The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery
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‘It should set the right tone for my speech,’ he said out loud, checking himself in the mirror.
He read through his speech once more.
Dear Friends and Colleagues,
It gives me great pleasure to give a speech at the consecration of this temple to learning; the Athenaeum. Here, it is hoped the residents of Manchester will discover the glories, knowledge, power and beauty of books and reading.
They may even discover my own worthless attempts at literature…
His face fell. After everything he had seen, it would not do. How could he let his audience down with such a bland choice of phrase? How could he not let them know what he had seen? How could he not at least acknowledge the divisions he had seen in this new city?
He picked up his pen, selected a sheet of paper from the desk and began writing.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am sure I need scarcely tell you that I am very proud and happy; and that I take it as a great distinction to be asked to come amongst you on an occasion such as this, when, even with the brilliant and beautiful spectacle which I see before me, I can hail it as the most brilliant and beautiful circumstance of all, that we assemble together here, even here, upon neutral ground, where we have no more knowledge of party difficulties, or public animosities between side and side, or between man and man, than if we were a public meeting in the commonwealth of Utopia.
That was a better beginning. At least he now acknowledged the difficulties Manchester had suffered over the last couple of years. The rest of his speech might not be what his audience wanted to hear, but it’s what they should hear.
And if he didn’t say it, who would?
Chapter thirty-THREE
October 5, 1843
The Athenaeum, Manchester
‘Where have you been, Charles? We’ve all been waiting and you’ve missed dinner. Disraeli has nearly finished his speech and you are on next.’
‘I had to re-draft the speech at the hotel, Harrison. I’m sorry but I am here now.’
His friend pushed him on to the stage, towards an empty chair. As he walked across the candlelit auditorium, a whisper ran through the audience followed by sustained applause.
Disraeli paused for a moment, smiled and then carried on as if nothing had happened. Dickens sat down next to the Chairman, Edward Watkin.
The man, who smelt strongly of tobacco, leant across and whispered, ‘You’re the next speaker, Mr Dickens. I’ll introduce you and then you begin.’
Dickens nodded.
Disraeli continued for a few minutes more, before ending on a rousing note and sitting down.
Watkin stood up and began his introduction in a bass voice, with the soft vowels of the Shropshire countryside buried deep within it.
Dickens listened to the applause, gazing out at the audience. It was an interesting mix of people. At the front sat the great and good of Manchester; the prosperous businessmen and their even more prosperous-looking wives.
To the right was Mrs Gaskell and her husband, accompanied by other men dressed in black clerical garb. The local congregation of the Unitarians, no doubt.
Behind them was the main body of the audience; clerks and working men, engineers and seamstresses, shop workers and trade representatives. The very people for whom the Athenaeum had been created, here to hear him.
This was the largest audience he had spoken to so far, but instead of being nervous, he felt exhilarated. As if this stage was the place he was always meant to be.
Mr Watkin finished his introduction and there was a thunderous round of applause. Dickens stood up and took a small bow, advancing to the front of the stage so that all may see him.
Standing there, all eyes upon him, he decided to speak from the heart. To tell these people what he really believed, and what, after his guided tour of the city, he felt was important.
After reading from his notes at the beginning, he discarded them, placing them ostentatiously inside his pocket.
Perhaps a little flattery would soften the message. He grasped his lapel and began speaking.
‘It well becomes, particularly well becomes, this enterprising town, this little world of labour, that she should stand out foremost in the foremost rank in such a cause. It well becomes her that, among her numerous and noble public institutions, she should have a splendid temple sacred to the education and improvement of a large class of those who, in their various useful stations, assist in the production of our wealth, and in rendering her name famous through the world.’
There was a smattering of applause at the compliment. He stopped allowing the clapping to die down, enjoying the moment. ‘I think it is grand to know that, while her factories re-echo with the clanking of stupendous engines, and the whirl and rattle of machinery, the immortal mechanism of God’s own hand, the mind, is not forgotten in the din and uproar, but is lodged and tended in a palace of its own.’
He waved to indicate the building around them and was rewarded with another round of applause. After detailing the financial straits the Athenaeum had suffered over the last few years, he decided to plunge into the meat of his argument.
‘How often have we heard from a large class of men, wise in their generation, who would really seem to be born and bred for no other purpose than to pass into currency counterfeit and mischievous scraps of wisdom, as it is the sole pursuit of some other criminals to utter base coin – how often have we heard from them, as an all-convincing argument, that “a little learning is a dangerous thing”?’
He glanced across at Silas Grindley, who was sitting in the front row. The man scowled. Dickens carried on, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘Why, a little hanging was considered a very dangerous thing, according to the same authorities, with this difference that, because a little hanging was dangerous, we had a great deal of it; and because a little learning was dangerous, we were to have none at all.’
The audience laughed dutifully. Behind him, he heard Mr Watkin shift uncomfortably in his seat. Silas Grindley continued to scowl.
‘Why, when I hear such cruel absurdities gravely reiterated, I do sometimes begin to doubt whether the parrots of society are not more pernicious to its interests than its birds of prey. I should be glad to hear such people’s estimate of the comparative danger of “a little learning” and a vast amount of ignorance; I should be glad to know which they consider the most prolific parent of misery and crime. Descending a little lower in the social scale, I should be glad to assist them in their calculations, by carrying them into certain gaols and nightly refuges I know of, where my own heart dies within me, when I see thousands of immortal creatures condemned, without alternative or choice, to tread not what our great poet calls the “primrose path” to the everlasting bonfire, but one of jaded flints and stones, laid down by brutal ignorance, and held together, like the solid rocks, by years of this most wicked axiom.’
He was quite pleased with this little metaphor. He could see the workmen and shopkeepers leaning forward to listen more intently. The mill owners, bankers and rentiers were glancing across at each other suspiciously. Had they invited a viper into their midst?
Probably, but he did not care. He owed it to Robert Duckworth and his family, and even to Lizzie Burns, to plunge on.
‘And this I know, that the first unpurchasable blessing earned by every man who makes an effort to improve himself in such a place as the Athenaeum, is self-respect – an inward dignity of character which, once acquired and righteously maintained, nothing – no, not the hardest drudgery, nor the direst poverty – can vanquish. Though he should find it hard for a season even to keep the wolf – hunger – from his door, let him but once have chased the dragon – ignorance – from his hearth, and self-respect and hope are left him. You could no more deprive him of those sustaining qualities by loss or destruction of his worldly goods, than you could by plucking out his eyes, take from him an internal consciousness of the bright glory of the sun.’
The rest of his speech flowed superb
ly. He felt at one with his audience. They were listening to his every word, hearing in his sentences the truth of what he believed.
Education was the way to set men free.
He paused before delivering the end he had written. Holding the moment in his hands. An actor waiting for the audience to beg him to continue.
‘But it is upon a much better and wider scale, let me say it once again – it is in the effect of such institutions upon the great social system, and the peace and happiness of mankind, that I delight to contemplate them; and, in my heart, I am quite certain that long after your institution, and others of the same nature, have crumbled into dust, the noble harvest of the seed sown in them will shine out brightly in the wisdom, the mercy, and the forbearance of another race.’
As man and woman, the audience rose to applaud him. Even the merchants and their wives at the front rose and clapped the sentiments, if not the content of his speech.
He stood there, sweat dripping from his brow, even though it was October, drinking in the adulation.
This is what he lived for. This is what he deserved.
Chapter thirty-FOUR
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne reached home and immediately was greeted by Mr Smith, her anger and disappointment melting as she stroked his fur.
Throughout the drive she had been thinking if there was anything she had missed, anything she had overlooked.
But there was nothing.
In the time allotted, she had done the best she could. The realisation didn’t help, though. She hated failure more than anything else and, in her mind, in this investigation she had failed.
‘It’s time to feed you.’
The cat meowed his agreement and padded back to the kitchen with his tail held high, just to remind her where his bowl was.
She went to the fridge and brought out one of his favourites, lamb with vegetables in a rich sauce. He definitely ate better than she did.
She filled his bowl, adding some dry food for the crunch of it, before going back to the fridge to pour herself a large, cold glass of New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc.
As the zesty gooseberry flavours of the wine danced on her tongue, she decided there was one more thing she could do.
She could try to come at it from a different angle. Instead of trying to link Robert Duckworth with Charles Dickens in 1843, what happened if she researched the future lives of her five possible suspects?
She brought out the list once more, checking it against her previous work and re-sorting the names into chronological order. To her eye, it always looked neater that way.
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
1817
Halson St
Mary, 4 children
Editor
Chorlton-on- M
1819
Newberry St
Mary, 2 children
Clerk
St Annes
She would now go through the 1851, 1861 and 1871 Censuses again, seeing if there were any links to Charles Dickens or his family in Manchester. Dickens had died in 1869, so she felt that she could cut her search off by then.
She knew it was a long shot, and she had criticised Ronald for wasting his own time, but she had to try something. She couldn’t just sit there when there was still time to solve the mystery.
She looked at the first two Robert Duckworths. Both were no longer on the 1861 Census. She cross-referenced their names with the list of births, marriages and deaths, discovering that both they and all of their children had died in 1854. Checking with Google, she found that Manchester had suffered a severe outbreak of cholera in that year. Obviously, the disease had taken away whole families in the overcrowded slums.
The next Robert Duckworth, born in 1816, had survived to the ripe old age of 68, dying in 1884. His family and descendants were numerous in both the 1871 and the 1881 Census, so if he was her man, the Lost Cousins website should throw up quite a few present-day descendants.
The editor, the fourth on her list, she couldn’t find in Manchester in 1861, but by broadening the search, she found him and his wife living in Bristol, where he had been working as a teacher. She followed him until 1871, but could find no links to Dickens.
The final Robert Duckworth was in the 1861 Census, living with his wife and one child, a Charles Duckworth. What had happened to the other two children they’d had? She went back through her notes and found their names: Thomas and Charlotte.
There were also two lodgers living with them in 1861. The enumerator had marked a large ‘UK’ in the space where their names should have been. Unknown. He obviously didn’t go back to interview them.
By 1871, they were still living in the same place and the man’s profession was still a clerk. Their son, Charles, was now fourteen years old and still a scholar. By the 1881 Census they had both vanished. In their place a family of six, the Hewitts, occupied the same address. A quick check with Births, Marriages and Deaths showed they had died in 1873 and 1874 respectively.
That was it, then.
It had always been a long shot, researching the Census, but she had hoped something would come up. Now she felt oddly deflated, as if the last semblance of hope had left her body, leaving nothing but emptiness in its place.
It was time to make the call to Michael Underwood.
She dialled his number and he answered in two rings. ‘What do you have for me, Jayne?’
‘Not a lot, I’m afraid.’ She detailed her research over the last few days. ‘So we have five possibilities, but I don’t know which one it is.’
‘That is disappointing. I had high hopes for you, Jayne, and so did Ronald. Anyway, thank you for your work. I’ll send you the cheque after I have sold the book.’
He ended the call and Jayne was left holding the phone to her ear.
The cat stretched his front and back legs and strolled over to the patio doors. It was time to let him out for his visit to number nine.
She got up slowly and opened the door.
He shot straight out with a meow for goodbye.
Standing in the doorway, she inhaled the cold night air.
It was exactly a week until Christmas. She had bought no presents, nor had she arranged to do anything. Robert and Vera were going away, so she would be spending Christmas Day on her own.
The realisation worried her. Christmas wasn’t a time to be alone, it was a time for fun and joy and happiness.
But not for her, not this year.
She sighed. She couldn’t even solve this case. Tomorrow, the auction would take place with nobody being any the wiser who Robert Duckworth was.
He had vanished in the fog of time, like so many people before him.
Would the same happen to her?
The thought made Jayne feel even sadder than before.
Chapter thirty-FIVE
October 5, 1843
The Adelphi Hotel, Manchester
Dickens finally nestled beneath the covers of his bed, pulling the blanket around him. He was slightly drunk, but the exhilaration he felt after the speech was not just a consequence of the alcohol.
Even Silas Grindley had come up to congratulate him. ‘I might not agree with the details, but I can wholeheartedly support the sentiments of your address, Mr Dickens,’ he had pronounced in his northern accent, ‘so I’ve decided to open up a free school for the children of my workers when they’re at the mill. Somewhere where they can learn whilst their parents are working. Now, what do you thi
nk of that?’
Dickens shook his hand forcefully. ‘I think it is a wonderful idea, Mr Grindley. I would only hope that other mill owners may follow your example.’
‘I’ll have a chat with ’em, can’t say more than that.’
Dickens chuckled to himself. At least the speech had done some good.
Then he thought for a moment.
One speech in Manchester was fine, but could he do more? He had promised to write a pamphlet in support of Mr Southwood Smith, but a pamphlet would just be another piece of paper, forgotten five minutes after he had written it.
Couldn’t he write something more useful? Something that would actually touch people emotionally, as his novels had done?
Something joyful. Something to give people hope.
He remembered the voices from the Hall of Science singing their carols.
Something about Christmas, maybe?
As he drifted off to sleep, the thought stayed with him.
In his dreams he was visited by the ghosts of Christmas past, Christmas present and the Christmases yet to come.
And they spoke to him.
Chapter thirty-SIX
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne sat up straight in bed. The curtains were drawn and the bedroom was dark.
Was that a noise?
She listened intently, straining to pick up the soft steps of a burglar.
Nothing. Just the creaking of the house as it cooled down.
She switched on the light, blinking against its brightness.
What had she been dreaming about?