“I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”
“Look up at me when you speak—and don’t bite your nails,” she snapped. “You should also thank David. He was willing to take a reduction in his wages of four shillings a month so my husband could give you work. But my husband had already decided to give you a job anyway and had no intention of reducing David’s wages.”
“I didn’t know that!”
“You were never a good judge of character,” Mrs Jenkins said primly. “My husband and I could see behind that mask of his. David is a kind, sensitive, and caring soul. We have no children. But it was understood between us that you and David would be the heirs to a thriving photographic studio—Arnold Bailey put paid to that.” She placed a hand over her heart. “My mind will only be at peace if you develop the plate for me.” She looked at both men in turn. “I beg you...do this for me.”
David and John remained silent, but she was confident from their timid glances that they would not refuse her request. She handed over the plate to David and rose to her feet, using the edge of the table for support.
“You can walk me home now. And remember to come visit me next Friday.”
“DON’T YOU FEEL SOMETIMES THAT IT’S 1194 AND NOT 1894?” asked David after they had seen Mrs Jenkins back home. He held the photographic plate enclosed in the protective wooden plate holder and was tempted to throw it in the River Esk.
“You’re in a pensive mood,” said John.
“I feel like a hypocrite, denying the validity of spirit photography to Mrs Jenkins while behind her back engaging in the business with Hood.”
“Mrs Jenkins won’t be happy when she finds out we’re working for Hood. Since you got us into this business, you should tell her.”
“We might not need to do that.”
John raised his arms in despair. “What do you mean?”
“Before she finds out anything, we will have stopped working for Hood.”
“News travels fast in Whitby. Do you really think Hood intends to have ordinary photographs taken?”
David sighed. “He’s unlikely to resist the temptation of using Patrick Tate’s camera for the purpose of spirit photography. But it’s purely a temporary measure for no more than three weeks. Life should get back on an even keel after that.”
“Particularly now we are fully qualified photographers,” added John. He took a playful jump in the air and nearly stumbled when he landed. “1894 isn’t all bad, is it?”
David beamed. “That’s a real piece of good news. It will make it a lot easier for us to continue our careers in photography.”
“Do you still have those nightmares?” asked John gingerly.
“Of course not!” snapped David, knowing full well that he would almost certainly have nightmares that evening.
“Thanks for your support in Mr and Mrs Jenkins’ giving me the job,” said John, placing his hand on David’s shoulder.
“You would have done the same if you were in my position at the time.”
“When we’re finished working for Hood, the first thing I’ll do is visit my parents’ graves in Wales. You’re lucky to have parents still alive.”
David clenched his teeth. “We would be wise to concentrate on our present situation?”
John nodded in agreement. “We should have made more effort to persuade Mrs Jenkins to go to the police and explain about Elizabeth Betts.”
David laughed grimly. “She does not change her mind. Ever.”
John looked straight at David. “A bit like you then, isn’t she?” But David yawned and ignored the question. John frowned. “I don’t feel happy about taking money from her.”
“They were always fair and kind to both of us. It would upset her too much if you returned the money.”
“I will try the Lancaster camera for a couple of weeks,” John said. “If I like it enough, I might go to Scarborough and buy the same model there.”
“I could tell that you had taken a shine to that thing,” David teased. “Early tomorrow morning, we need to clean out the studio. After that, you can try out the Lancaster while I develop the plate for Mrs Jenkins, together with that of Jack and the exposures I took inside the castle. By then, it will be time to go to your favourite place—”
“Lythe Castle,” interrupted John before placing his hands theatrically over his eyes.
“Can you think of anything else that needs to be done that I’ve left out?”
“We need to give Hood a copy of the photograph of Jack when we go to the castle.”
“Is there anything else?”
“I’d like to talk to Laura. I wonder how she is after the trouble in The Queen’s Head.”
David cringed inwardly but said nothing. Inside, he wanted to scream, fearing that John was smitten with Laura in the same way he had once been with Harriett. David wasn’t sure if he could endure the endless monologues from John about his affairs of the heart in the weeks ahead.
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Chapter 12
Monday 27th August 1894
LUCY RESTED HER HAND ON THE JOURNAL that she’d been keeping since arriving at The Whitby Herald twelve months ago. She looked at the details she had entered for Monday. All she had was a few scribbles and a sketch of a man. She didn’t realise it at first, but it looked a lot like the photographer at the castle she’d met a few days earlier.
She remembered going with her father to London over a year ago to see a performance by Zentar the Great. His female assistant floated from the stage floor to the ceiling of the theatre. Lucy couldn’t see any wires, but she was sure they were used to achieve the illusion. The only way the “ghost” could have floated in the air at Lythe Castle was by using a wire support.
The photographic plate and the print were on her desk in a folder next to her draft article. The photograph had been developed in the newspaper’s darkroom. She’d looked through the folder twice already but decided to take one more glance.
The print looked like a dark sky with a few vague white dots. Hood probably thought it would shock and titillate the readers of the newspaper, but she wasn’t going to use it, subject to the editor’s approval, of course.
She had ended the brief piece she had written by saying: “There were gasps of amazement by those present at Lythe Castle at the sight of a ghostly figure of a young woman rising from the floor and disappearing through the ceiling. Any competent stage illusionist using thin wires and a hoist can easily achieve this spectacle. In fact, there were suspicious, jerky movements as the woman neared the ceiling. ”
Gazing through the office window, Lucy saw Flora, their office cleaner, leaving and heading towards the train station carrying a large, tatty brown case. Flora looked up, and her sorrowful eyes met Lucy’s as she rested her heavy suitcase on the ground.
Flora had just handed in her resignation to the editor, Nimrod Sollett. Normally, she was a reliable worker, but in the last few weeks, she wasn’t able to do her duties properly. Her close friend had been Elizabeth Betts and Flora desperately wanted to return to her family home in Newcastle.
Lucy would have loved to have known what was going through Flora’s mind. What would be her fate in Newcastle? It would have made an excellent article—a woman in torment after the murder of her closest friend. There was still no news of the police getting any nearer to catching the killer.
“Lucy,” Sollett summoned from his office, but she maintained her stare out the window. Flora resumed her trek slowly down the pavement, carrying her suitcase, frequently stopping to rest for a few seconds before continuing.
“Lucy!” he shouted impatiently.
Reluctantly, she obeyed his command. She picked up the folder from her desk and left her office. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the office door next to hers and slowly walked inside. No sooner had she entered
did she see Sollett’s red, blotchy face. He bared his teeth in a mirthless smile.
“Things are difficult enough for businesses in Whitby,” he said. “No one should heap more trouble on them.”
He began another familiar monologue on the subject of advertising revenue. She tried not to roll her eyes heavenward only too aware what this was about.
Next to the amusement arcade was The House of Wonders. The owner of the establishment, Samuel West, had Silas North, the seven-foot-nine-inch giant acting out ever more extreme performances of a murderer to drum up extra custom. Lucy refused to write an article about it if West persisted with making Silas act like a man who relished committing murder.
“I’m going to write up the article on The House of Wonders, so your help will not be needed,” said Sollett. “It’s showman’s licence, nothing at all to worry about.”
She sighed. “It worries me.”
Sollett shook his head dismissively. “The people of Whitby are not devoid of intelligence, Lucy. They can distinguish between the dreadful news about Elizabeth Betts from the exaggerated tales common in The House of Wonders. Because of this murder, Whitby has seen a significant reduction in visitor numbers. Many people are going to Scarborough instead. Is that what you want?”
It was tempting to argue, but she resisted. “No,” she said.
“I don’t think you appreciate how difficult it is being an editor of a daily newspaper. Joshua Betts, Elizabeth’s father, has come to Whitby and intends to remain until the murderer’s caught. He has a distinguished record of service in the Royal Navy and has been in to see me twice already, insisting that we put more pressure on the police to catch her killer.” He sighed. “In addition, I’m not happy with your draft article on the estate of the late Maharajah Duleep Singh.”
“But I listed most of his items and what they sold for in Covent Garden last Wednesday.”
Sollett cleared his throat. “A gold-mounted walking-cane inscribed as a presentation by the Prince of Wales went for five pounds and ten shillings. You omitted that item.”
Lucy paused to think. “I apologise for my omission.”
Sollett grimaced. “That matter does not trouble me. It’s the rest of your piece that will need to be amended. You need to realise he was only in the Whitby area for a few years. Thirty-six years ago, he invited all the people in the area to visit Mulgrave Castle where he provided them with food, entertainment, and a fireworks display. If you had left it at that, I would have been perfectly happy with the rest of your draft.”
Lucy didn’t want to back down. “But he made great contributions in the area. He paid to have a new road constructed from Sandsend to Whitby.”
“He had it built to prevent his elephants getting sand between their toes as they walked along the beach.”
“I’ve seen no evidence that he had elephants on the estate.”
“It’s common knowledge he had them there!”
She wanted to scream. He’d lambasted her numerous times on the importance of reporters writing the truth and not hearsay, but when it suited him, he was quick to peddle rumours. She needed no lessons on the principles of journalism from him.
Lucy inched closer to his desk. “It does seem a shame that the Maharajah Duleep Singh had given so much to the area but hasn’t received anything in return. For that reason, I hoped that The Whitby Herald might wish to mount a campaign to have the Sandsend Road renamed in his honour.”
“My newspaper will not do that,” Sollett snapped, sending flecks of spit in her direction.
“The newspaper is going to do nothing to acknowledge the maharajah?”
“You could amend your article and refer to rumours that he had a secret horde of diamonds. Yes...” He nodded to himself. “That could be quite helpful for circulation.”
Lucy frowned. “I hope the British Crown, even if it took a hundred years, would show humility and admit to the wrongs done to him, his people, and the Punjab.”
“How dare you be so unpatriotic? I’ll not have anything critical of the Crown or the British Empire in my newspaper!” In his anger, a fleck of snot fell from his now-beetroot-red nose.
Lucy didn’t want to be deferential, but she had to find a way to satisfy his ego. “Queen Victoria always maintained great affection for the maharajah. Do you think she would be delighted if she heard reports that the Sandsend Road was to be renamed in his honour…because of action taken by the editor of The Whitby Herald?”
Sollett rose from his chair and paced up and down the office. He gazed at the large painting hanging behind his desk of Queen Victoria and went over to remove a speck of dust on its surface. He stepped back, adjusting the frame on the hook to make it level. “I will give some thought on this matter but can’t promise anything,” he muttered with his back to her.
She wanted to jump in the air in satisfaction, convinced he was deciding where to place such a letter of praise from the Queen. Lucy guessed it would be mounted in a gold leaf frame and placed inches away from his painting. She fought to suppress a smug smile as Sollett turned round and fixed her with an icy stare.
“I am grateful,” she said. She didn’t care if he took all the credit for the campaign. It was still a rare victory in her career as a reporter.
“Don’t be too presumptuous, Lucy. You don’t seem capable of holding gainful employment for very long, whether it is that of a schoolteacher or reporter in Canterbury and now Whitby.”
She repressed her temper and said, “I want to cover other stories. Not just about new babies born in the area, flower shows, and the latest fashions from London and Paris.” She hoped he would take the hint. He didn’t.
“Your father owns a newspaper in Sheffield. Why don’t you work for him?”
“I want to make my own way in journalism.”
Sollett maintained his icy stare. “How long will you be at The Whitby Herald until you run away?”
Lucy thought it was best not to reply. He had a point. She was a wealthy, young woman in her own right. Instead, she placed the folder on the editor’s desk and watched as he inspected its contents.
“We cannot use the photograph,” he said. “It does not reveal anything. Have a messenger return it to the studio.”
Suddenly, the memory of the photographer at the castle came to her. If he’d not grabbed her arm, she would have fallen and been injured—or killed. Lucy shuddered.
“Your draft article is fine. We will keep it nice and brief and put it near the back of the newspaper. The last thing we want to do is give free publicity to Hood. Perhaps you do have the makings of a good reporter in time.”
“Have you reached a decision on whether I can do an article on Frank Hawk, Whitby’s favourite children’s entertainer?”
“Yes, you can proceed.” With a dismissive wave of his hand, the meeting was over.
His closing remarks brought her a little cheer. She returned to her desk in a better frame of mind. But she had a strange sensation when the photographer grabbed her arm and pulled her to him. As her body rested against him, she got an odd, tingling feeling. She couldn’t help but notice his warm and inviting brown eyes when she pulled away from him.
Lucy chastised herself for her foolishness. If she wanted any man in her life, he had to have high moral principles, not a man who associated with a fraud like Hood.
She looked into her journal at the newsworthy events of 1894. In January, she wrote about the problem of the crumbling coastline, particularly the erosion at the edge of the West Cliff and East Cliff. She interviewed a woman who had been standing near her husband’s grave, near to the edge, when the ground collapsed, almost taking her over the edge too. The woman heard a rumble and then a dull, loud echo around the cliffs. Within minutes, ten tons of the cliff fell into the sea below.
In February, she wrote a story on fishing catches, only because the two male reporters were suffering from influenza. It was a tedious assignment.
On 4th March, the Gladstone government resigned, but S
ollett said that political matters were unsuitable for female reporters. He ordered her to report on the latest ladies’ fashions arriving in Whitby.
On 14th April, local people complained about Whitby Town Council’s commitment to allow property developer’s permission to build vast numbers of houses on green-field sites. She wanted to cover that story, but Sollett had other plans. He instructed her to write an article on the new floral display outside the library.
In May, she had written articles about charitable work in the area. Prominent citizen and leader of industry Charles Mortimer, at his own expense, was arranging holidays in Sandsend for poor and unfortunate people from the towns.
She glanced out of the window. A young man passing by was the spitting image of James Hawk.
Lucy was aware that she might have been the last person to see James alive. He’d been terribly upset the day he died, but unfortunately, she didn’t have much time to talk to him. She had to rush back to the office to finish a story on deadline. She felt guilty about it and mentioned this to Frank shortly after his son’s funeral service.
The common trait for James’ interest in young women was that they were all attractive. It didn’t matter if they had black hair or were blonde or shy or extroverted. He was a handsome, young man and mentioned how his father had said to him numerous times how bitterly disappointed he would be if his son ever settled for a plain, young woman. His father emphasised outward beauty, from what Lucy could tell. Was Frank acutely embarrassed by his son’s speaking impediment? James had already sorely displeased his father by not wishing to go into the business as a children’s entertainer. The last thing James wanted to do was upset his father by courting the “wrong type” of women.
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