The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery
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Of course, Robert had to be in there. A clerk for the miser. A good man with a young family one of whom was severely ill.
There was something here, something he could work with.
He stared out of the train at the countryside of England as it raced past his window.
A book to remind people of the wonder of Christmas and offer them hope for a better future. A chance for rebirth and redemption whatever they had done in the past or the present.
That was it. A book to offer hope.
But what was he going to call it?
The memory of the smiling faces of his sister’s family and of the people in the Hall of Science as they sang, swam into his mind.
A Christmas Carol.
That’s not a bad title. With the chapters divided into staves like a hymn.
He sat back and planned the opening sentence in his mind. Something to confuse and astound, to introduce the ghosts and the idea of redemption.
He scribbled the words quickly in his notebook.
Marley was dead, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.
It wasn’t bad, a start anyway.
The beginning of a story was always the most difficult. Often, a writer didn’t know where the beginning was until he had written the whole story. At other times, the beginnings came quickly as a half-formed image, almost dream-like.
This one felt correct.
A good beginning.
Chapter FORTY
Thursday, December 19, 2019
John Rylands Library, Manchester
After three hours they had read all the letters without finding a single reference to Robert Duckworth.
They both slumped back in their chairs in the Research Room whispering to each other, reluctant to disturb the church-like atmosphere.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Ronald.
Jayne shook her head. ‘I don’t know. But I need something to eat and a coffee to give a jolt to my brain. We’ll return the box to the archivist and go to the cafe.’
‘Do we have to? Can’t we stay here?’ He glanced around the room. ‘It’s peaceful here.’
‘We need to talk, Ronald, we can’t spend our lives whispering and I need food for my stomach as well as my soul.’
Reluctantly, Ronald followed her to the cafe after they had returned the documents to the issue desk.
‘Did you find your Robert Duckworth?’ asked the archivist.
Jayne shook her head. ‘He seems to have vanished off the face of the earth, there's not even a reference to his daughter.’
‘It’s not surprising, domestic servants did not have a prominent place in literary affairs in that era. There are other boxes in the Gaskell collection you could look at.’
‘Thank you, but we need a break to re-group and re-think, and to grab some food.’
‘When you’re ready, let me know how I can help.’
Downstairs, in the cafe, Jayne ordered a salmon quiche and a double espresso, while Ronald had a glass of water.
‘Don’t you ever eat?’
‘They didn’t have any baked beans,’ he said sadly.
Jayne shook her head. ‘You should eat something different.’
‘They keep me regular.’
‘Too much information, Ronald,’ said Jayne tucking into her quiche.
‘What are we going to do?’
Jayne thought for a moment. ‘Well, in the letters, we know that Dickens and Elizabeth Gaskell wrote to each regularly.’
‘But it was only about their work.’
’She did write Christmas stories for his Household Words magazine. Perhaps if we read those, we might find out something.’
‘I don’t know, Mrs Sinclair, those are stories not evidence. You said we needed evidence, didn’t you?’
Jayne was always surprised at how focussed Ronald was, refusing to be side-tracked when he researched. Unlike herself, who constantly discovered new documents to read and areas to look at, doubling or tripling her research time. These documents were often useful for background but not much else.
‘No, you’re right, Ronald,’ she eventually said, ‘it wouldn’t be evidence.’
Ronald sat back in his chair, his shoulders hunched and his body limp. Around him, the normal buzz of the cafe swirled but he looked like he was in a world of his own.
‘We’ve reached a dead end,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll never prove who Robert Duckworth was.’
Jayne hated seeing him this way. In less than a minute, he had gone from an enthusiastic, professional researcher to a depressed man who had given up all hope.
“We’ll find something, Ronald.’
‘What? It’s already nearly three o’clock.The auction takes place in three and a half hours. What are we going to find in that time? His shoulders slumped even more if that was physically possible. ‘I so wanted us to find out who he was Mrs Sinclair. It’s almost as if I know him, I’ve looked at the inscription in the book that often.’
‘Dickens must have known him, Ronald, to write such endearing words. You knew it was always going to be a difficult task in the little time we had. We made the assumption that Robert Duckworth lived in Manchester. But perhaps he was just visiting when Dickens came her in October 1843. After all, the name comes from thirty miles further north in Lancashire. Maybe, he knew Dickens already and travelled to Manchester to meet him at the Athenaeum?’
‘I suppose you’re right. But I wanted to give a lot of money to the homeless shelter, not just 15000 pounds.’
‘That amount is amazing. Think how many people it can feed.’
‘But 45,000 pounds can feed far more,’ he said with unerring logic.
Jayne Sinclair tried to cheer him up. ’Don’t forget, you’ve discovered an unknown first edition of A Christmas Carol with a dedication that nobody has even seen before.’
‘Not strictly true, Mrs Sinclair. Whoever catalogued the book for the Crossley collection must have seen it. Remember the stamp on the inside. For some reason it was never transferred onto the Victorian sales catalogue when Crossley died.
Jayne finished the last of her quiche and drained her coffee.
Ronald stood up. ‘We’ve done as much as we can, Mrs Sinclair. Let’s telephone Mr Underwood with the bad news. We’ll have to tell him before the auction.’
Jayne sat there, feeling the caffeine from the coffee buzzing around her brain. For a moment, the sounds of the cafe vanished and the world became very still.
‘Why did you just say, Ronald?’
The man frowned. ‘I said we need to tell Michael Underwood before the auction. He’ll have to let potential buyers understand we don’t know the identity of Robert Duckworth.’
‘No, before that, what did you say?’
Ronald’s frowned deepened. ‘I don’t know, I was just talking.’
‘You were talking about somebody not cataloguing something.’
‘Yesss,’ said Ronald doubtfully.
‘Jayne stood up, snatching her notepad and pencils. ‘I think I have an idea.’
Chapter forty-ONE
Thursday, December 19, 2019
John Rylands Library, Manchester
‘Where are we going? What are we doing?’
Ronald grabbed his notebooks, trying to catch up with the genealogist as she ran out of the cafe.
‘We need to find an unoccupied computer with a catalogue of the Gaskell collection.’ A vague memory of something she had seen this morning had stuck in her mind.
They found a free computer in one of the rooms off the reception area. She logged on, checking the list of documents on Elizabeth Gaskell. ‘I think they catalogued all the Dickens letters first as they would be more interesting to scholars.’ She talked as she scrolled down through the catalogue. ‘Bingo.’ She finally said, pointing to the last time on the list; uncatalogued documents and letters.
‘You think there
could be some mention of Robert Duckworth here?’
Jayne glanced at the time. ‘I don’t know, but it’s worth a shot. We only have just over three hours before auction, it’s worth a try.’
‘You forgot the Library closes at 5 pm.’
‘Shit. Well, it just means we have ninety minutes. We’d better get moving.’
She submitted a request for the box of documents. ‘Now we just hope our friendly archivist can help us out.’
They returned to their seats in the research room and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The clock ticked over to 4.05. Finally, Jayne could stand it no longer. She walked over to the archivist standing beside the Issue Desk. ‘Hi there, I put in a request for some uncatalogued letters and documents from the Gaskell Collection.’
‘They just came up from storage, Mrs Sinclair. Let me log then in and you can take them away.’ The archivist quickly tapped her computer keys and handed over the large box. ‘I’m afraid we haven’t got round to cataloguing these letters completely yet. One of my predecessors performed a quick assessment, a document triage if you like. Most seem to be domestic letters. I’m afraid you’ll have to return the box before five o’ clock.’
‘Thank you.’
Jayne seized the box and rushed back to her chair. She opened it and peered inside. ’There’s a lot of documents. Let’s work separately this time.’
They both put on their nitrile glove and began to work.
Ronald looked over his shoulder at the researchers behind him and then whispered. ‘This ones just about the Easter celebrations for the Unitarian church.’ He put it face down on new pile, taking another from the box.
‘Her husband was the vicar I think.’
Jayne scanned her letter. ‘It’s from a cousin, detailing a planned visit to Plymouth Grove and how she was looking forward to seeing Elizabeth again, but not Manchester. She doesn’t seem to have liked the city preferring the countryside around Knutsford. Perhaps, this has a Cranford connection?'
Jayne put it on face down on the read pile.
‘This one mentions Dickens but only to say the writer went to see him reading from his books. The rest is just details of the furnishings of Plymouth Grove and church gossip.’
It too was placed on the read pile.
They continued working their way through the letters. The clock in the research room ticked on. At precisely, 4.50, a librarian came round and told them they should prepare to pack up as the research room was closing in ten minutes.
Jayne stared into the box. There were still at least forty letters to go. They would never read them all in time.
Ronald let out a little whoop of happiness. ’I’ve got something. It’s a letter from her cousin in 1859, she’s talking about the new house and says, “I am so happy my recommendation for a new maid is turning out to be far more diligent and accommodating in her work than her predecessor. It is always so rewarding when one can help a fellow Unitarian who has fallen on hard times. Please send my congratulations to Charlotte Duckworth and tell her how pleased I am that she has settled in so quickly.’
There was a loud, ‘Please keep your voice down,’ from behind them.
Jayne apologised and turned back to Ronald. ‘That’s great, at least it confirms when Charlotte Duckworth started working at the house.’
‘But it still doesn’t give us a link to Robert Duckworth.’
The minute hand of the clock ticked over towards the eleven.
Jayne placed the letter she was reading on to the read pile and reached for another, recognising the writing as soon as she picked it up.
‘This is it,’ she said softly.
‘What?’
Louder. ‘This is it.’
Ronald stopped reading his document and looked over her shoulder as she read the letter.
Dear Mrs Gaskell,
I have taken the liberty of sending you my latest novella. It is intended as a Christmas present for the guide you recommended during my time in Manchester, Robert Duckworth.
I wonder if I could trouble you to give it to him before Christmas if at all possible. I visited his abode on Newberry Street but I am not sure of his precise address in Manchester.
Thank you in advance.
I remain your honourable and admiring servant,
Jayne scrambled for her list of possible Duckworths. ‘It’s him, ‘ she shouted, ‘we’ve found him, Ronald.’ They hugged each other tightly.
There was another loud, ‘Can you please keep your voices down, some of us are trying to work. This is a research room, not a rave,’ from the young researcher sitting behind them.
Chapter forty-two
Thursday, December 19, 2019
Buxton Residential Home, Derbyshire
Jayne had set up her laptop so everybody could see it.
Everybody in this case being Robert, Vera, Ronald and herself. They were in one of the small rooms off the main reception area in the Buxton Residential Home.
‘I’m so excited,’ said Vera, ‘fancy one of my ancestors having something to do with Charles Dickens. When I was younger, I used to watch A Christmas Carol every year.
Jayne had photographed the documents with her phone and sent them to Michael Underwood. He was over the moon with excitement. ‘This is an amazing discovery, well done Mrs Sinclair.’
The clock on the wall ticked over to 6.30. The suspense was building as they waited for the website to go live.
The picture flashed twice and Michael appeared, standing behind a lectern with a gavel in his hand. ‘Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome you to the latest Underwood and Little auction being held online on this day, December 19, 2019. This is a special Christmas sale of first editions discovered by our uniquely talented team of searchers.’
Ronald pointed to himself. ‘Uniquely talented, that’s me.’
‘Shall we begin? Lot number 1 is a first edition of George Orwell’s Animal Farm.’ The image switched to a pictures of the book, showing the cover and inside pages before going to a dashboard showing the bids in pounds and US dollars.
Jayne zoned out for a moment and glanced across at Ronald staring at the screen. She had enjoyed herself in this investigation, it was good to have a partner to work with instead of researching alone. They had been a good team, complementing each other rather than competing. She’d like to work with Ronald again, but not to often. Baked beans for lunch everyday would start to wear her down.
She glanced across to Vera, holding her step-father’s wrinkled hand. When she went into the Home, Jayne had to explain to her why she was investigating Vera’s family history. It had spoilt the Christmas surprise and of course Jayne now wouldn’t be able to finish it in time for her friend to create the wall chart, but Vera was as kind as ever.
‘Never mind, love, it was a wonderful idea for a Christmas present. You take your time, and give it to me when you’re ready. I’d love to see it, mind, I’ve often wondered who my ancestors were and where I came from. From what you’ve told me, looks like I’m Lancashire through and through. That makes me so chuffed.’
Robert saw her looking at Vera and winked. God, she loved that man. If anything happened to him…She quickly dismissed the thought from her mind. No use thinking like that. Just enjoy every minute, of every day you have left together.
In that moment, she decided she would go to Australia with these two lovely people in February. With a bit of luck, she might even discover some new clients there.
She zoned back in as she heard Michael Underwood speak again.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we now come to the star lot of the day. A first edition of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. This unique book was a discovered in Manchester by one of our researchers, Ronald Welsh.’
Ronald beamed at the mention of his name.
‘To those clients who registered interest in this lot, I have emailed details and documentation of the man mentioned in the inscri
ption, Robert Duckworth. These documents prove the provenance and authenticity of this previously undiscovered first edition. Dickens mentions Robert Duckworth as his guide in Manchester in a letter to Mrs Gaskell kept at her archive in the John Rylands Library. In addition, there are biographical and family details found by our genealogical investigator, Jayne Sinclair.’
Jayne’s face reddened.
’That’s you, love,' said Vera.
‘Mr Duckworth still has family living in the North of England. A connection to A Christmas Carol reaching back into the past. Anyway, without any further ado, I’d like to start the bidding at 40,000 pounds.’
The dashboard showed the bids in two currencies.
‘Fancy that, so much money for a book.’
‘One that used to owned by one of your ancestors, Vera,’ said Robert.
‘Could do with the money now, couldn’t we?’
’42,000.’
’44,000.’
’46,000.’
Michael Underwood’s voice came through loud and clear as the numbers on the dashboard changed.
’50,000. A bid from America. Can I see 55,000 thousand?’
The dashboard clicked over again, followed immediately by the numbers moving up to 60,000.
‘Another bid from America. 65,000 anybody?’
There dashboard moved quickly to 70,000 and then 75,000.
‘All this money for a book, Vera, it’s amazing, isn’t it?’ said Robert. Vera just nodded her head transfixed by the numbers on the dashboard.
They changed to 78,000 as Michael Underwood spoke again. ‘Another bid online. The book is now going for 78,000. 80,000 anybody?’
This time there was no reaction on the dashboard.
’80, 000 anybody?’ he repeated, ‘No, then at 78,000, the first edition of A Christmas Carol is going once, going twice, sold.’
Jayne, Vera and Robert all clapped, only Ronald looked gloomy.
‘It didn’t make 90,000 pounds. I was so looking forward to giving the homeless 45,000.’
Jayne put her arm around his shoulders. ‘Think of it this way, you can give them nearly 40,000 and it’s far more than they have at the moment.’