get better.
Chapter FIVE
Monday, December 16, 2019
Mackie Mayor, Old Smithfield Market, Manchester
Jayne hurried along the street towards the Mackie Mayor.
This area was once the centre of what was one of the commercial hubs of Manchester. After a long period of decline, it had been rebranded as the Northern Quarter, with old mills, warehouses and factories transformed into apartments for bearded millennials and their partners.
Distressed was the designer style, and it always distressed Jayne when she had to visit the area, with its myriad cafés furnished with second-hand chairs and tables from Oxfam.
As she entered the old Smithfield Market, now repurposed as a café-cum-eating-hall, she was already beginning to regret agreeing to the meeting.
Near the entrance, an elegantly dressed man stood up from a long communal table. ‘Jayne Sinclair, I presume? I recognise you from the picture on your website.’
‘Mr Underwood?’
‘The one and only. But please call me Michael. Take a seat. What would you like? Are you hungry? They do a lovely bowl of ramen. Or a slice of pizza?’
‘I’m not hungry, thanks. But a latte would be great.’
‘One latte, coming up.’
He went off to the counter to order, without introducing her to the man sitting next to him.
For a moment, both regarded each other awkwardly before Jayne stuck out her hand and said, ‘Jayne Sinclair. Are you with Mr Underwood?’
The man rose and touched the fingertips of her hand before sitting back down quickly. ‘Sorry, I’m not good in social situations,’ he said, without looking at her.
Jayne looked around her. Most of the tables were full of young people talking earnestly. With the large double-height ceiling, the level of noise was almost deafening. A soundtrack of Christmas songs playing in the background only added to the noise.
‘Don’t worry, neither am I,’ she said before pointing to the bench. ‘Do you mind if I sit opposite you?’
For the first time he looked at her, smiled and nodded his head.
Michael Underwood returned as she sat down. ‘They’ll deliver the coffee shortly. I see you’ve met Ronald.’ Underwood reached over and patted the man’s shoulder as he sat down. ‘Don’t worry, he’s a bit shy.’
Jayne knew that it was more than shyness. The man was definitely uncomfortable being surrounded by so many people. ‘We can go somewhere with less people if you want, Ronald?’
The man shook his head without looking at her. ‘No, we’re here now, might as well stay.’
Michael Underwood rubbed his hands together. ‘Good, that’s decided.’ The skin of his face had a slight glossy tinge to it and he was wearing a very expensive-smelling aftershave. Too much of it, unfortunately.
‘You may be wondering why I asked you to come here today.’
‘It had crossed my mind.’
Michael Underwood waved his arms expansively. ‘Look around you, what do you see?’
Jayne followed his arms. Mackie Mayor occupied a beautiful old market building with light streaming in through the glass skylights, and thin, cast-iron columns soaring up to the double-storey roof, finished at the top with elegantly moulded finials. A modern staircase led to a mezzanine floor with distressed whitewashed walls. Here and there, a few desultory attempts had been made to give the place a Christmas spirit; red and silver tinsel, a plastic tree surrounded by fake presents and plastic candy canes.
The various food vendors were arrayed around the sides of the hall, displaying their specialities on chalk boards; wines, coffee, tacos, pizza, ramen, brunch, sandwiches, pad thai, fried chicken. All the modern food groups from all over the world. She had been to a similar repurposed marketplace in Altrincham. Here the crowd was younger, more egalitarian.
‘It’s a lovely space,’ she finally said, noncommittally.
‘It is, isn’t it? It’s the former Smithfield meat market, built and opened by the Manchester Corporation way back in 1858. A wonderful example of the sort of elegant but functional buildings created during that period. Manchester was at the height of its importance; the Art Exhibition opened by Queen Victoria had been held at Old Trafford, the city was the world’s centre for cotton manufacturing, the mills were running round the clock and the city was booming. This market is almost an exemplar of the city itself. It gradually grew less and less important, finally becoming derelict in 1972 and remaining unused and almost forgotten until recently, when this place was created.’
He glanced around the open space. ‘It has that semi-industrial feel of SoHo in New York, doesn’t it?’
Jayne had never been to New York – it was on her bucket list – but she could imagine a place like this in the city. Ronald shifted uneasily in his seat, looking across at her through his fringe.
‘Thanks for the history lesson, Mr Underwood, but what has this to do with our meeting?’
‘It’s Michael, and I assure you it has a lot to do with our meeting, Jayne. I thought we should get together here because it imbues the essence of the case I would like you to investigate.’
She was intrigued. ‘Please explain.’
‘I will, but let me first tell you who I am and where Ronald fits in with all this.’
Ronald was staring at her again. Jayne was tempted to ask his surname but didn’t want to put him under any pressure as he was already looking so uncomfortable. Was the man autistic or did he have Aspergers?
‘As I said, my name is Michael Underwood. I run an auction house, you may have heard of it? Underwood and Little?’
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Jayne shook her head.
The man seemed slightly miffed. ‘No matter. We specialise in finding unusual objects and marketing them to a select clientele.’
‘So you don’t have a gavel and desk then?’
Underwood laughed. ‘Occasionally, but I don’t use my gavel that much any more these days. It is much easier to market our items to a few select customers and then hold an auction online.’
‘Go on…’
He pointed to the man sitting next to him. ‘Ronald Welsh is one of my searchers.’
‘Searcher?’
‘I find unusual and valuable things. I’m very good at it.’
Underwood interrupted. ‘Ronald is one of our best searchers.’
‘ The best. I’m the best.’
‘Ronald is one of our best searchers,’ emphasised Underwood. ‘Recently he discovered a very valuable item that we are going to market to our customers.’
‘I found it in a charity shop in Shudehill. Got it for one pound fifty pence. Knew it was valuable as soon as I saw it.’
‘This is all very interesting, but where do I come in?’ asked Jayne.
Underwood reached down inside a brown leather attaché case that was on the seat beside him. He pulled out a sealed plastic wallet. Inside was a small, pinkish book. ‘This is what we want you to investigate.’
Jayne laughed. ‘I’m a genealogist not a book collector, Mr Underwood. I think you have the wrong person.’
Underwood carefully put on a pair of cotton gloves, before opening the plastic file and bringing out the book. Holding it carefully, he presented the cover to Jayne. She reached out to hold it and he jerked backwards
‘No offence, Jayne, but we don’t allow anybody to touch the book. The acids in the sweat on the ends of your fingers could damage it.’
She stared at the title, embossed in gold letters on the cover:
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 3