Eleanor couldn’t wait to get home to tell Daniel about her day.
“Joshua seemed as taken aback to see the secret compartment as I was. Don’t you think it’s odd that someone would have such a thing and not tell their children or grandchildren about it?”
“Not necessarily,” said Daniel. “I expect plenty of wealthy Victorians had places where they could hide their belongings from thieves and disgruntled employees.” He thought for a moment. “What was in the briefcase, anyway?”
“No idea and we won’t know until Joshua finds the key, which could be anywhere.”
“Or he breaks the lock.”
Eleanor shook her head, remembering how Joshua had walked away from both the case and the box as though they were of no interest. “He won’t do that. In fact, I had the distinct impression he didn’t want to open either of our finds. I’d have been tearing them open straight away, but he’s an odd chap.”
“That’s the general consensus.” Daniel smiled.
“Says who?”
“Everyone who’s ever had dealings with him. Of course, if you’d like to know more about Joshua Pinkham, you should speak to Harold. They’re around the same age and probably knew each other as kids.”
“Never! Harold looks much younger.”
Dan laughed. “He’ll be pleased to hear you say that.”
Eleanor opened her diary. “It’s ‘Storytime with Harold’ in the bookshop tomorrow. I might have chance to quiz him then.”
* * *
“Storytime with Harold” had been running for nearly a year and was a huge hit with the local children and their parents, some of whom clearly enjoyed being read to as much as their offspring. When Harold had finished the day’s session and was relaxing with a cup of Earl Grey, Eleanor sat beside him in the children’s corner and asked about Joshua. “Dan said you might know him.”
Harold laughed. “I’ve known him since we were five – we went to the same primary school, you see.”
“Do you remember much about him as a boy?”
“I remember rather a lot, actually. He lived in the manor house, same as he does now, but it was very rare for other boys to be invited to play there.” Harold frowned. “Pity really, as we were keen to explore the turrets and towers, even though the place was rather creepy.”
Eleanor thought back to the stuffed animals and lugubrious family portraits lining the dark corridors. “I can see you might have found the place daunting as a child.”
“I always had the impression Joshua was quite lonely. His mother was distant and undemonstrative and his father seemed terribly fierce.”
“Do you mean aggressive?” Eleanor hated to think the young Joshua might have been mistreated.
“Oh, Joshua was never beaten or anything like that. His father was simply a serious chap – I don’t remember ever seeing him smile.” Harold thought for a moment. “Of course you have to bear in mind that fathers were authority figures in those days – they didn’t play with their children or show much affection the way dads do today.”
“No, I suppose not. But he must have been extremely serious if you noticed it.”
“That’s true, I suppose.” Harold nodded. “There was also the fact that Joshua’s parents didn’t get involved in the local community, which immediately earned them a reputation for being standoffish.”
“And where did their money come from? Dan said they were a wealthy family.”
Harold shrugged. “That’s a good question. I believe Joshua’s grandfather built up a fortune in shipping and passed the business down to his son who expanded it into a huge international concern.”
“Does Joshua have siblings?”
“I seem to remember there was a sister who died in infancy – many children did in those days, you know – and an older brother.”
Eleanor felt sorry for the lonely boy in the big house with no one to play with. “And does Joshua have children, Harold?”
“He was married to a lovely girl. She died some years back and they weren’t blessed with children.”
“Poor chap. No wonder he’s miserable.”
“Well, they say what goes around comes around.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow what you mean.”
Harold looked at his feet. “Forgive me – I shouldn’t have said anything. It is only rumour after all.” He began to rise from his seat, but Eleanor caught his arm.
“Hang on – you can’t stop there! Tell me what you mean.”
Harold sighed. “It’s only ancient gossip but the story goes that some of Pinkham’s forebears were wreckers, a career choice which doesn’t make you many friends around here.”
Eleanor leant forward. “I was wondering about including wrecking in my ghost ship window display, but I’m not clear what wreckers actually did.”
“They were the worst kind of devils.” Eleanor had never heard Harold use such strong language and was surprised to see the fierce expression that crossed his usually serene face. “Wreckers deliberately lured ships onto the rocks or sandbars where they were broken up by the sea so their contents could be stolen away.”
“That’s not very nice – but they rescued the passengers, surely?”
“That’s the worst part of it – in days gone by they would save the cargo but let the men drown.” He grimaced. “Can you imagine what it must have felt like? To see people on the beach who could save you and to know they were only waiting to push you down beneath the waves?” Harold shook his head sadly. “What a terrible way to die.”
“How awful.” Eleanor was shocked. “That’s – well, it’s tantamount to murder.” She thought about the Santa Ana and remembered the story Daniel had told her of ghostly voices being heard calling out over the water. “Is there any suggestion wreckers were involved in grounding the Santa Ana all those centuries ago?”
Harold nodded. “I’m afraid so. She was a Spanish galleon, probably loaded with precious cargo for the King of Spain. A ship like that would be a tempting prize for an impoverished fishing community.”
“What a dreadful thought.”
“Indeed, but wrecking happened, I’m afraid. A ship’s cargo was seen as another harvest from the ocean.”
“Perhaps it was, but I would hate to think of Joshua’s forebears being involved in something so terrible.”
“You’re right and I shouldn’t even have mentioned it. Though Pinkham is a Cornish name.” Harold, a Devon man, couldn’t help adding this detail under his breath.
“Are you saying all Cornish people were wreckers?” asked Eleanor, quite taken aback.
“Goodness me, no.” Harold looked chastened. “It’s a practice that went on right around the British coast – we were famous for it. Or infamous, I should say.”
“Well, I don’t know what to say, but it is rather gloomy.” Eleanor uncurled herself from the bean bag she had collapsed onto in the children’s area and stretched. “Which reminds me – I haven’t showed you Deirdre’s notes about John Able’s transportation to Australia.” Harold was a genuine history buff and Eleanor knew he’d be keen to see them.
“Ah, yes. I mentioned the convict records to Georgie – as she comes from that part of the world – and she was most intrigued.”
“She wasn’t offended when you mentioned them, Harold?”
“Good heavens, no. Why should she be?”
Eleanor shrugged, feeling a little embarrassed. “I thought Australians were as bored of us Brits banging on about the convict business as Germans are about WWII.”
“Not our Georgie.”
“Let’s show her, then.”
They found Georgie at the front of the shop. “I was asking your manager about her memoirs.” She turned to Erika, smiling. “I know you’ve been working on them for two years now and I’m sure people would be fascinated to read your history.”
“Yes, it’s very ‘on trend’ to be trans – everybody’s at it, rather like going gluten-free. Actually, I’m having second thoughts about writing a straight history – if you’ll pardon the pun. I might make it into a fictionalised account of my life thus far, so I can include some racy stuff and be really rude about my former colleagues in the police force without being sued.”
“Sounds like a bestseller to me.” Eleanor grinned. “In the meantime, I have something to show you.” She took Deirdre’s printed sheet out of its envelope and laid it next to her notebook on the counter.
“As you can see, my annoying librarian friend has found records that show John Able was put on a convict ship and transported to Western Australia for stealing jewellery. He was in and out of prison his entire life and died in Fremantle Jail in 1910.”
“Gosh, the poor chap was only forty-nine when he died.” Harold shook his head sympathetically. “He must have had a jolly hard time.”
“Most of those guys had pretty terrible times,” said Georgie. “My nan lives in Fremantle right behind the jail – it’s a great museum now, by the way. Me and my brother used to visit a lot and I was quite into convict history in my teens.”
Harold nodded. “I remember the museum. My wife and I visited many years ago when we were staying with relatives in Bunbury.” He picked up Deirdre’s printout and frowned. “If you know about convict history, Georgie, I think you will agree with me there’s something here that doesn’t fit.”
“Let’s see.” Harold passed Georgie the printout. “And may we see your notes from the newspaper archive, Eleanor?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said, handing them over.
Harold put on his spectacles as he and Georgie studied Eleanor’s scribbles.
“You’ve made a note here that John was convicted in 1872. Is that right?”
“That’s right, yes. Just after he had turned twelve.”
“Meaning he was born in 1860…”
Georgie nodded. “So he can’t have been transported because the last shipload of convicts from the UK arrived in 1868 when your John Able would have been eight years old.”
“Which, in any case, is four years before he went on trial in Combemouth,” added Harold.
Eleanor was stunned. “Are you sure?”
“Totally one hundred per cent certain,” said Georgie, emphatically. “It’s something my nan drummed into me from an early age. The last ship to bring convicts to Western Australia was the Hougoumont. She set sail in October 1867 and arrived in January the following year.” She tapped the page. “Your librarian’s guy must be another John Able altogether.”
“Excellent detective work, team.” Erika nudged her boss in the ribs. “I bet you can’t wait to tell Deirdre she got her facts wrong?”
Eleanor smiled. “I shall enjoy that immensely.” She was pleased that John hadn’t died in prison thousands of miles from home, but what had happened to him remained a mystery.