The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery
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‘You are a magician, sir?’ asked Mr Grindley.
‘I dabble.’
‘Nonsense. Charles is very good.’
Dickens held his hands up. ‘I did happen to bring my magical tools with me today. But I will only agree to perform my tricks if Fanny agrees to be my assistant along with her son, Harry.’
Fanny frowned for a moment before agreeing, telling the maid, ‘Bring Harry and his brother to join us.’
While the boys were brought down, Dickens brought his tools out of the bag; a magic wand, a top hat, a deck of cards and some porcelain cups. ‘I have only brought those things I could easily carry.’ After Fanny had cleared the table, he set them out in order.
The boys arrived and Dickens greeted them warmly. Harry was four years old, carried into the dining room by the maid as his body was still weak and undeveloped, his face a sickly yellow. Charles, the younger child, was already heavier and more active. He struggled to break free from his nanny’s arms.
Harry was placed in a chair next to Dickens. ‘It is good to see you, Uncle Charles,’ he said softly.
‘And it is even better to see you, Harry.’ Dickens bent down and whispered in the boy’s ear, ‘Just follow my lead and all will be well.’
‘I’ll try my best,’ he coughed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to see a wonderful display of the magical arts from your humble servant and his assistant, the young master Harry Burnett.’
Fanny led the assembled guests in a round of cheering and clapping.
Dickens reached into his pocket. ‘Would you say you are a rich man, Harry?’
‘I do not think so, sir.’
‘Do you think you are as rich as Mr Micawber, the banker?’
Harry eyed the guest suspiciously. ‘I don’t think I am.’
Dickens’ hand swooped out behind the boy’s head. ‘I beg to differ.’ Suddenly he produced a golden dollar from the boy’s ear. ‘I think you are, Harry.’
And then he produced another, and another and another, finally giving five gold coins to the boy. ‘Indeed, I think you have a head for business and the gift of making money.’
Everybody clapped and cheered. From his seat Mr Grindley said, ‘See, you’re a proper Mancunian now, young Master Burnett. You make money with your noggin.’
Harry blushed a deep crimson red.
Dickens produced a bright green handkerchief from his pocket. ‘Please open wide, Harry.’ He put the handkerchief in the boy’s mouth, closing his jaws gently. Then he tapped the boy’s head with his magic wand, said ‘Abracadabra’ three times, and reached into the boy’s mouth, pulling out a white handkerchief, followed by a pink one and a blue one. A yellow polka-dotted silk square was next, while some handsome orange fabric in the shape of a string of bunting was the last to be removed.
Dickens then showed both sides of the blue handkerchief, before seemingly threading it through the boy’s ear and pulling it out the other side. All this time, Harry smiled and continued to stare at his audience.
Dickens pulled the handkerchief out and displayed it to his audience, saying, ‘As you see, young Harry needed his ears waxed.’
The applause was thunderous.
‘You are uncommonly good, sir,’ shouted Mr Grindley. ‘Where did you learn your tricks?’
‘These are not tricks, but magic performed by myself and my apprentice conjurer, Master Burnett.’
There followed a dazzling array of magic, prestidigitations and sleight of hand. Stuffed pigeons appeared from top hats, coins dropped into glasses, pencils vanished, and a cup overflowed with money, spilling coins on to the tablecloth.
‘We’ll make a banker of you yet, Mr Dickens,’ shouted Mr Micawber.
‘As long as you don’t make a bankrupt of me, sir, I will be happy.’
The final trick involved Harry being carried out of the room and correctly guessing, each time, under which cup the coin was hidden when he returned.
‘You’ll be a policeman, young Harry.’
‘Or a finder of treasure?’ said his father.
The boy beamed from ear to ear and just as suddenly, the grin dissolved into a large yawn.
‘I fear performing magic has tired him out nearly as much as it has exhausted me,’ said Dickens.
His sister clapped her hands to attract everyone’s attention. ’Before Harry and Charlie are taken to bed, we would like to perform a song for you. And because we know how much you love Christmas, Charles, it will be a carol – an old carol.’
Henry Burnett stepped forward and was joined by the family; a seat was found for Harry at the centre of the small choir. The nanny who looked after Charlie sat down at the pianoforte and began to play.
Charles recognised the tune immediately. It was something they used to sing when he was growing up in Chatham, a song that always brought back memories of Christmas, New Year and Twelfth Night, of cake and happiness and joy.
Here we come a-wassailing
Among the leaves so green,
Here we come a-wand’ring
So fair to be seen.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
A maid was handing out the lyrics and Fanny was encouraging people to join in the verses. Dickens sang out in his deep baritone while, on his left, Mr Micawber was singing off-key. Fanny’s voice was as pure as ever, though, a joy to listen to again.
We are not daily beggars
That beg from door to door,
But we are neighbours’ children
Whom you have seen before.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year.
Good master and good mistress,
As you sit beside the fire,
Pray think of us poor children
Who wander in the mire.
Love and joy come to you,
And to you your wassail, too,
And God bless you, and send you
A Happy New Year,
And God send you a Happy New Year!
‘Congratulations, Mr and Mrs Burnett, that was most enjoyable,’ gushed Silas Grindley. ‘Might we not trouble you for another song?’
Harry’s eyes were closing and he almost fell of his chair. Fanny rushed to lift her child off the seat and carry him upstairs. ‘He is not well, gentlemen. I will take him back to his room.’
When Fanny had gone, Dickens sat back down in his chair, sweat glistening his forehead.
‘A glass to you, sir, you have a fine voice. Your talents are wasted in the world of literature, they should be employed in the theatre,’ said the banker.
Dickens drank his glass of hock. ‘I am going tonight to the Theatre Royal to see Hamlet .’
‘It is uncommonly good, sir. Mr Wilkins is a triumph.’
‘I am looking forward to it.’
Grindley turned to Dickens. ‘After such a performance, you should visit my mill, sir. I’m sure you would appreciate the magic of my looms.’
‘I should like that very much. I visited the mills in Lowell, Massachusetts, and enjoyed seeing the happiness of the workers there very much.’
‘I doubt you will see much happiness in Mr Grindley’s mills,’ muttered the editor.
‘But you will see efficiency, and efficiency creates happiness, does it not? Shall we say eleven o’clock tomorrow, Mr Dickens?’
‘That will be perfect.’
‘I will send my carriage to your hotel. It is the Adelphi, is it not?’
‘You are well informed, sir.’
‘And you should see the other side of Manchester, too,’ interrupted Elizabeth Gaskell, speaking for the first time.
‘What other side is that?’ asked Dickens.
‘
A side mill-owners like Mr Grindley would prefer to keep hidden in the courts and back streets of our city,’ said Caulfield, emptying his glass of Madeira.
Silas Grindley leant forward. ‘I’m afraid myself and Mr Caulfield do not see eye to eye on the subject of our city. He and his paper are all for Chartism – isn’t that true, sir?’
‘I am in favour of universal suffrage. That is correct.’
‘Bah humbug, sir, why should anybody have a vote unless they have a stake in society? The ownership of property gives you a desire to see the correct policies implemented. Giving everyone the vote could see the rise of populism with all its problems. An unscrupulous man could promise people anything merely to get elected. No, sir, such a system is neither efficient nor welcome. Next you’ll be talking about giving women and the feeble the vote.’
‘And why not?’ asked Mrs Gaskell. ‘Are not women part of society?’
Fanny returned to the room. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please keep your voices down. The children are just falling asleep.’
‘Our apologies, Mrs Burnett,’ said Mrs Gaskell. She turned to Dickens. ‘I’m afraid myself and my husband are otherwise engaged tomorrow. But I will send one of our congregation in my place to guide you through the city if you like. I believe you like walking?’
‘It is my favourite pastime, madam.’
‘A walking tour of Manchester then. My friend will be your guide. I will ask him to be at Grindley’s mill at three p.m. Does that suit, sir?’
‘It suits me well. And your friend’s name?’
‘Mr Robert Duckworth, a man born in this city.’
Chapter SIXTEEN
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Didsbury, Manchester
Jayne had finished checking and re-checking her research, trying to make the names, addresses and dates for Robert Duckworth talk to her.
She had been back to the inscription again and again, looking for a clue in the message from Dickens. But there was nothing she could see at the moment other than the first assumption that the author was talking to another adult, not a child, and that the man had a son.
She stood up and stretched. The sky was getting darker which, in Manchester terms, meant it was going from battleship grey to a deep shade of charcoal. The days were short at this time of the year.
She hadn’t eaten yet today, other than a coffee in the morning. She checked inside the fridge; some very good chocolate from Valrhona, a lump of cheese that had seen better days in the Iron Age, half a pint of milk that smelt like it was ready to make cheese, and four bottles of wine.
Not an advert for healthy living.
She promised herself for the second time in two days that she would start to exercise soon. A new gym membership would be her Christmas present to herself.
Jayne realised at that moment that she was becoming a sort of Bridget Jones character, promising to change but not actually committing to it.
At least she didn’t smoke. That was not one of her vices. Nor did she keep a diary. Perhaps she would buy herself one for Christmas and really live the cliché.
Mr Smith meowed and she remembered she didn’t have any of his gourmet cat food either. She could live on mouldy cheese, but Mr Smith deserved to be fed correctly. She was not going to abandon her duties to him.
She checked the computer screen one more time, looking for a flash of inspiration, but none came. Nor was it ever likely to happen.
She remembered her dad’s words. ‘You can never solve your problems by staring at a screen, love. Get away from the box, take a walk, a shower, or jump up and down singing Land of Hope and Glory , but do something.’
Robert favoured long walks himself, or at least he used to until the uncertainties of early-onset Alzheimer’s made that impossible. Now it was Vera who gave him inspiration.
Jayne put on her coat and decided to walk to the local Tesco Express. As soon as she stepped out of the door and walked to her gate, she realised this might not be such a good idea. A wind from Siberia nearly knocked her down as rain began to sheet across the empty street, soaking everything that got in its way.
Jayne was tempted to turn back and return to the warm and comfort of her kitchen. She stared at her car. Should she drive?
‘Pull your big girl’s knickers up, Jayne,’ she said out loud, ‘it’s only a five-minute walk. You’ve seen worse weather on top of Helvellyn.’
Paul and she were avid walkers when they first got married, attacking the Wainwrights and the Derbyshire Dales with gusto. But somehow they had gradually got tired of it and, as with much in their marriage, it petered out until they were doing nothing together any more.
A shame, but she couldn’t change the past, just accept it. The past had already been and gone.
She pulled her coat tightly around her neck and strode down to the main road, turning right at the top next to the library. As she hurried past, she glanced across at the noticeboard standing stoutly beside the front door.
Behind the glass were the usual flyers and notices. In one corner, an old poster for the Manchester Literature Festival in October was looking yellow and forlorn. She had actually been to one of the events; a talk on the life and works of Elizabeth Gaskell, who was writing about Manchester at roughly the same time as Dickens’ visit to the city.
What was the name of the lecturer? Jayne had chatted to him afterwards. Hadn’t he said he specialised in Victorian literature and the North of England? He even organised walks around the city that took in the landmarks popularised by famous authors.
What was his name?
Tom Smithson, that was it.
She stepped into the doorway of the library and began rummaging in the depths of her bag. He had given her his card. It must be here somewhere.
Beneath an old council flyer and two packs of paper tissues, she found it.
She pulled out her mobile phone and rang the number on the off chance he would answer.
He did, after two rings.
‘Smithson here.’
She liked the tenor of his voice. It was clipped, almost military in tone. Had he been in the army?
‘Hello, Mr Smithson. I don’t know if you remember me, my name is Jayne Sinclair. We met after your talk on Elizabeth Gaskell during the Manchester Literature Festival in October.’
‘Of course I remember you, Mrs Sinclair – you were the genealogist, weren’t you? A fascinating profession. My own family doesn’t go back very far, I’m afraid. Only to the nineteen-thirties.’
Jayne was about to tell him that he was wrong. Of course his family went further back than that, otherwise how could he exist? But she realised this was neither the time nor place. Instead she said, ‘I’ve come across an interesting case, Mr Smithson, involving Charles Dickens. I wonder if I could pick your brains?’
‘That’s not a problem, Mrs Sinclair. We could meet in my rooms at the university early next week, I’m at work until the Christmas Eve. The students have all departed to wherever students depart to at this time of the year, so I’m just doing admin right now. And there’s enough of that to sink a battleship.’
Jayne sucked in her breath. ‘Next week is a bit late, I’m afraid. You see, I have to finish this case at the latest by the end of tomorrow.’
‘You are in a hurry. Well, I suppose I could fit you in early tomorrow morning. I have a staff meeting at ten, so how about before then? Meet for a coffee at nine in Christie’s Bistro just off Oxford Road?’
‘That’ll be perfect, Mr Smithson, thank you for making time for me.’
‘Please call me Tom. I’ll see you tomorrow, Jayne, at nine.’
The phone clicked off in a very efficient manner. Jayne felt pleased with herself. It may not come to much but at least she might get a few clues to point her in the right direction.
Now it was time to point herself in the direction of the supermarket. She could almost hear Mr Smith whining dog-like for his food.
She stepped out into the gale that was a December afternoon i
n Manchester and was immediately pushed backwards by the wind.
Time to struggle forward, Jayne. She put her head down and forced herself to walk down the road.
Nothing was going to stop her now. Even the winter in the light and the winter in the shade.
Chapter SEVENTEEN
October 4, 1843
Manchester
As they stepped out of the Theatre Royal on to Fountain Street after the play, it was Ainsworth who spoke first. ‘What did you think of the company’s Hamlet , Charles?’ he asked cautiously.
‘It was… capital,’ answered Dickens.
‘And the acting?’
‘Massive and concrete,’ Dickens pronounced.
‘No, what did you really think of the performance?’
‘I’ve seen worse Hamlets, but I can’t think of any at this moment.’
They both laughed.
‘I have to say I agree. To call it terrible would be to offer a compliment.’
On either side of Fountain Street, hawkers had positioned their carts to attack the crowds leaving the theatre. Toffee apples and chestnuts seemed to be particularly popular. But Ainsworth stopped in front of his favourite cart.
Tripe and Trotters.
‘I’m feeling a little peckish. Would you like some, Charles?’
Dickens looked across at the delicacies displayed in the light of a flaming Naphtha lamp, which seemed to add a soupçon of flavour to the food. ‘I think I’ll forgo the pleasure, Ainsworth.’
‘You don’t know what you are missing.’
He ordered a sheep’s trotter. The toothless hawker congratulated him on his choice, selecting a particularly gelatinous trotter and setting it on a fold of newspaper. Ainsworth drizzled vinegar over the sheep’s foot through the holes in the cork of a ginger ale bottle.
He held the food up to the light from the lamp. ‘I grew up on these. The food of the gods.’ He chomped down on the trotter, sucking up the jelly and the vinegar as if it were his last meal on earth. After he had finished sucking every tender, gelatinous morsel, he threw the paper and assorted bones into the gutter, wiping his face with the back of his sleeve. ‘You should try it just once, Charles.’
‘I think I would rather eat the hind leg of a donkey.’