by Jan Ellis
Eleanor sat bolt upright. “What if VE Bennett was actually John Able and he decided to write his own version of events?”
“That’s possible, I suppose, but if the point was to clear his name, why use a false identity? Why not write the book as himself?”
“Good question. I need to Google the author.” Eleanor jumped off the bed. “Where’s my iPad?”
“Last seen on the kitchen table underneath the usual mountain of magazines and random stuff for the recycling bin.”
“Right,” said Eleanor, charging out of the bedroom. “Let’s see what we can find out about Mr Bennett.”
“Okay,” said Daniel, yawning. “I’m right behind you.”
When he came down to the kitchen in his bathrobe some minutes later, Eleanor handed him a big mug of tea. “Look at this,“ she said, pointing at the screen.
Daniel leant over to read what was written there. “So the author wasn’t John Able under another name. That’s a shame.”
“Not necessarily. The author might not have been John, but this is equally intriguing.” Eleanor scrolled down the page. “It’s all here – ‘VE Bennett: the pseudonym for Violet Elizabeth Makepeace, children’s author of the early twentieth century.’ It says that Violet was known for her children’s stories and she was married to the publisher, Reginald Makepeace.”
“Who?”
“You know – as in Williams & Makepeace? Don’t you see, Dan? The author of Joshua’s storybook was married to one of the guys who owned the publishers that used to be at The Reading Room.”
“Well, well. That is quite a coincidence.”
“Just think – Violet might even have worked on her stories right in our cottage!”
“Fascinating, but why would she base a story on John Able?”
“Not sure.” Eleanor chewed her lip. “Any suggestions?”
Daniel thought for a moment. “Well, if Violet lived and worked in Combemouth, perhaps she had heard about the case and decided it would make an interesting tale. Remind me of the dates again.”
Eleanor fished out the notepad in which she’d recorded the details of the court case from the newspapers. “John was arrested in 1872 aged nearly twelve, and this book was published in 1900 when he would have been forty.”
“So it was written a long time after the event. Doesn’t that seem a bit odd to you?”
Eleanor nodded. “Maybe, but don’t forget I only heard about John’s alleged crime because it was retold in a 1920s newspaper, so it must have been quite well known.”
“That’s true. And how does it all end in Violet’s story?”
“I don’t know – I was so stunned by the similarities that I stopped reading to come and tell you about it.”
“It could be your answer lies in those pages.”
“You’re right, darling!”
And with that, Eleanor kissed her husband, grabbed the storybook and padded off in her slippers to continue reading.
* * *
In the bookshop the next morning, Eleanor was excited to share her discovery. Connie liked a good murder story and was disappointed that her daughter had found nothing more thrilling to pursue than a minor theft. Erika listened more attentively to what her boss had to say. “So what’s this about the book then, Eleanor?”
“The tale in the storybook is exactly like it was in the newspapers: Jack is convicted of stealing the ring because he can’t account for how he came by it and is sent off to prison. He then spends months in a reformatory school for boys where he’s taught reading, writing and arithmetic. It has to be based on the John Able case.”
“Perhaps,” said Erika, cautiously. “And what happens when Jack gets out of the reformatory?”
“In Violet’s story, he works hard and becomes a ‘prosperous gentleman’ as he had planned to do when he first decided to ignore his mother and keep the ring. He moves to the city, marries an heiress, has a host of angelic children and dies peacefully in his bed, loved and admired by all who knew him.”
“The happy ending doesn’t sound very realistic,” said Connie.
“I think your mother’s right, Eleanor. I would have thought a lad in John Able’s situation would end up in a bad way. I bet Violet picked out some facts from the case to write a morality tale: you can do wrong but still have a good end if you pray a lot and work hard. I’m not sure it should be read as an accurate account of what really happened.”
Eleanor was deflated. “When I read the story I thought it might hold the answers, but now I seem to have hit a brick wall. It doesn’t help that John appears to have disappeared altogether.”
“Perhaps he was bumped off by one of the other prisoners,” said Connie, helpfully.
“What a ghoulish imagination you have, Mother.”
“Not at all – I’m simply exploring other possibilities as Erika told us we should. And when you say ‘disappeared’, have you actually tried looking for him?”
“Of course, I have,” said Eleanor defensively, aware that her mother’s question was very sensible and she hadn’t done much poking around yet. “I’ve done a bit, anyway.”
“A bit as in…?”
“As in I scanned the newspapers that came out two years after John was packed off to jail to see if he turned up in Combemouth when he was released but I couldn’t spot any mentions of him.”
Connie shrugged. “Well, either he was a goner or he was too ashamed to come home after his name had been blackened, so decided to move to a big city where nobody knew him.”
“That’s an excellent point, Connie,” said Erika, before turning to Eleanor. “Have you checked the census returns yet?”
“Gosh, I hadn’t even thought of those.” Eleanor chewed her lip thoughtfully. “Although, thanks to Deirdre, we know he wasn’t transported. I’m not much use at this detecting lark.”
“It’s not as quick and easy as they make it look on the telly.” Erika laughed. “Why not dig around and see what you can find out about Violet Makepeace? You might be in luck and discover something that takes you directly to John Able.”
“Good idea, and I know the perfect person to ask about Violet.”
Chapter 31: The Secret Author
The next day, Eleanor called Frederick Williams and arranged to pop round to see him. He wasn’t used to Eleanor dropping by for a chat so he feared there must be problems at the shop.
“Is everything going well at The Reading Room? You’re not having any difficulties, I trust?” he asked, shakily handing her the cup of tea his wife had poured before leaving them to their meeting in the sunny conservatory.
“No, everything at the bookshop is absolutely fine,” said Eleanor, balancing the delicate cup and saucer on her knees. “The reason I wanted to see you was because I had a couple of questions about Williams & Makepeace, actually.”
“My specialist subject! Ask away,” he said, with a smile.
“I’ve been reading a book by an author called VE Bennett published by Williams & Makepeace at the beginning of the last century.”
“VE Bennett? Well, goodness me – that’s not a name I’ve heard for a while! Which book is it you’re reading?”
Eleanor had brought the volume with her. “It’s a collection of seafaring tales for children, first published around 1900.”
“Ah, yes.” Frederick took the book and began leafing through the pages. “This album had some rather exciting tales in it, I seem to recall.” He stroked the thick cover with its image of youngsters in a sailboat on a choppy sea, the waves crested in white. The illustrator had painted plump grey donkeys on the beach and put a red and white lighthouse on the cliffs against an azure sky. Smiling, Mr Williams opened the book and checked the contents list. “Gosh, what a lot of stories there are here. Mind you, old Violet didn’t half churn them out.”
“Violet? So you knew VE Bennett was really Violet Makepeace? That was going to be my first question!”
“According to my father, she was rather a grande dame. She had a very
high opinion of herself and expected to be admired by everyone, especially small children.” Frederick chuckled. “Violet was a large lady who used to bustle into the printing area and completely disrupt things by demanding that her books be proofed first, and such like. My dear grandfather was a mild-mannered man and he became very agitated when he saw her approaching the shop with her green silk umbrella thrust out in front of her like a sword.”
Eleanor leant forward eagerly. “Do you know why she didn’t write as Violet Makepeace, if that was her name?”
“I suspect she didn’t want readers to think her books were published simply because she happened to be married to the publisher. And perhaps in those days young boys were less likely to read a book of jolly adventure stories if they believed they were written by a woman rather than a man.” Frederick thought for a moment. “Of course, everyone in Combemouth knew who she was, not least because she used to include so many local landmarks in her stories.”
“Yes, I spotted that.” Eleanor nodded, thoughtfully. “Is there anything more you can tell me about her?”
“Let me think now.” Mr Williams lifted his watery eyes, searching his memory. “She was a local girl and had been very pretty in her youth, so I’m told. She was much sought after by all accounts and could have had her pick of the young men, as she never ceased to remind poor old Reginald Makepeace.”
Eleanor laughed. “She sounds like a difficult woman.”
“Yes, indeed. Now what else?” Frederick gazed out of the window as he trawled his memory for traces of Violet. “Oh, and her father had been the rector here in town, I believe, so she grew up in the vicarage.”
“That’s it!” Eleanor set down her teacup with a start, making the saucer clatter. “She’s ‘Lily’.”
“‘Lily’?” Mr Williams looked puzzled. “I’m not following you, dear.”
Eleanor quickly filled him in on what she knew of the John Able court case and the similarities she’d detected in the plot of “A Boy Led Astray”, in particular the part played by a young girl. “In the story, Jack tries to sell a gold ring to help Lily, whose father is the vicar. The writer describes the girl as being ‘as fair as the flower whose name she bore’. But she also tells us Lily was a weak, selfish character who let the boy who loved her go to prison by not speaking up and telling people what had really happened.”
“Well, isn’t that interesting?” Frederick Williams picked up the book again, admiring the line drawings of young Jack pulling the ring from the rock pool and later being dragged off to jail. The artist had also done a very atmospheric drawing of sailors collapsed on the beach and a picture of a young girl in a shawl weeping in front of a fierce-looking judge. “If you’re correct and Lily really was based on Violet Makepeace’s own experiences as a child, perhaps it was guilt that led her to write the story all those years later. To apologise to the John Able chap, do you see?”
Eleanor nodded. “Yes, it would make sense. Unless she was completely heartless, as an adult she must have come to recognise the damage done to the lad’s reputation.” She stopped and thought for a moment. “But how could she possibly know whether Jack or John or whoever it was would read the book?”
Smiling, Frederick flipped back to the beginning. “Perhaps she gave him a copy,” he said, tapping the page.
Eleanor took the book and read what was written under Mr Williams’ finger. “Oh my goodness! I completely missed that,” she said, laughing. What she now saw was the printed Dedication “For J.A.” Underneath, handwritten in lavender ink, someone had added “Yours ever, V.”
“You’re a genius, Frederick.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go quite so far. I’m rather interested in those bits of a book that other people tend to ignore – imprint pages, acknowledgements, dedications, indexes and so forth.” He scratched his chin. “It’s force of habit, I suppose, having grown up in the book trade. So what will you do now, Eleanor?”
“I would like to dig around a little bit more and see if I can discover what happened to John.” She tapped her watch. “But first I have an errand to run in Waterborough, so if you’ll forgive me I must dash. Thanks so much for the tea.” She put the storybook into her bag and stood up.
“You’re most welcome and I did enjoy our chat.” Frederick rose to his feet to embrace her. “Do come back any time, and promise you’ll let me know if you discover any more thrilling information about Violet.”
“I certainly shall!”
Chapter 32: Seaside Snappers
Eleanor’s next mission had been lurking on the “to do” list since her drink at the King’s Head with Jim Rowe some weeks before. Hoping to buy a copy of the photograph of fishermen she’d seen at the pub, she had trawled the internet and discovered that Dipton Photographic Studios still existed although they had changed their name to Seaside Snappers. The company’s main business was now weddings, but the present owner had a catalogue of old photographs he sold to tourists and collectors. As the shop was on the way back from Frederick Williams’ house, Eleanor decided to kill two birds with one stone and call in.
She left the car and walked through the park and past Waterborough Abbey to find the narrow cobbled street where the Dipton family had run a shop for over a hundred years. At some point, somebody had evidently decided to modernise the place. The beautiful bay window she’d seen in old pictures had been replaced by a single large pane of glass covered in posters urging passers-by to “Get Snappy!”.
On entering, Eleanor was pleased to see that the shop was still quite traditional on the inside despite its lurid exterior and silly name. A middle-aged man in a figure-hugging Seaside Snappers T-shirt came forward to greet her, extending his hand. “Kevin Dipton at your service. How may I help? Passport photograph? Graduation? Golden wedding? Not for you, obviously – you’re much too young!”
Eleanor did her best to smile at the witticism. “Actually, I’d like to buy a copy of a photograph I saw on the wall of the King’s Head in Combemouth.”
“Splendid, splendid – I get quite a lot of custom from visitors to that pub. I should put the landlord on commission.” Kevin rubbed his hands together. “Do you happen to have the number of the photo?”
“Yes, I copied it down from the back of the frame.”
Eleanor handed a slip of paper to Kevin who nodded. “Oh yes, this is one of our bestsellers. The ladies do like those handsome fishermen,” he added with a wink, then went behind the counter and began to leaf though a large box filled with photographs in crinkly plastic covers. “Here you are,” he said, passing Eleanor the photograph, which had a label identifying it as “Fishermen tending their nets, Combemouth harbour, 1898”.
Eleanor stared at the men in their broad-brimmed soft hats, all paused in their work to look at the camera. Three were squinting into the light, clay pipes clamped between their lips; two others were looking out of the frame, as though unwilling to engage directly with the photographer.
“Do you know who these men were? That gent is clearly not an ordinary sailor.” She pointed at the tall man in a suit and tie who was standing slightly apart from the group.
“I’ll have to look elsewhere for that information.”
“If you could find it for me, I’d be very grateful.” Eleanor smiled obsequiously, keen to know more about these long-dead men, especially the gentleman whose face now seemed oddly familiar.
“Anything to oblige our customers,” said the shop owner, as he unlocked a tall metal filing cabinet and pulled open a squeaky drawer. “Although I don’t expect they’ll be identified.”
“Really? And why’s that?”
“Because these were photographs of ‘picturesque types’, not portraits as such.”
Eleanor waited patiently as Kevin sank down to his knees and extracted a file. “Well, this is interesting,” he said, reading a card. “It says here the fishermen were residents at the St Brendan hostel.”
Eleanor thought she knew Waterborough well but, as she scanned its layout in h
er mind’s eye, she couldn’t place the hostel. “Can you tell me where the hostel is?”
“It was up by the town hall, but I’m afraid it isn’t there any more.”
“How come? What happened to it?”
Kevin rubbed his chin, trying to remember. “I seem to recall the council demolished the place in the early 1970s to build the bus station. Progress, don’t you know? Shame, because it gave plenty of the old salts a decent place to live when they’d fallen on hard times.”
“That is a pity.” The card was still in Kevin’s hand and Eleanor was trying and failing to read the faded text upside down. “Does it say anything more about the men in the picture?”
“Not really – oh, hang on a second. This might interest you.” He turned the card and read the other side. “It does mention that the gentleman on the right-hand side of the picture was the founder of the hostel.”
“And what was his name?”
“Alfred Pinkham, Esquire.”
The name took Eleanor completely by surprise and she couldn’t help laughing out loud. “Pinkham? As in the local Pinkhams?”
Kevin looked at her oddly. “I should expect so. The family has been living in the area for many years now.”
Eleanor took the photograph and peered at the faces, her head whirling. If the photograph was taken in 1898, the man in the suit could be Joshua Pinkham’s grandfather. Why had he never mentioned his illustrious ancestor, a man who had opened a hostel for poor sailors? “Could I ask you one more thing?”
“You may.”
“Did the original Mr Dipton also take studio portraits at the time?”
“He certainly did. That was the mainstay of the business.” A look of immense pride and nostalgia passed over Kevin’s face. “We had the most varied selection of backdrops in the county – folk came from far and wide to have their pictures taken in front of the pyramids or the Alps.”