Nothing.
She read it again more slowly. Dickens shared the stage that evening with Watkin, Benjamin Disraeli – who later became Prime Minister but was then just another journalist – Richard Cobden, the radical politician, and a man called James Crossley.
Where had she heard that name before?
Hadn’t Ronald said he found Crossley’s colophon in the back of the first edition?
She whispered to him, ‘Come and look at this.’
He left the computer and read the passage. ‘That’s the man whose mark I found.’
The librarian joined them. ‘You’re interested in James Crossley?’
‘It looks like he could be a link to our Robert Duckworth.’
‘Crossley was an avid book collector in Manchester in the 1840s. He founded the Chetham Society in 1843—’
‘The same year as Dickens came here,’ said Jayne, raising her voice. ‘Would Dickens have visited Chetham’s Library?’
‘Probably, if he knew Crossley. Chetham’s and the Portico were the main research and lending libraries at the time. The John Rylands Library didn’t open until 1900, and we weren’t even on the drawing board.’
‘Would they have a visitors book or something like that?’ asked Ronald.
‘Perhaps. I can ring and ask if you want? They close at four thirty, though.’
Jayne checked the time. It was 3.55 p.m. ‘It’s okay, we’ll go there – it’s only ten minutes’ walk from here. And if there is a visitors book and if Dickens signed it, perhaps Robert Duckworth will be there too.’
‘That’s an awful lot of “ifs” and “perhaps”, Mrs Sinclair.’
‘We’ve found out as much as we ever will here, Ronald. You need the information by tomorrow evening. We’d better check it out now.’
He stood up. ‘What are we waiting for?’
Jayne thanked the librarian and ran out of the library with Ronald trailing in her wake.
Would they get there in time?
Chapter TWENTY-NINE
October 5, 1843
Manchester
Dickens checked his watch once more. 4.30 p.m. He should really go back and change before his speech. He did, after all, have a reputation to maintain as a well-dressed man.
‘I should return to my hotel. Thank you for your tour of Manchester. It was most… enlightening.’
‘We’ll walk back with you,’ said Robert.
‘That will not be necessary, I’m sure I can find my own way back.’
‘The streets would not be safe,’ said Lizzie, ‘and we know the back ways and back alleys. It’ll be quicker.’
They left the Hall of Science and marched back up Deansgate, turning right along Peter Street.
They passed an eating house, the windows filled with a feast of savoury pies, huge legs of pork with sage and onion stuffing, long lengths of sausage, most of which seemed to be the colour of the deepest night. Everywhere the air was filled with the aroma of cooked meat, so strong as to form the first course of any meal.
Dickens felt the pangs of hunger. Luckily, the Athenaeum was providing a meal before his speech.
Robert Duckworth had been quiet for a while, with Lizzie acting as the guide. ‘On the right is St Peter’s Field, the site of the charge of the militia in 1819. Sixty thousand men, women and children gathered on the field that day to listen to Henry Hunt. Nineteen never left it.’
As if finally reaching a decision, Robert spoke. ‘It would do me an honour, Mr Dickens, if you would visit my humble home. My wife and children would be most interested in meeting the celebrated author.’
He waited for Dickens to answer, his right hand trembling slightly. Dickens thought of the time. Would he be able to go back and change and still get to the Athenaeum?
He saw the look on the young man’s face. ‘I would be delighted, Mr Duckworth, but first I think we need to do something.’
Robert’s shoulders fell.
‘I think we need to take some food back with us. I’m sure your family would appreciate a bite to eat at a time like this, and after our long walk, I’m more than a little peckish myself.’
Dickens retraced his steps to the eating house, buying from the owner two cheese and onion pies, one steak and kidney pudding, three sweet pies and a leg of roast pork.
‘It’s too much, Mr Dickens, we’ll never eat all of that,’ pleaded Robert.
‘Well, save some for tomorrow.’
The owner packed the pies in a large hamper and gave it to Robert to carry. They walked back to St Peter’s Field, turning into a courtyard on Newberry Street. Robert Duckworth’s home was on the ground floor.
The rooms were small and sparsely furnished. A bed pushed to one corner, a coarse wooden table, three chairs and a fire burning in a large hearth.
Robert’s wife, Mary, was surprised to see him and even more surprised to see Charles Dickens.
‘You should have told me you were bringing Mr Dickens, Robert,’ she said, adjusting her cotton cap.
Dickens noticed a child sitting in the corner, unmoving. Next to him a young girl was helping him build a tower of wooden letters
‘Our son, Tom. He’s not strong. The doctors can do nothing for him. And our daughter, Charlotte.’ The boy merely nodded his head, while the young girl stood up and made a pretty curtsey.
Dickens sat on the floor next to them both. ‘What are you playing with?’
‘My toys,’ answered the young boy.
A set of bricks with letters were piled up in front of him, forming a triangle of words. Dickens could see what the lad had built: ‘God Bless us, every one.’
‘Good words and an even better sentiment. Now, we have brought some pies to eat. Would you like one?’
The boy and his sister both nodded eagerly. Robert came round and hoisted the young boy on to his shoulders.
For the next hour, they talked and laughed and ate and played, Dickens once again performing his magic tricks to the amazement of all.
It was Robert who finally reminded him of the time. ‘It’s been like Christmas for us, Mr Dickens, but it’s time you returned to your hotel.’
Dickens checked his watch. ‘Damn it, I’m late. Time to be going. Thank you, Mary, for a wonderful time. And thank you, Charlotte and Tiny Tom, for being very able magical assistants. You have fine careers ahead of you. There is no need to see me back to the hotel. I will find a cab.’
‘Not around here you won’t,’ snorted Lizzie. ‘I’ll walk you back.’
‘Tom is coming too,’ said Robert, hoisting him on his shoulder. ‘He likes to go out of an evening.’
After saying his thanks and his goodbyes once more, Dickens followed Lizzie and Robert and the boy through the dark streets of Manchester, being jostled by the crowds of men, women and children having just left their shifts at the factories.
It was late when Dickens reached the Adelphi. The carriage was already waiting to take him to the Athenaeum.
On the steps of the hotel, Dickens shook Robert’s hand warmly. ‘Thank you for showing me Manchester.’
‘It was my pleasure. There’s a lot wrong with it, but it’s still my home, Mr Dickens.’
‘I hope you find a position soon.’
‘I’m sure I will, Mr Dickens. Mrs Gaskell has promised to help me.’
‘Goodbye, Tiny Tom, I hope you get better.’
‘God bless you, sir,’ whispered the boy.
‘And thank you too, Lizzie.’
The woman simply grunted a reply.
Dickens turned and vanished inside the hotel. Time to get changed quickly.
But what of the speech. Did he also have time to change it?
Chapter tHIRTY
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Manchester
Jayne Sinclair ran to the gatehouse at the entrance to the Chetham’s campus. On the left was the world-famous college and music school, and across the car park, the library itself.
The guard checked their ID and reminded the
m the library would be closing in twenty minutes. Two pupils edged past them carrying large music cases.
‘Is the archivist in today?’ asked Jayne, crossing her fingers. Ronald was breathing heavily beside her, he really was out of breath after only a short run down Cross Street, past Exchange Square and the National Football Museum.
‘He’s still here, I think. Do you want me to ring him?’
‘If you could, we’d love to see him very quickly.’
The guard rang through. ‘He’ll see you in the reading room, but he only has ten minutes as they have to clear everyone before they can close.’
‘No worries, we’ll be done by then.’
Jayne and Ronald walked past the barrier and through the narrow entrance to the open courtyard. Immediately they were transported to another world. Double-storeyed medieval buildings with mullioned windows, all constructed from a warm sandstone. In front, a careful manicured lawn led to a small arched door.
Jayne felt like she had stepped back in time. The contrast between the modern concrete and plate glass of the giant buildings behind them and the elegant proportions of Chetham’s couldn’t have been more stark.
For a second, she found herself back in the past; scholars striding across the courtyard, struggling against the winds coming off the river, their gowns floating like bats’ wings. Young boys in high, ruffled collars, baggy pantaloons and top hats running as they were late for class. And Dickens himself, dandy that he was, vanishing through the low door into the library, accompanied by friends, a woman waiting outside.
Just as suddenly, the image faded and Jayne was back in the present.
‘What’s up? We need to be quick to meet the archivist,’ said Ronald, hurrying into the library.
Jayne shook her head to clear it. These visions were fewer and fewer these days, but it always felt as if the past were reaching out to talk to her when it happened.
She ran after Ronald and bumped into him as he stopped in the doorway, staring up at the books in their locked and barred bookcases.
‘Heaven,’ he whispered. ‘I could lose myself in here for years.’
‘You can, but perhaps another time.’ Jayne ushered him up the stairs. At the top, they were greeted by rows of dark, almost blackened, wooden bookcases stretching the length of the room. Above each bookcase, the subject matter contained beneath was written in gold paint.
‘Mrs Sinclair, I presume.’
A tall, elegant man stood at the entrance to the reading room on the right.
‘That’s right. You must be the archivist?’
‘My name is Randall. How can I help you today?’
‘Myself and Ronald Welsh,’ she looked behind her, but Ronald was just staring at the books, his mouth wide open, ‘were wondering if we could ask you a few questions. We are researching Charles Dickens and his visits to Manchester, particularly in 1843.’
‘And you were wondering if we had a visitors’ book which he signed?’
Jayne smiled. ‘Right first time, how did you know?’
‘It’s a common question. I’m afraid we did have a visitors’ book and Charles Dickens probably did visit Chetham’s…’ The man paused.
‘There sounds like a big “but” coming now.’
‘You are correct. The visitors’ books have been lost somewhere, so we have no records. Sorry to disappoint you.’
Jayne felt the air leave her lungs and her shoulders sagged. Her hopes had been built up but now they had been so easily dashed.
‘From diaries and other sources, we can confirm that Benjamin Franklin and Karl Marx spent some time here, if that’s any help. We also know Dickens was acquainted with James Crossley and the librarian at the time, Mr Jones, but I’m afraid there is no documentary proof of him visiting Chetham’s.’
‘What about a man called Robert Duckworth? He was living in Manchester in 1843 too.’
Mr Randall cocked his head. ‘Duckworth? The name doesn’t ring a bell. Was he a member of the Chetham's Society?’
‘We don’t know. We just know he was linked to Dickens in 1843.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I’ll check in the minutes of the society to see if there is any mention of a Mr Duckworth if you want.’
‘Thank you, that would be useful.’
‘We do have the catalogue for the Crossley sale though.’
Jayne frowned. ‘Catalogue? Sale?’
‘After James Crossley died his complete library was put up for auction. Many individuals and other libraries bought his rare collection of books. I can check it now if you want?’
‘That would be great.’
He walked into the main body of the library, returning a minute later.
‘That was quick,’ said Jayne.
‘I knew where it was located.’
‘Do you know where all the books are?’ asked Ronald.
‘Most of them.’
‘Cool,’ whispered Ronald.
He went into the reading room and placed the book on a wooden lectern standing on the large round table in the centre. ‘The books are in listed in alphabetical order by author. A clumsy way of cataloguing but common at that time.’
As he turned the page, his fingers traced the names written in the column on the left. He reached the ‘Ds’ and slowed down, checking more carefully.
‘I’m sorry, there don’t seem to be any Dickens books in the catalogue of sale.’
‘Isn’t that strange?’ asked Jayne, ‘I thought Dickens was one of the most popular authors at that time.’
‘Possibly. But James Crossley could have sold or given away the Dickens books before his death. Or he may have simply not wanted to have such a popular writer in his collection. I suppose we’ll never know.’
He checked his watch. ‘If there is nothing else, I’m afraid we need to close the library now.’
Jayne sighed. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Randall,’ she said, and turned to go, putting her arm over Ronald’s shoulder.
They walked towards the stairs, but then Ronald turned back. ‘Can I come here again and look at the books?’
‘Of course, Mr Welsh. Just call me to make an appointment. Which books would you like to see?’
Ronald thought for a moment. ‘All of them.’
Chapter thirty-ONE
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Manchester
After leaving Chetham’s, they both stood outside for a while, the rush-hour traffic starting to build up on the road beside them.
‘I was sure we’d find the link here,’ said Jayne.
‘It’s just past four thirty. What do we now, Mrs Sinclair? The auction is tomorrow.’
For once in her life, Jayne was stumped. ‘We’ve seen all of the documentary evidence at Central Library. There are still the parish registers, but they won’t show us a link to Charles Dickens. Chetham’s has nothing and the Lancashire and Cheshire archives won’t have anything either. I’ll check them once more online when I go home, but I doubt if anything to help us exists.’
‘So where do we go next?’
‘I don’t think there is anywhere else to go, Ronald. All the archives will be closing around now.’
‘So that’s it, we’re just going to give up?’
Jayne Sinclair gritted her teeth. ‘Listen, Ronald, if there was anywhere else to go, anything else to search, I would do it. Give me more time and we can probably find him, but—’
‘We don’t have more time, Mrs Sinclair, the auction is tomorrow.’
‘Don’t you think I already know? What do you suggest we do?’
Ronald looked down at his feet, shuffling from side to side, playing with a small stone he had found on the pavement. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally said quietly.
‘Look, I’ll have a think if there is anything else once I get home. There is still tomorrow morning. The auction isn’t until the evening, isn’t that right?’
‘Yeah, 6.30 pm because of the time difference with America.’
‘So we have till tomorrow. I’ll see what I can dig up tonight.’
‘Okay,’ he said softly.
Jayne pointed back over her shoulder. ‘Can I give you a lift home? I’m afraid the car is parked near Oxford Road.’
‘No. I think I’ll go back to Central Library. Perhaps the JSTOR articles will have something.’
‘But you’ve read over a hundred of them.’
‘There were 751 articles in our first search, I still haven’t checked them all out.’
‘It’s a waste of time, Ronald.’
‘It’s my time to waste, Mrs Sinclair.’
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. For a second she was tempted to go back with him, but he wouldn’t discover anything. Search engines were so efficient these days, a result would have come up already. ‘You might want to come at it from a different angle.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Just search for “Robert Duckworth” and see what comes up. I googled the name before and there was nothing relevant. JSTOR may find something, though.’
‘Okay, I’ll give it a go. Call me later.’
She nodded and he walked off, before stopping for a second and then turning back. ‘I thought about what you said when we first met. I’ve decided to give my half share of the proceeds from the auction to the homeless charity where I bought the book.’
Jayne was surprised. ‘Fifteen thousand pounds is a lot of money, Ronald.’
He held out his arms. ‘What’s money to me, Mrs Sinclair?’
‘It’s a lot of tomato soup.’
‘I have enough. I always have enough. But if we could find out who Robert Duckworth was, then I would be able to give forty-five thousand pounds. That would be much better, wouldn’t it?’
‘It would, Ronald. Thirty thousand pounds better.’
Chapter thirty-TWO
October 5, 1843
The Adelphi Hotel, Manchester
Back in his room, Dickens removed his walking clothes, changed his shirt and selected the bright yellow waistcoat and a matching green baize coat.
The Christmas Carol: A Jayne Sinclair Genealogical Mystery Page 13
