A child was standing barefoot in one of those trenches, prodding some rotting rubbish with a stick.
Lizzie Burns was watching him. ‘It gets worse the further you go inside.’
Dickens pointed to the long row of terraced houses, divided every fifty yards by a narrow, dark alley leading to an even darker interior. ‘Who owns these places?’
‘Most are built and rented by the mill owners. The people who do the work have to live somewhere.’
‘Others are built by speculators who know they have a ready market.’
‘How many people live here?’
‘Let’s go and look, shall we?’ Lizzie again threw out her challenge.
Dickens followed her towards one of the alleys. At its entrance, a young man was leaning against the wall smoking a pipe.
‘Don’t see you much these days, Lizzie.’
‘I don’t come much, Micky.’
‘Who’s the toff?’ The man jerked his saliva-sodden pipe stem towards Dickens.
‘Nobody. A friend.’
The man looked at Dickens from tip to toe. ‘I like his keks.’
‘There’s to be no trouble, Micky, understand?’
The man nodded, slotting his pipe back into a gap between his teeth. ‘No trouble, Lizzie, just sayin’.’
Lizzie sniffed and walked on, followed by Dickens and Robert Duckworth. Dickens felt the man’s eyes on him all the time.
They entered a long, dark alley with damp drenched brick walls stretching high above their heads. At the end, they came out into a dank, dirty courtyard, surrounded on all four sides by soot-encrusted walls. Stairs led up to the entrance of each tenement where, instead of a door, a filthy sheet of oilskin was hung to block out the weather and the light.
‘Each room is occupied by one family. The unlucky ones live in the cellars.’
‘Why are they unlucky?’ asked Dickens.
‘Because of that place.’ She pointed off to the left. As Dickens turned his head, his nose became aware of the foulest smell he had ever encountered. Far worse than anything he had ever seen or smelt in any of the rookeries of London.
Once again, his mind drifted off to his youth in London. Why were these memories intruding more and more these days? Had the prospect of bankruptcy brought them back into his mind? Living in Bayham Street, in a similar courtyard, unable to afford school, his father in the debtors’ prison in Marshalsea, the family split up and divided.
A squalid memory of an even more squalid time.
‘There’s just one jacks for about a hundred families. When it rains, the sewers overflow and the stuff flows into the cellars.’
‘Why would they live there?’
‘Where else can they live?
Three unloved and uncared-for small children approached them, each barefoot, wearing only the flimsiest of cotton clothes despite the bracing winds of autumn.
‘Is there no school?’
‘There’s talk of a Ragged School opening in Charter Street, but the mill owners aren’t too keen. They see learning as a dangerous thing. You don’t need to be able to read and write to work beneath a loom.’
Lizzie glanced behind her, hearing a loud noise. It was a rat being cornered by a child. ‘We should go now, before the people start to become nervous.’
A few men had come out of one property and were standing at the entrance to the house.
Lizzie took Dickens’ arm and led him back the way they had come. Just before they re-entered the dark hole of the alleyway, Dickens looked back.
The child had trapped the rat in an old tin bucket and was banging on top of the lid, gleefully calling to a small grey dog: ‘A big ’un, Tommy, for ye!’
They entered the dark tunnel.
Dickens felt like he was leaving hell.
Chapter twenty-TWO
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Central Library, Manchester
Jayne hurried down Oxford Road towards Central Library. She had decided to leave her car where it was. Better that than spend an hour navigating the one-way system and another forty years looking for a parking space.
Luckily, it was one of those beautiful days that occasionally disturbed a great drab Manchester winter. The sky was a wonderful eggshell blue with just a few aircraft contrails like strokes of paint across it. Even the air was fresh, with just a chill in the nose to remind her it was still winter.
She was conscious this was her last full day of research. She hadn’t got very far, merely isolating the possibilities down to a few suspects.
The whole process reminded her of being a police detective. When investigating any serious crime, the job was to trace suspects, then investigate and eliminate them if possible. In a genealogical investigation the same parameters applied, except the job was to research possible ancestors, look into the past and either eliminate them or confirm a link.
In this case, she had not eliminated enough Robert Duckworths yet. She knew she would be able to discover the truth eventually, but time was not on her side. She had till tonight to report her findings to Michael Underwood.
Ronald was waiting for her outside the doors of Central Library. ‘Morning, Mrs Sinclair.’ He sounded bright and breezy, almost happy to see her. ‘How did your meeting go?’
‘Good, let’s go inside and I’ll brief you.’
As soon as they entered the building, Ronald’s mood changed; he seemed to shrink back into himself, watching the users of the busy library with suspicion, staring at the people’s feet as they climbed the stairs to the reading room, listening to the sound of their steps echoing off the walls.
Before they entered the local studies area, Jayne told him everything she had discovered from her meeting with Tom Smithson. ‘It wasn’t terribly useful at eliminating possibilities, but it did help with the background of Dickens and Manchester.’
‘I told you he’d been here often, didn’t I?’
‘You did, and Mr Smithson confirmed the importance of Manchester to A Christmas Carol. He’d like to see the book before it’s sold, if that’s possible.’ She could almost see Ronald shrinking into his coat, becoming more and more uncomfortable.
‘You’ll have to ask Michael, nothing to do with me.’ He glanced around nervously. ‘What’s the plan here?’
‘I want to check out the Manchester rate books. The Census only gives us the details from every ten years, and, in our case, the 1851 Census for Manchester was damaged, only leaving us the 1841 Census complete. However, the Manchester rate books go all the way back to 1706 and are a record of all local property tax-payers in the city. They are a useful substitute for the Census, particularly as they were collected on a yearly basis. They can also help find other Robert Duckworths who may have moved to the city after the Census of 1841.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘But there is a problem. Unlike the Census, there no other details of age, occupation or family members living in the house – just the tenant, the address and the rateable value of the property.’
Ronald perked up again. ‘Brilliant. I love research, you don’t have to deal with people.’
‘Mr Welsh, please understand I mean no disrespect, but I like to do my research alone. It’s my way of making sure I don’t miss anything, however insignificant.’
‘I understand, Mrs Sinclair. However, with no disrespect, we only have today left. Normally, I would say it is your job to research Robert Duckworth, but given the lack of time, don’t you think you could do with some help?’
It was one of Jayne’s character flaws; she never asked for help, believing it was up to her to do everything herself. Even when she was a copper, her reports had been scathing. ‘PC 4856 needs to understand that asking for help or information is not a weakness, it will encourage her to perform her duties satisfactorily.’ It was an almost constant refrain from virtually every assessment from her superiors.
‘I can be another pair of eyes, Mrs Sinclair. We don’t have a lot of time and I’m used to research.’
Jayne didn’t want to argue. Ronald was right. They didn’t have enough time and there was a lot of detailed work to be done in the records.
She shrugged her shoulders. ‘Okay, Ronald, you can help me – but you need to follow my instructions to the letter, understand?’
‘Understood.’ He glanced over his shoulder as somebody walked past him. ‘Shall we get started?’
They entered the local studies archive and approached the desk. Jayne asked the librarian for the Manchester rate books for 1837 to 1845. It was a wide range, but she thought she should cover as wide a timescale as possible. And with Ronald to help, she should be able to do it quickly.
‘We have rate books for those years,’ replied the librarian. ‘Some of the earlier ones, like 1830, have been lost, though. Let me show you where the microfilms are kept.’
She took them to the cabinet, choosing the correct years. ‘You know how to use the reader?’
‘Is the Pope a catholic?’ answered Ronald.
The librarian cocked her head and frowned.
Jayne quickly spoke. ‘We know how to work the machines, thank you.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Possibly the parish and electoral registers later?’
‘Just give me a shout when you need them.’
The librarian walked away, checking out Ronald, who was oblivious to her stares.
‘Right, Ronald. I’ll take 1841 to 1845, you take the early years. These are the Robert Duckworth addresses you are looking for, plus their parishes or areas.’
She showed him her printed list of the ten possible candidates, explaining that the names with red crosses against them were missing from the incomplete 1851 Census and the three names at the bottom were added to it, but missing from 1841 Census.
Ronald stared at it a long time, before saying. ‘I understand, it’s perfectly clear Mrs Sinclair.
Birth
Address
Family
Job
Residence
1801
Minshull St
Mary, 5 children
Twister
St James Ward XXX
1806
Rogers Rd
Elizabeth, 4 children
Calico Printer
Angel Meadow
1807
????
Mary, 2 children
Tailor
Collegiate Ward
XXX
1811
Minehead St
Sarah, 2 children
Cotton Weaver
Ancoats
1816
Howard’s Lane
Sarah, no children
Power Loom Operator
Stockport
XXX
1816
Ardwick Green
Helen, 5 children
Block Printer
Ardwick
1819
Newberry St
Mary, 2 children
Clerk
St Annes
1817
Halson St
Mary, 4 children
Editor
Chorlton-on-M
1826
Plymouth Grove
Eliza, 3 children
Fustian Shearer
Ardwick
1826
Hanging Ditch
Emily, 2 children
Clerk
Deansgate
Luckily, two microfilm viewers next to each other were free. ‘Do you know how to use the machines?’ she asked.
‘Is the Pope—’
Jayne held her hand up to stop him from talking. ‘I get the message. Remember, it’s a process of elimination. We’re looking to see if people appeared on the 1841 Census and on the rate books up to 1844. If they are on the Census but not in the rate books then we can eliminate them.’
‘Why?’
‘It means they either died or moved away from Manchester before the end of 1843. We’ll confirm that with the Births, Marriages and Deaths list. Or they moved to Manchester after 1843 and were enumerated on the 1851 Census.’
‘Okay, got it.’ Ronald took the first microfilm for 1837 and threaded it expertly through the machine. Checking the details, he began looking for the correct districts.
His concentration on the task was total. Jayne could see that he was totally in his element; the world of documents and words.
She sat down and took out the microfilm for 1841 and checked the areas on her list.
Two hours later and they had finished.
Ronald’s work on the early years confirmed that all the names on the 1841 Census also appeared in the rate books. However, three names didn’t appear on the rate books after 1843. Jayne removed them from her list. One new name appeared on the rate book for 1843, and this name was also on the 1851 Census.
The two other Duckworths in the 1851 Census were not in the rate books before 1845, so Jayne eliminated them. The new list was shortened, but not by much.
Birth
Address
Family
Job
Residence
1806
Rogers Rd
Elizabeth, 4 children
Calico Printer
Angel Meadow
1811
Minehead St
Sarah, 2 children
Cotton Weaver
Ancoats
1816
Ardwick Green
Helen, 5 children
Block Printer
Ardwick
1819
Newberry St
Mary, 2 children
Clerk
St Annes
1817
Halson St
Mary, 4 children
Editor
Chorlton-on-M
Ronald checked out the list. ‘So our Robert Duckworth is one of these people?’
Jayne nodded. ‘Probably, unless we have missed somebody. The last person’s job is interesting. What sort of editor was he? Could he have known Charles Dickens through his work?’
‘It’s possible. How do we narrow it down even further?’
Jayne looked at her watch. ‘We go over there and get something to eat and another coffee.’ She pointed to the café in the corner. ‘I don’t know about you, but research always makes me hungry for some reason.’
Ronald looked anxious. ‘I prefer to stay here, too many people.’
Jayne touched his arm. ‘We’ll sit in the corner away from people. We need to take a break. Unless I eat now, I’m going to chew your arm off soon.’
Ronald smiled and held up his hand. ‘One finger or two?’
Chapter twenty-THREE
October 5, 1843
Manchester
They hurried towards the right, heading past a graveyard and down some moss-covered steps. Dickens’ feet nearly went from under him on the slippery surface but he was quickly grabbed and supported by the strong arms of Lizzie Burns.
‘You shouldn’t fall over round here, love, you never know what’s lying beneath you.’
Dickens descended more cautiously from then on, making sure he watched exactly where he put his feet.
At the bottom of the steps, they came to a bridge over a body of water.
‘Dulcie Bridge over the Irk,’ said Robert Duckworth. ‘Yonder lies Strangeways. You can see the buildings of the workhouse through the smoke. Not a place anyone aspires to, Mr Dickens.’
‘People prefer living with the devils in Angel Meadow rather than spend a minute in there?’
‘In front of it is the new station to Liverpool. I believe you travelled from London by train, Mr Dickens?’
‘I did.’
‘And it only took nine hours?’
‘That is true. The speed is remarkable. They are talking of a new engine which will reduce the time even further.’
Robert shook his head. ‘One day I would love to travel by train.’
‘But until hell freezes over, it’s Shanks’s pony for the l
ikes of us.’
‘Shanks’s pony?’
‘Lizzie means we generally walk everywhere. I took the Omnibus once, but standing on the ledge outside, of course. They were after asking sixpence for a seat. Daylight robbery.’
Robert pointed back across the river. ‘To the left are the rookeries of Salford. Slightly better than Manchester—’
‘But not much,’ interrupted Lizzie. ‘At least the air is cleaner.’
Dickens edged over the parapet. Fifty feet below, the river flowed sluggishly like liquid mud. A coal-black, foul-smelling stream with a rainbow film of oil and decay. On the banks, dark, derelict-looking mills with tall chimney stacks belching smoke stood interspersed with shed-like pig sties. Dickens could hear the squeals of the beasts as they luxuriated in the revolting slime and mud. Next to the pigs, two young boys were diving into the desolate waters and surfacing moments later, grasping a metal pipe in their hands.
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 11