When they were seated in the saloon bar at the pub, Eleanor told Jim what the favour was. “I want to follow up on a newspaper story I’ve come across, but I’ve no idea how to go about it. I thought you might be able to advise me where to start.”
“Do you know the name of the paper and the approximate date?”
“It’s the North Devon Echo and I know it happened in the early 1870s.”
“That’ll be easy enough,” said Jim. “There are various options – you might want to check out the newspaper archives at the British Library.”
“That’s in London! Is there nothing closer?”
“The Echo merged with my own newspaper many years ago, but I know the Gazette keeps some old copies in binders and on microfiche in the office. If you can cope with their ancient technology, you might find what you need there.”
Eleanor pulled out a notepad and pen. “Where are they based?”
“Behind the town hall in Waterborough. Or you could register with the British Newspaper Archives and search online.”
“I ask myself what would a proper sleuth do and it’s got to be the musty files behind the town hall.”
“And what was the story you’re interested in?”
“Oh, it was a snippet about a local lad who was arrested. I’m curious to know what happened to him, that’s all.”
Jim nodded, then swallowed the last of his beer. “Fancy another one of those?” he asked, indicating Eleanor’s almost empty glass.
“Sure, why not.”
As Jim went up to the bar, Eleanor’s eyes drifted around the pub’s cosy front room. Just above head height, the walls were covered with photographs and antique prints. On a shelf a foot or so below the ceiling was a collection of nautical paraphernalia from quadrants to glass buoys. In pride of place at the end of the bar was a brass bell and a fully rigged sailing ship in a bottle. It would, she thought, be a nice look to recreate in her seafaring window display.
Jim came back and set the drinks in front of her. “So what’s this new interest in sleuthing all about, then?”
“Sleuthing and seafaring.” Eleanor laughed. “I’ve lived here nearly seven years but I’m still ignorant about the place. I mean, Combemouth wouldn’t exist without the sea but I know virtually nothing about the old fishing trade.” She took a sip of her drink, which felt pleasantly cool against her throat. “As the local bookseller, I feel I should be more knowledgeable generally.”
“I’m not sure how much there is to know. Combemouth was a traditional fishing town like lots of others along this stretch of coast.”
“Just fishing? Did anything more exciting go on?”
“I guess shale and manufactured goods were transported between Bristol and the rest of the world.”
Eleanor thought for a moment. “I’ve also been thinking about doing a display based around a ghost ship that Maureen and Daniel both say they’ve seen, which probably sounds a bit mad!”
“Not to me,” said Jim, shaking his head. “Which ghost ship were you thinking of?”
Eleanor laughed. “You mean there’s more than one?”
“There could be. Some people describe a vessel that sounds like a Tudor galleon – all high wooden sides and cannon like the famous Mary Rose. Others describe something more like a schooner.”
“Which is? You see how ignorant I am!”
“Schooners are fast, high-masted sailing ships. They were very popular trading vessels in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. If you’d been sipping your pint of Old Wallop on the quay in 1890, that’s what you might have seen sailing by. As well as these, of course.” Jim half-turned and tapped at one of the photographs on the wall behind his head. “These guys were local fishermen and they went to sea in much smaller three-masted boats called luggers.”
Eleanor studied the photograph of five men in oilskins gathered awkwardly around a pile of nets, as though aggrieved at being asked to pose for the photographer instead of getting on with their work. One man, who appeared to be in charge, stood to one side in a loosely fitted suit and a white shirt with a starched collar. He held a hat in his left hand while his right was placed jauntily on his hip.
Jim shifted along so Eleanor could move in closer. “It’s very atmospheric. Do we know who these people were?”
“Probably not – names tend not to be recorded.” Jim peered at the photo. “On the other hand, the photographer might have kept a record at his studio. I can’t imagine the business is still going, though.”
“Could you pass it to me? I’d love to get hold of a copy.”
While the landlord wasn’t looking, Jim unhooked the photograph from the wall and handed it to Eleanor who turned it over to read the label on the back. “Dipton Photographic Studios,” she said, writing it down in her pad. “This could be the perfect thing to add a touch of authenticity to my shop.” She smiled. “I’ll look them up.”