Ghostly Images (7 page)

“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 4
th
March, the Gladstone government resigned, but Sollett said that political matters were unsuitable for female reporters. He ordered her to report on the latest ladies’ fashions arriving in Whitby.

On 14
th
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.

Children marvelled at Frank’s Punch and Judy shows. Occasionally, he gave these shows purely to an adult audience. She’s seen one such show. The content was racier and introduced a number of Mr Punch’s girlfriends. The wooden puppets were all exquisitely beautiful. Lucy imagined that Frank would have had no qualms about destroying a puppet if it had the slightest imperfection.

Lucy looked at the clock. It was a quarter past five. She needed to complete her draft article before leaving the office.

IT
WAS
TEN
PAST
SEVEN
when Lucy left the newspaper offices, but her work as a reporter hadn’t finished. She had to review a play. Lucy was tired. Once the play was over, she would return home and go to bed.

A heavy sea fret had descended on Whitby. The foghorn sounded at the entrance to the pier to alert any vessels approaching. If she hurried, she would make it on time for the start of Catherine Gore’s play,
Lords and Commons.

She hoped the evening’s performance at the Pavilion Theatre would be a pleasant tonic after dealing with Sollett. Lucy agreed with Ruskin that “the stage was amongst the best and most necessary means of education—moral and intellectual.”

She had read all of Gore’s novels and found her one of the wittiest writers she had ever read. It pleased her that women playwrights had been making significant strides in the theatre since the beginning of the century. She hoped in time women could make equally noteworthy strides in journalism.

The theatre was half empty that Monday evening. She would need to make some notes in order to write a review of the play for the next edition. Since one of the actors was the untalented son of a local dignitary, she would have to be diplomatic in her review.

After taking her seat, Lucy noticed the photographer from Lythe Castle and his friend sitting several rows in front of her. A lovely young woman with an olive complexion sat between them. A stab of jealousy pricked Lucy’s heart. The woman must be the photographer’s girlfriend.

For the rest of the evening, she tried to enjoy the play, but her eyes kept wandering to the trio sat ahead of her. Later, the entertainment for the evening was concluding with a short lantern slide display of
The Life of a Fisherman
. She watched the last of the flickering lantern slides projected on the screen, as some, mainly younger people, eagerly left their seats to get to the local taverns.

The sound of someone tapping their foot impatiently made her turn to see a prim-looking woman of about fifty years old. Lucy pulled her feet in to allow the woman access.

The woman reminded her of Miss Grabtree, her former headmistress, and it brought dreadful thoughts of once being an assistant teacher at her private school for girls. “Smartness” was Miss Grabtree’s motto, and Lucy could hear her say, “Be dignified, girls.”

Miss Grabtree expected Lucy’s long hair to be tightly knotted in a bun and covered by a bonnet, but Lucy hated that. The school, with its petty regulations, had made Lucy yearn for escape. She needed freedom.

Looking down at her notebook, she tried to think of some positive comments about the execution of the play but couldn’t. She twiddled the pencil in her hand over the notebook, determined to write at least a few sentences. When words refused to materialise, she slammed the point of her pencil against the notebook, breaking the lead.

She had failed as a teacher. Now she was struggling as a reporter.

She sighed. Her father had offered to help her and finance a progressive women’s magazine. As much as she wanted to make her own way in the world, she thought it would only be a question of time before she took up his generous offer.

When she looked up, she noticed the photographer, his friend, and the woman had left the theatre. She couldn’t explain it to herself, but she felt a twinge of disappointment.