She struggled to remember. It was hazy, yet at the time it had seemed so vivid; a man dressed in white. Was it Dave Gilmour? Telling her to keep going, never give up. ‘Look at the children,’ he had said.
But she didn’t have any children. It wasn’t anything she felt sad about. Instead, it was a conscious decision on her part. She just never felt settled enough with Paul to bring another human being into the world. And he had made it perfectly clear he didn’t want their lives destroyed by the arrival of a small, braying monster.
What had the dream meant? ‘Look at the children.’
The clock next to her said 4.35 a.m.
Should she get up? Or just go back to sleep?
After a moment’s hesitation, she threw back the covers and grabbing a dressing gown to protect her from the cold. Padding downstairs, she switched on the central heating in the hall, hearing the water boiler whirr into action. At least the house would be warm.
Mr Smith was waiting for her in the kitchen.
Well, not exactly waiting for her, more aware of her presence. He steadfastly refused to leave his position, close to the radiator.
She walked over and scratched him behind the ears. ‘What time did you come back through the cat flap?’
She received a purr of pleasure in answer.
Whilst the house heated up, she switched on the Nespresso machine and soon the aroma of coffee filled the air. There was something terribly visceral about the smell of freshly brewed coffee, as if it touched some deep sense of comfort buried within her body.
She held the warm mug in the palms of her hands, bringing the steaming liquid up to her face. On the opposite wall, the digital clock showed the date: December 19, 2019.
176 years ago to the day, Charles Dickens had published A Christmas Carol for five shillings a copy. Today, one of those first editions would be sold at auction for nearly 30,000 pounds.
That was inflation for you. The price would be even higher if she could find Robert Duckworth. Up to three times more, according to Ronald.
But there was nothing left to research. Sometimes the documentation just didn’t exist any more. In this case, even DNA couldn’t help find a way of breaking this particular brick wall.
DNA. The link from one generation to the next, passed down from parents to their children. A living link with the past in every person.
Is that what her dream meant? ‘Look at the children.’ Was her subconscious telling her to check out the children of each of the Robert Duckworths?
She checked the clock again: 4.45 a.m.
Outside, Manchester was still dark. It was nearly the winter equinox, the shortest day in the calendar where the sun barely kisses the sky before it sinks once more below the horizon.
What did she have to lose?
She had heard nothing from Ronald last night. He would have called if he had found anything. It was probably a wild-goose chase, but the nagging doubt still remained in her mind. If she didn’t check it out, the suspicion would still remain she hadn’t done everything possible.
She switched on her computer and, while it booted up, made herself another coffee and fed the cat. He, of course, managed to leave the comfort of a warm radiator for a bowl of lamb’s liver and gravy. He could never resist food.
She sat down and began researching the children of the Robert Duckworths, starting from the top.
Five hours and four more cups of coffee later, she struck gold.
In the 1861 Census, she discovered that Charlotte Duckworth, the daughter of the fifth Robert Duckworth, was at one time working as a servant to Elizabeth Gaskell, the writer, and her husband, William, in their house in Plymouth Grove, just off Oxford Road.
Was that the link?
She vaguely remembered studying Mrs Gaskell in school. Didn’t she write the book on which that wonderful TV series was based – Cranford ?
According to Wikipedia, Elizabeth Gaskell was a celebrated writer by 1861, having published Mary Barton , North and South , Cranford and a biography of Charlotte Brontë. She even wrote short stories about Christmas for Household Words , the magazine edited by Charles Dickens.
There it was. There was the link, she knew it in her bones.
‘Calm down, Jayne, don’t rush it, do the work. What about the other children?’
She went back to the list she had created for this Robert Duckworth’s children.
Robert Duckworth 1819
Mary Duckworth 1815
Thomas Duckworth 1837
Charlotte Duckworth 1840
Charles Duckworth 1854
‘It looks like they started a family and then stopped, having another child thirteen years later and calling him Charles.’
The cat stared at her as she spoke out loud.
She searched the 1861 Census but could find no reference for a Thomas Duckworth in Manchester. The BMD index did show a death in 1854, but unless she obtained the certificate, she wouldn’t know if this was the same person.
Had he died or just moved somewhere else?
She didn’t know now, but she would check it out later.
What about Charles Duckworth? The name rang a bell, didn’t it?
Then it hit her. She thought about Vera’s ancestry chart. Didn’t she have a relative called Charles Duckworth?
The file was in its usual place, and there it was in the 1901 Census. A Charles Duckworth, living with Vera’s great-grandfather. She had even written herself a note to check up on this man.
Thomas Henry Duckworth
1879 -1924
Eliza Duckworth
1874 -1931
Margaret Duckworth
1899 -????
Samuel Duckworth
1901 -????
Francis Duckworth
1903 -1966
Hermione Duckworth
1905 -????
Charles Duckworth
1854 -????
Excited now, she brought up the 1881 Census and typed in ‘Charles Duckworth’.
There he was, living in Manchester with his wife Eliza, and just one child: Thomas Henry Duckworth.
Jayne punched the air and shouted, ‘Get in.’
Mr Smith stared at her with utter disdain, embarrassed to have such a human as a housemate.
So Vera was related to this man; he was her great-great-grandfather. At least now she could push Vera’s family chart back to 1819. With a bit of luck, and a lot of digging in the Manchester parish registers, she should be able to take it back even further.
She laid out all her findings in front of her. Robert Duckworth’s daughter, Charlotte, had been employed as a servant in Elizabeth Gaskell’s house. Gaskell was closely linked to Charles Dickens, even writing short stories for him in his magazine.
And then the realisation dawned on her.
She still hadn’t proved a connection between Charles Dickens and Robert Duckworth. There was a possibility of a link through Elizabeth Gaskell, but that was all.
There was no direct documentary proof. And, without evidence, it was all wishful thinking.
She remembered one of Sergeant McNally’s lectures. ‘Putting a criminal away is about three things. Evidence. Evidence. Evidence. If you don’t find the evidence, the case won’t stand up in a court of law.’
The truth was, she had no evidence.
Her shoulders slumped and she leant her head against her desk, feeling the coolness of the Formica against her forehead. All that work for nothing.
Just then, her mobile phone rang.
Chapter thirty-SEVEN
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
‘Mrs Sinclair?’
It was Ronald, his voice tired as if he hadn’t slept last night.
‘Good morning, Ronald. I have some good news and some bad news.’
‘The good news first this time.’
‘I think I know which Robert Duckworth received the book…’
‘That’s great, Mrs Sinclair.’ T
he voice on the other end of the line was suddenly full of energy.
Jayne felt sorry at bringing him back down to earth. ‘ The bad news is, I just can’t prove it.’
She went on to describe her work on the Censuses and the link to Elizabeth Gaskell.
The voice was excited again. ‘I read many articles about Dickens and Mrs Gaskell. They had a very close relationship, and he even suggested the title of one of her books, North and South .’
‘That’s great, Ronald, but it still doesn’t prove a link between Dickens and Robert Duckworth. We just haven’t found any evidence.’
There was silence at the other end of the phone for a long time.
‘Ronald?’ Jayne enquired.
‘I’m thinking, Mrs Sinclair. You know, Mrs Gaskell retained most of her letters. I think the archive is stored at John Rylands Library.’
‘Could there be documentation in the archive?’
‘It’s worth a shot, we have no other ideas, do we? The auction isn’t for another nine hours. We still have time to look.’
Why not? Jayne thought. If she didn’t check it out, she would spend the rest of her life worrying that she had missed something. ‘Let me call the archivist to reserve a place to take a look at the Gaskell letters. Meet me outside the John Rylands Library in Deansgate at…’ she checked the clock on the wall, ‘eleven o’ clock.’
‘I’ll be there. And Mrs Sinclair? I feel good about this one.’
Chapter THIRTY-eight
Thursday, December 19, 2019
John Rylands Library, Manchester
Jayne drove like a bat out of hell to get to Deansgate.
She had been rushing around since she had finished the call with Ronald, calling John Rylands Library immediately After explaining to the archivist about the Dickens first edition, the link to Robert Duckworth, his sister working for Elizabeth Gaskell, and the urgency of the auction, the archivist waived the usual twenty-four hours notice of requests, and reserved a place in the Research Room for them.
Jayne then completed the membership form online, spending another twenty minutes going through the catalogue requesting all items that could have a possible connection to Charles Dickens. There were a lot of documents and letters as Dickens had published articles and stories by Mrs Gaskell in the magazines he edited, and had advised her on the publication of her early novels.
All this had taken time, however. Ronald was already waiting in front of the library as she arrived at fifteen minutes past eleven. ‘You’re here Mrs Sinclair, I was beginning to get worried for a moment.’
‘Traffic was bad and parking was worse. Shall we go in?’
For a moment, she paused and looked up at the imposing Gothic front of the building. It looked more like a church than a library with dark red sandstone, stained-glass oriel windows, lacy tracery and finely detailed carving. A temple to the religion of learning, she thought.
They hurried round the side to a modern extension and spotted a receptionist behind a desk.
‘Where can I find the Research Room?’
‘You have reserved a seat?’
‘Correct.’
‘Go up to Level 4, the lift is over there. Reader Reception’
‘Thank you.’ They took the lift and found themselves in a modern room with an array of oak desks occupied by researchers.
‘I have reserved two chairs.’
The reader receptionist checked his computer. ‘Mrs Sinclair?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Do you have photo ID and proof of address?’
Jayne produced her driving licence and an electricity bill.
‘Perfect. You have been assigned chairs 12 and 13. The archivist will bring the documents to the Issue Desk, you can pick them up from there. You can deposit your bags and coat in the lockers, they’re not allowed in the research room. Plus all notes must be taken in pencil.You can of course use a laptop if you have one.’
‘How long will the documents be?’
‘About twenty minutes, she’s usually very quick.’
‘Thank you.’
‘They went back to the lockers and Jayne deposited her bag and coat inside. Ronald kept wearing his jacket. She could see he was self-conscious about taking it off.
‘Come on, I want to show you something while we wait for the documents.’
They took the lift down but instead of going down to the lobby, they entered the main Reading Room of the Library. Even more than the exterior, the interior of the room resembled a cathedral. The constant noise of Manchester had vanished, replaced by the quiet of a cloister. High stained glass windows gave a clear, clerical light while statues of academic luminaries were the saints of learning. A red carpeted aisle down the centre was dominated by an arched tracery roof soaring thirty feet above their heads.
And of course, there were books, thousands of them, arrayed in solid oak bookshelves on either side of the central aisle and on a mezzanine floor above.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Ronald, his mouth open staring at the books and the ceiling.
‘I thought you’d like it. Ages since I’ve been here, I often think of it as one of the hidden gems of Manchester.’
‘Who created it?’
‘A woman, Enriqueta Rylands, the widow of a wealthy mill owner and merchant, John Rylands. It was opened in 1900 as a temple to learning.’
On either side, in small alcoves, people were sitting and studying, taking notes in pencil.
Ronald was now circling around slowly, giving himself a 360 degree view of the library. ‘I could spend my life here,’ he whispered.
‘Not possible, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t mind either though.’ She touched him on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go back upstairs. With a bit of luck, the letters and documents will be ready for us.’
They returned to Research Room and, as Jayne had predicted, the archivist was waiting for them at the Issue Desk.
‘Here are the boxes you requested. Please keep them in order and return them to the issue desk when you are finished. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to ask.’ She smiled checking that they had understood.
‘You’ll also need these.’ She held up two pairs of nitrile gloves. ‘Please put them on before touching the letters. There’s a book rest for reading the documents in the table. I hope you find what you’re looking for. A link between A Christmas Carol, Manchester and Mrs Gaskell would be lovely.’
Jayne had told her the reason for the urgency. It was the only reason they had managed to get in so quickly. ‘I hope so too.’
Jayne and Ronald carried everything to their desk. ‘Time to cross our fingers,’ Jayne said putting on the gloves, ‘the evidence is in these letters or else we have nothing left. Shall we read them together?’
‘Go ahead,’ nodded Ronald leaning forward as Jayne opened the first box, removing the letter on top.
The paper was thick and the ink, in Dickens’ flowing, exuberant hand, with a strong slant to the left, had already turned to a dark brown, earth colour.
They both read the first line of the letter, Ronald’s lips moving as he did.
My dear Mrs Gaskell…
Chapter thirty-nine
October 6, 1843
On the train to Birmingham.
Dickens pulled out a notebook and requested a pen and ink from the steward. It wasn’t going to be easy writing on the moving train as it rocked from side to side, but he feared if he didn’t do it now, the ideas he had dreamt last night would vanish like the morning mist in a woodland dell.
He had woken late, rushed his breakfast and picked up the bag the valet had packed. Just as he was about to leave, Fanny had arrived with the children and their maids to see him off
‘We’ll ride together. Harry and Charles so want to see the trains.’ She leant in closer. ‘Between you and me, I think the wits will be scared out of them by the engines, but they still want to go to the station.’
Dickens tousled Harry’s hair. ‘Brave boy.’
The climbed into the cab called by the hotel and, all six jammed together, rattled off to the station.
Dickens stared out of the window for a moment before looking back at his sister. ‘Are you happy here, Fanny?’
She made a little moue with her mouth. It was one of the most endearing things about his sister, he thought, the way she had of pursing her lips when asked a question. How he would miss her.
‘I think I am, Charles. I miss the family, of course, and mother, but Henry is a good man and the children love it here.’
‘Do you miss your singing? You wanted to sing opera…’
‘That,’ she smiled, ‘it was just a young girl’s dream.’
‘Sometimes, we should hang onto our dreams even when we’re grown up. What’s your dream, Harry?’
The boy thought for a moment. ‘I’d like walk to school, on my own.’
Dickens looked at his sister. She shook her head.
‘I’m sure the doctors will be able to help you achieve your dream. When I go back to London, I will look for a special doctor to see if he can cure you. You must come to our house for Christmas and meet him. Would you like that?’
The boy nodded his head vigorously.
He turned back to speak directly to his sister. ’I mean it, I would love you and the family to spend Christmas with us.’
Before she could answer, the cabbie shouted. ‘We is here.’
Now he was attempting to write on the moving train. His normal strong handwriting, cramped and shaky.
Harry must be in the Christmas book, and Robert Duckworth's son. Too many children suffered in this world while their pain was ignored.
Grindley needed to be in there too, or at least his ideas, the man himself was too much of this world. Perhaps, make him older, more alone and more misanthropic, with a partner who had died years ago called Marley.
The ghosts should make an appearance, shadowing the main character, and showing him the errors of his ways. What should he call the misanthropic man? He vaguely remembered a name on a tombstone in Edinburgh when he had visited that city. Scrooge wasn’t it? A perfect name for a miser.
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 15