The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery
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A Christmas Carol
‘What you see in front of you is a first edition of Dickens’ famous Christmas novella. It was first published on December 19, 1843 for the exorbitant price of five shillings. This copy, being in such fine condition, is now worth something in the region of thirty thousand pounds.’
Jayne exhaled loudly. ‘I had no idea a book could be so valuable. But I’m still trying to understand how I fit into all of this.’
‘It’s quite simple, Jayne. With your help we could double or even triple this price.’
Ronald smiled and nodded excitedly.
Jayne nodded. ‘Now you have me interested.’
Chapter SIX
Monday, December 16, 2019
Mackie Mayor, Old Smithfield Market, Manchester
‘You say you found this in a charity shop?’
‘I discovered it hidden at the bottom of a box of books donated by a well-wisher.’
‘Shouldn’t it belong to the charity then?’
Ronald looked sheepish.
Underwood interrupted. ‘We paid the asking price for it from the shop. The manager priced it and I went in to buy it myself. All is above board.’
‘Is it? Shouldn’t you have told the charity shop about the book?’
Ronald again looked sheepish.
‘Everything is above board, Jayne. It’s no different from finding a valuable antique at a car boot sale and discovering the real value on Antiques Roadshow . The only difference is Ronald spotted it first before anybody else.’
‘How do you know it isn’t a fake?’
Ronald suddenly became animated again. ‘Please, Mrs Sinclair.’ He gestured at the book. ‘It’s a first edition, first issue, the very rare and so-called “trial issue”, with the title page printed in red and green and the half-title printed in green.’
He paused for a second to take a breath. ‘The front cover and spine are decoratively stamped and lettered in gilt, and all the edges are gilt too. The binding matches Todd’s first impression, first issue, with a close space between the blind-stamped border and gilt wreath equal to fourteen millimetres. More importantly, for the cover, the “D” in “Dickens” is in perfect, unbroken condition.’
He gestured to Underwood, who opened the book to the title page.
‘See, the title is printed in green and red. Dickens was closely involved in the printing of this first edition. He even paid for it himself when the publishers refused.’
Jayne leant in closer to read the text.
‘A Christmas Carol’ was in bright red. Beneath it, the words ‘In Prose’ were in a darker green, followed by ‘Being A Ghost Story of Christmas’, which was also in green an on separate lines. The author’s name came next, in bigger type and in bright red: Charles Dickens.
‘At the bottom, the title page continues with the words “original illustrations by John Leech” and the publishers, “Chapman & Hall”, and ends with the date MDCCCXLIII.’ Ronald waved his hand and Underwood turned the page.
The name of the book was repeated, and on the next page, an exquisite illustration of a plump couple dancing under a sprig of mistletoe.
Jayne frowned. She had read A Christmas Carol when she was young and had seen the numerous adaptations of it that seemed to be shown every Christmas. What was the name of the couple again?
As if reading her mind, Ronald answered. ‘It’s Mr and Mrs Fezziwig at their Christmas party.’
Jayne remembered the story now. It was a scene shown by the Ghost of Christmas Present to Ebenezer Scrooge. ‘Couldn’t somebody have simply copied this? Like The Hitler Diaries and other fakes?’
A long sigh from Ronald. ‘The vertically ribbed cloth is in the original cinnamon, yellow coated endpapers, the size is small octavo and, most importantly, the first chapter is entitled “Stave 1”. In later editions, the number “1” was written in letters as “one”. Even better, two Americans, Calhoun and Heaney, recorded twenty-two inscribed examples of A Christmas Carol in their 1945 pamphlet, and this example was not among them.’
‘Which makes it even more valuable,’ interrupted Underwood.
‘Why is it in such good condition?’ Jayne asked.
‘When I found it, the book was chemised in a red cloth slipcase. The spine of the slipcase has five raised bands and two green morocco labels lettered with the words “Volume One” in gilt but no indication of which book was inside. It’s the reason it lay undiscovered for so long.’ Ronald sat back. ‘I know my job, Mrs Sinclair, and this is a Dickens first edition.’
‘So it’s real, not fake. You still haven’t explained why you need my help?’
Underwood carefully turned the pages back to the beginning of the book. ‘As you will see, Jayne, on the verso of the front endpaper is an inscription.’
Once more Jayne leant in to read the elegant script, written in fading black ink.
To my friend, Robert Duckworth, and his son, of Manchester; a Christmas Present for showing me a Christmas Past and a Christmas yet to come.
‘Is that signed by who I think?’ asked Jayne.
Both Michael Underwood and Ronald Welsh nodded.
The signature was strong and supple, ending with a tornado of curlicues that came to a point, suggesting the vast energy of the man.
‘Charles Dickens?’
They both nodded again. ‘Look at the date,’ said Underwood.
Jayne peered down at the date next to the signature, written out in words without punctuation.
Nineteenth December 1843.
‘It’s the exact date when A Christmas Carol was published.’
Jayne looked at the message again. ‘The name, Robert Duckworth – it’s also the surname of one of my stepmother’s ancestors.’
The two men looked at each other. ‘That’s interesting. Do you think they could be related?’
And then a light bulb went off in Jayne’s head. ‘I see now what you want me to do. You want me to find out who Robert Duckworth was?’
Michael Underwood smiled broadly. ‘Precisely, Jayne. But even more, we want you to find if he has any living descendants.’
Chapter SEVEN
Monday, December 16, 2019
Mackie Mayor, Old Smithfield Market, Manchester
Jayne checked the inscription again. ‘This man, if he ever existed, could have lived anywhere in the UK. It would be like looking for a needle in a whole field of haystacks.’
Underwood smiled. ‘We didn’t say this was going to be easy, Jayne. If it was, we would do it ourselves.’ He glanced across at Ronald as if weighing up whether to say more. ‘The inscription says “of Manchester” and so we believe this man was living in the city at the time.’
‘How do you know this?’
Ronald jumped in. ‘We know Dickens travelled to Manchester in early October to make a speech at the inaugural soiree in support of the Athenaeum – it’s part of Manchester Art Gallery now. He also spent time with his sister, Frances, who was a music teacher and married to a man called Henry Burnett. They were living in Higher Ardwick.’
Jayne was writing all these details down in her notebook.
Ronald let her finish and then carried on speaking. ‘In the Dickens family her nickname was Fan, or Fanny.’
Jayne dug out a half-remembered fact from her schooldays, hidden in the depths of her brain. ‘Isn’t Bob Cratchit’s wife called Fan?’
‘You remember the book well, Jayne,’ said Underwood.
‘Even more, Frances and Henry Burnett had a disabled son, called Harry. He could have been the inspiration behind the character of Tiny Tim,’ added Ronald.
Jayne stopped writing and looked up. ‘Interesting.’
‘And there are more links to Manchester. Dickens started writing A Christmas Carol sometime around October 15, 1843 – just ten days after he had visited Manchester. There are no clues in his letters to indicate where he got the inspiration for the book, but the visit to Manchester seems to have been followed by a furious bout of writing
. He finished the novella in just six weeks, at the end of November.’
‘But the novel is set in London.’
‘True, but we believe the inspiration, and indeed some of the characters, may have been from Manchester,’ said Underwood.
‘There’s even a clue in one of John Leech’s illustrations.’ Ronald nodded at Michael Underwood and the man turned over the pages of the book again. It was like a Morecambe and Wise double act without the jokes.
Underwood finally stopped at a black-and-white illustration entitled ‘Ignorance and Want’.
‘Dickens was intimately involved in the creation of the illustrations for the novel. If you look at the background for this one, what does it look like to you?’
Jayne stared at the picture. ‘Mills and chimneys bellowing smoke.’
‘Exactly. Not London at all, but Manchester.’
Jayne thought for a moment. Around her the bustle and noise of the market suddenly seemed louder, reflecting off the high ceiling and the cast-iron pillars. ‘Let me get this right,’ she finally said, prodding her notebook with her pencil. ‘You are suggesting that the story of A Christmas Carol was inspired by Manchester, and particularly by the man to whom Dickens inscribed the dedication on the front leaf of this book?’
Underwood clapped his hands. ‘Exactly, Jayne, you have it in one.’
‘But why is this important?’
‘In one word: provenance. That is, if we can prove the book was given to a man who inspired one of the major characters, then we can almost certainly triple the value. The Dickens fanatics in the States would clamour to get a copy. And if we can link it to a modern family in Manchester, well, it’s a great human interest story for the tabloids.’
‘And again, the price would go up?’
‘Exactly,’ both men said at the same time.
Jayne thought for a long time. The story intrigued her and, even more, the challenge brought out her competitive nature. Could she use her genealogical skills to find this man? But it was time to be realistic. ‘You know, he may not have existed, and even if he did, the documentation for the period is sketchy at best.’
‘We know it’s a long shot, but it’s worth a try, isn’t it?’
‘There must be a catch.’
The two men looked at each other.
‘Well,’ said Underwood, ‘there is a small one. The online auction for the book has been set for December nineteenth.’
‘The 176th anniversary of the book’s publication,’ said Ronald.
‘But that’s only three days away.’
‘Exactly,’ both men said again.
Chapter EIGHT
October 3, 1843
London Road Station, Manchester
For the last few minutes, the green of the countryside had gradually given way to the market gardens and then the beginning of housing and streets. Dickens relaxed, realising his journey was finally at an end.
He pulled out the gold hunter pocket watch from his emerald-green waistcoat and checked the time: 7.10 p.m. The train was right on time, as predicted by the station master nine hours ago. The speed of modern life never ceased to amaze Dickens, with past, present and future all melding together as if one. It was something he would have to consider for his next book. How man’s relationship with time had changed from the carefree vagueness of youth to the specificity of the modern day.
As the train chugged along a curve and the sun’s dying rays vanished beneath the horizon, the city of Manchester came into view as a dark dirty-grey cloud of smoke with tall chimneys hidden inside.
He wondered how his sister, Fanny, and her husband were surviving in this dark place. They were both music teachers, having met at the Royal College of Music. Both had moved north only a year ago and Dickens missed his sister immensely. She was the rock of the family, the one he had always turned to in his youth when he wanted advice or a friendly ear to listen to his problems.
His mother, unfortunately, was not a sympathetic soul. She had encouraged him to work at a boot-blacking factory at the age of 12, when their father was imprisoned for bankruptcy. Dickens never forgave her when she was reluctant to remove him and send him to school, even when his father had repaid the debt.
His father was the exact opposite, a man with not a care in the world and one hundred creditors chasing his every step. A man who drifted through life bouncing from one financial crisis to the next, unable to control neither his spending nor his desire to spend.
The oil lamp in the compartment was shining brightly now. Outside the window, Manchester was getting closer and closer. In the last rays of dusk, Dickens could see the gas lights burning in the windows of the mills and the dark smoke streaming from the chimneys. Would they continue on through the night? Did they ever stop?
The train blew its whistle loudly, answered by another from somewhere far off in the forest of chimneys. The steward arrived and bowed in front of him. ‘We will be arriving in London Road Station in Manchester in five minutes, Mr Dickens, sir. Will I be calling you a porter?’
‘That won’t be necessary, I’m being met.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
The train slowed to a crawl. Outside the window, Dickens could see blackened hovels, tenements and terraced houses that clustered around the factories like piglets suckling on a farrowing sow.
The words of Dante reached out from his schooldays. ‘Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.’
Chapter NINE
October 3, 1843
Manchester
Dickens stood at the door of the carriage, looking for his sister, hoping she had come to meet him; he longed to talk with her.
Instead, he saw the smiling face of a somebody he knew.
‘Ainsworth, my good friend, how wonderful it is to see you again.’
William Harrison Ainsworth was a fellow novelist who had helped Dickens in the early days, introducing his Sketches by Boz to a publisher. Unfortunately, Ainsworth’s last novel, Jack Sheppard , had been roundly condemned by the critics. And when a servant who killed his master claimed the novel had given him the idea, the same critics sat down to feast on his carcass. Three years later, his friend was still smarting from the reviews and the controversy, and their friendship had cooled considerably.
However, Dickens was happy to see him once again. A friendly face in this dour city was always welcome.
Ainsworth took his bag, handing it to a waiting porter. ‘Welcome to Manchester, Dickens. I trust you had a good journey.’
‘I did. It will never cease to amaze me that I was in London but nine hours ago.’
They walked together to a waiting drab yellow Hansom cab with a heraldic device painted on the door. ‘I’ve booked you into the Adelphi again, I hope that is suitable?’
‘Good, I was hoping I could stay at the same place.’
They climbed into the cab, closing the door behind them. Ainsworth shouted their destination to the cabbie. The carriage was older than those in London, the horse and cabbie both more down at heel.
The cab jerked into motion, throwing Dickens back into his seat.
Ainsworth had braced himself against the side; he was obviously more used to the driving skills of Manchester cabbies.
The noise of the cab was immense as it rattled across cobblestones that reminded Dickens of petrified kidneys.
‘Now, Charles,’ he shouted over the sound, ‘I have been tasked with arranging your itinerary by the Athenaeum.’
‘I need to spend time with Fanny. I was expecting her to be here this evening.’
‘I hope you don’t mind, I asked her not to come. I thought you would be fatigued by your journey.’
As ever, Ainsworth was correct. Dickens felt exhausted, every bone in his thirty-two-year-old body ached.
‘But she has arranged a luncheon party in her house tomorrow, for yourself and a few guests. The day after I have kept free – I know how you like to explore – with a dinner in the evening with a few board members and the other gu
ests, Mr Disraeli and Mr Cobden, before the speech.’
‘Good.’
‘Mr Watkin, the Chairman of the Athenaeum, would like to meet you beforehand to discuss some details.’
‘Perhaps he could drop in to Fanny’s luncheon?’
‘I will ask him.’
‘Who will be coming to the soiree?’
‘The great and good of Manchester as well as all those who have contributed to the building and the books. A few of the readers have been invited too.’
‘I enjoy a crowd. And this evening?’
‘Just a quiet supper together at the hotel.’
‘Perfect. I am much obliged to you, Ainsworth.’
‘Think nothing of it. Although I spend most of my days down in the capital these days, I am still keen to welcome my friends to my home city. A place that has achieved so much in such a short time.’
Dickens stared out of the carriage. On either side, warehouses and mills loomed over the street, their bright lights illuminating the way. Cutting through the constant rattle of the cab was the noise of looms, like the dull rhythmic throb of a toothache; always there, pounding the brain.
‘Just a year ago these streets were full of rioters looting shops, torching factories and attacking the good men of the police,’ Harrison sniffed. ‘Look at them now, back at work and beavering away, the Plug Riots forgotten.’
‘Plug Riots?’
‘They removed the plugs from beneath the steam engines, draining all the water and thus disabling them. Hence, plug riots.’
‘Attacking the machines? Why would people attack machines?’
‘My dear Charles, the steam engines allow the looms to be powered, producing cottons of a quality and variety that is unsurpassed throughout the world, providing employment for all these people.’
He waved at the scene outside as they passed the entrance to a mill, a crowd of men, women and children crowding round the cast-iron gate.
‘So why then, Ainsworth, were there riots?’
‘A combination of hunger, a fifty per cent wage cut and agitation by the Chartists demanding parliamentary reform. And, of course, the events of Peterloo are still strong in many of these people’s minds.’