‘I tried that once, it wasn’t bad.’
As they walked away, the actor who played Hamlet rushed up to the cart and ordered two trotters.
‘Perhaps that explains the quality of the acting,’ said Dickens. ‘The man was desperate to get off stage to partake of this delicacy.’
‘I don’t blame him, the rest of the cast were worse than him. The opening was bad and it went rapidly downhill from there.’
Dickens took Ainsworth’s arm and hurried them away, frightened the actor might recognise him and ask for a review. ‘The King and Queen seated on two armchairs placed on top of a kitchen table lacked a regal touch,’ he whispered.
‘Why did the King cough throughout the performance? I wonder if he had risen from the grave specially to take the role.’
‘I particularly liked the audience participation, turning a tragedy into a comedy with a few chosen words.’
‘They certainly enjoyed helping out the Prince. “Whether it is nobler in mind to suffer the slingshots and arrows of outrageous despair” was followed by helpful shouts from the audience of “Yes”, “No”, and “Let’s toss for it”. I had to suppress a smile.’
‘Poor Hamlet, I thought I knew him well.’
‘Wiping his fingers on a white towel after handing back the skull of Yorick was a nice touch, though. Or at least it would have been if somebody in the audience hadn’t then shouted “Waiter” in the loudest voice.’
‘Perhaps he had eaten the tripe before the performance?’
‘And the trotters were dessert.’
They both came to halt, laughing loudly as passers-by stared at them as if they were fools.
‘I am sorry, Charles, my city has a long way to go to catch up with the London Theatre.’
‘We are spoilt, Ainsworth, by actors of the calibre of Dillon, George Bennett or the late Edward Elton.’
‘The ghost was well done, was it not? All shimmering voice and clanking chains, waiting in the wings.’
‘But why did he carry the manuscript on the end of a stick, referring to it constantly when he forgot his lines…?’
They both began laughing again as they turned the corner into Market Street.
Dickens spoke through his laughter. ‘What was the point of the musical interlude after Hamlet’s ghost vanished from the stage?’
‘Ah, I’m afraid that’s probably a request from the audience. They do like their music and their skits in a play. Since the passing of the new Act, we are seeing many more plays with these interludes.’
‘One day they’ll drop the play and we will have one long musical interspersed with comedy sketches.’
‘That is more than likely.’
‘Mr Shakespeare will be turning in his grave.’
‘Along with Hamlet and Yorick and the King.’
‘And Uncle Tom Cobley, no doubt.’
Ainsworth stopped walking in front of a chophouse. ‘Shall we have supper?’
‘I think not. Today’s efforts have exhausted me. Seeing Fanny was wonderful, seeing her husband less so.’
Piccadilly was quiet. The hawkers had vanished and the shops were shuttered and closed.
‘How is your sister?’
‘As well as can be expected, but she was never a healthy woman. The move to Manchester was supposed to help, but I wonder whether this is the right atmosphere for her and her son. He is not strong and I fear for his future.’
The dark looming towers of Manchester Royal Infirmary were reflected in the pool in front of it. To one side, the lunatic asylum was temporarily quiet, a single lamp burning on the third floor.
A scream rent the air, wailing for a minute before ceasing as suddenly as it had begun.
‘The poor inmates. There but for the grace of God go we, Charles. Imagine being confined in such a place.’
‘If you weren’t mad before you went in, you were sure to be mad after spending one night in such a place. All life begins in folly and ends in madness.’
‘That sounds particularly depressing.’
Out of the darkness loomed a stout man, his face barely illuminated by a lamp carried on the end of a long stick, giving him the appearance of a pale white ghost.
As he floated closer to them, his body coalesced into something more solid. ‘Evenin’, gents,’ he said in a deep voice.
Dickens visibly relaxed. ‘I thought you weren’t of this world. A ghost.’
The man chuckled. ‘That’s what my wife says. But I do meet quite a few ghosts on my walks. I’m the night watchman. After the troubles last year you need to be careful – mark my words, gentlemen.’
‘You meet g-ghosts?’ stammered Dickens.
‘They often keep me company of a night. There’s only a few you need watch out for, the rest are friendly enough.’ He lifted his battered hat. ‘I’d best be on my way. Evenin’, gents.’
Dickens and Ainsworth walked on in silence, each in his own world, but each keeping a watchful eye on the shadowed doorways.
Eventually Ainsworth said, ‘You really intend to visit Grindley’s mill tomorrow?’
‘I do.’
‘Be prepared for the noise. I recommend waxed paper.’
‘Waxed paper?’
‘For your ears.’ Ainsworth mimed screwing up the paper to form ear plugs.
‘And afterwards, a tour of Manchester with a guide provided by Mrs Gaskell.’
They stopped outside the front door of the Adelphi. ‘I hope it doesn’t make a bad impression on you, Charles. We are a growing city and in our development many mistakes have been made. But there is an energy, a passion here that is missing from other places. It is not for nothing that our symbol is the worker bee.’
‘You are still a good salesman for your city, Harrison.’
‘Remember, tomorrow we will have the dinner for the speakers at the Athenaeum. I will send a coach to pick you up at seven. Disraeli and Cobden will be there. It won’t be a formal affair, but you’ll enjoy some most convivial company.’
‘I look forward to it.’
Outside the door of the Adelphi, they parted ways with a quick handshake; Ainsworth to his lodgings and Dickens to his rooms.
After having undressed, christened the new chamber pot and washed his face, Dickens relaxed back in his bed.
It had been a good day, if tiring. A day to see his beautiful sister. The magic had gone down well, particularly with young Harry; the days of practising his tricks had paid off.
Tomorrow would be long and equally tiring but he was looking forward to it. A novelist had to experience all that was possible. It was all corn to the mill that was a writer’s mind. These were hard times and it was important to understand what was happening. His experience as a reporter and the trip to the schools of Yorkshire in 1841 had shown him the relevance of understanding the true nature of what was happening around the country.
Perhaps a novel would spring from this visit? At least it had taken his mind off the failure of Chuzzlewit and the failings of his publishers.
He wetted his fingers and extinguished the candle.
Nestling between the linen sheets, he thought again of the theatre and the spectre of Hamlet’s ghost. In better hands, the clanking of the chains, the paleness of the white face and the spectral quality of the actor’s voice could have created a magical, not comic, effect.
Once again, just before he lost consciousness he heard the floorboards creak and soft steps on the wood.
He closed his eyes even more tightly.
Tonight, he was too tired to be visited by the ghosts of the past.
Chapter EIGHTEEN
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
With the cat fed, herself bathed and dried after her trip to the supermarket, and dinner cooked and eaten, Jayne felt a lot better. She sat down in front of her computer and checked her messages.
There were the usual marketing emails from Jo Malone, Amazon and other places where she had bought goods in the past. She
immediately deleted those without even opening them. There was an invitation from Cheadle Genealogical Society to talk at one of their monthly meetings. She wrote back, politely declining for the foreseeable future due to commitments, but gave them the names of two other genealogists to contact. She loved doing these talks but felt at the moment she couldn’t commit to anything, especially as the trip to Australia in February would take her out of the country.
Then she spotted an email from Ronald Welsh.
Dear Mrs Sinclair,
It was wonderful to meet you yesterday.
After your question about where the charity had found the book, I took the trouble of revisiting the shop. Without letting them know about the book’s rarity, I discovered they had found the box of books in a house clearance they had performed on an old place in Cheetham Hill.
This immediately aroused my suspicion so I went through the book with a fine-tooth comb and found a tiny book mark embossed on the back inside leaf.
The mark bears the initials JC and the date 1848. I have enclosed a picture of the mark for you with this email.
From my research, it appears to belong to James Crossley, who was an author, bibliophile, literary scholar and book collector. He set up the Chetham Society based at the famous Chetham’s Library in 1843, with Thomas Corser, Francis Robert Raines and others. Its purpose was to edit and publish historical works relating to Lancashire and Cheshire. In the following years he personally edited many of its publications, including the autobiographical tracts of John Dee, the magician at the court of Elizabeth I.
He is said to have collected 100,000 books at his residence in Chorlton-on-Medlock and later at Stocks House, Cheetham Hill. He supplied the novelist William Ainsworth with historical material and ideas, including that author’s famous novel on the Pendle Witches.
Unfortunately, there is also a negative aspect to his career. He supposedly perpetrated a literary fraud – the forging of Fragment on Mummies by Sir Thomas Browne. The bogus nature of the Fragment, given by Crossley to Simon Wilkin to publish, is now regarded as highly probable, but Crossley never confessed to it.
He never married and on his death his library was put for auction in 1881.
So that’s my latest news, Mrs Sinclair. Given the suspicion of fraud against Mr Crossley, it is even more important that you discover the identity of the man mentioned in the dedication.
I am still convinced the book is genuine, everything tells me that it is. However, if we could discover who the man was, and whether he had any connection to Dickens, it would make the proof incontrovertible.
Thank you for your time and energy.
All the best,
Ronald Welsh
Searcher
That was literally a turn-up for the book.
As Jayne finished reading the email, her mobile phone rang. It was Ronald.
‘Hello, Mrs Sinclair, did you get my email?’
‘Just reading it now, Ronald. It looks very interesting. This Crossley could be an angle to pursue.’ She then detailed her research so far, promising to send an email of the possible suspects she had isolated. Then she explained why it was going to be very difficult to find the man in the time allotted.
‘I know it’s a difficult task, Mrs Sinclair, that’s why we picked you.’
Jayne didn’t know what to answer. His faith in her was touching.
‘Why don’t we meet up tomorrow? I can help you. I’m a good researcher, the best.’
‘I don’t know, I’m used to working alone.’
‘At least let’s meet. You can show me your possibles instead of emailing them to me?’
Jayne finally agreed. ‘I’ll see you outside Central Library at ten thirty.’ She could see him after her meeting with Tom Smithson.
‘Great, see you tomorrow,’ he said enthusiastically before ringing off.
Jayne wasn’t looking forward to the meeting. There were just too few clues to help her isolate the correct Robert Duckworth. A sigh of despair welled up in her.
What was wrong? She had never failed in the past, why would she start now?
A little voice in her head whispered: ‘There’s always a first time, Jayne. Don’t think you are better than you are.’
She dismissed the voice immediately. There must be a clue somewhere. She went over her research one more time, looking for inspiration, but none came.
By the time she had finished it was 10.15 p.m.
Where had the time gone?
Mr Smith was standing beside the patio door, ready to go out. At least the wind and the rain had abated, leaving a calm but cold, damp evening.
She stood up and opened the door. He vanished like smoke through the small gap, disappearing into the night.
She yawned and stretched. She had done enough for this evening. Time to get a good night’s sleep and hope that she could narrow the field more tomorrow when she went to Central Library.
Before she turned off her computer, she did one last check of her list.
Which one of these men was her Robert Duckworth? In truth, it could be any of them. For the first time, Jayne felt her heart sink.
Time was running out.
How was she going to discover which one it was?
Chapter NINETEEN
October 5, 1843
Manchester
The carriage arrived for Dickens exactly on time at 11 a.m.
As usual, he had been punctilious in his wardrobe. As he was visiting a mill and walking later in the afternoon, he decided on wearing his everyday clothes; loose, large-checked pattern trousers, a brown coat, belt instead of braces, a bright red silk cravat, his yellow waistcoat, a stout walking stick and even stouter boots. To top off the outfit he settled on his new felt hat, which he set well back on his head, cocked on one side.
After examining himself in the mirror and pronouncing himself fit to face the world, he strode out to the waiting carriage; a handsome four-wheeler with an elegantly matched pair of bays and a liveried footman.
It was certainly far more comfortable than the cabs he had taken the last few days. The interior was lined in silk and upholstered in a plush purple velvet. And when the carriage started forward, even the cobbles seemed less noisy and certainly far less bumpy, almost as if the road had been ironed flat.
‘How long to Mr Grindley’s mill?’ he shouted up at the footman.
‘I reckon about five minutes, sir,’ an Irish voice explained. ‘Sure, we just have to go across Great Ancoats Street and the canal and we’re there.’
‘I could have walked.’
‘But it would not have been as comfortable, sir.’ There was a slight pause. ‘If his honour would be requiring some refreshment, he’ll find a selection in the compartment on his left.’
‘Thank you.’ Dickens opened the lid and saw decanters of port, whisky, gin and sherry lined in a row, with two shot glasses held in a slot on the lid. Grindley did travel well.
Dickens relaxed back as the carriage and its horses trotted swiftly forward. On either side, the shops of Manchester gradually vanished to be replaced by the dark, forbidding walls of the mills, tall chimneys belching smoke into the crisp air of autumn.
There were not many people on the streets, but through the fogged windows of the mills, Dickens could see shadows moving within. The noise was constant too; a combination of the mechanical, rhythmic pounding of the looms shuttling backwards and forwards, and the constant throb, throb, throb of the steam engines.
The carriage pulled a sharp left beneath a cast-iron entrance. Mr Grindley was standing proudly at the door surrounded by his managers, his fingers perched in his waistcoat pockets and resting on his large stomach.
The coach eased to a stop, the footman jumped down and a door was opened. Dickens stood up and was greeted immediately.
‘My good friend, what a pleasure to see you at my humble establishment.’
Dickens felt like royalty descending from on high to greet his subjects. He was escorted through a small unp
repossessing entrance, Grindley talking all the time.
‘The mill has four buildings at the moment, all producing or finishing the finest cotton cloth. I opened the first, the Waterloo Mill, in 1818. The second followed in 1825, named after the great duke himself.’
‘You called it Arthur Wellesley?’ said Dickens with a glint in his eye.
‘No, sir, we called it the Wellington Mill.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘The third we opened in 1834, which we called Talavera, after the duke’s famous victory in Spain against the French.’
‘I see a theme running through your names, sir. What did you call this building?’
‘This one we opened just two years ago, Mr Dickens. It employs the latest engines and the most modern power looms to Mr Roberts’ design. I called this one…’
Dickens waited for the name of one of the duke’s battles.
‘…Grindley’s Mill.’
For some reason, Dickens was disappointed. It displayed a certain lack of imagination on the owner’s part.
‘This mill cost near on twenty-three thousand pounds to build, sir. What do you think of that?’
‘It is an uncommonly large amount of money.’
‘Indeed it is, sir. Let me escort you around.’
They began walking up the stairs to the first floor.
‘How many people work here?’
‘At the moment, we employ 876 hands – 232 men, 404 women and 240 children or thereabouts. We can never be certain of the exact number of children.’
‘And what ages are the children?’
‘I don’t employ any of them under ten years old. I believe firmly, sir, unlike other mill owners, that one should never have younger children in a mill despite their undoubted aptitude for the work.’
‘Aptitude?’
‘The children are small and have dextrous fingertips, sir, perfect for crawling under the machines to twist the broken ends of the cotton threads. This mill has twenty-eight bays, floors of Baltic spruce and six storeys, each of sixteen yards by ninety-two yards. On each floor, the self-acting spinning mules have five hundred spindles.’
Before Dickens could ask another question, Mr Grindley said, ‘Here, sir, is one of the wonders of the world.’ He pushed open the door and immediately his voice was drowned out by the sound of the mules.
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 9