Eleanor’s next mission had been lurking on the “to do” list since her drink at the King’s Head with Jim Rowe some weeks before. Hoping to buy a copy of the photograph of fishermen she’d seen at the pub, she had trawled the internet and discovered that Dipton Photographic Studios still existed although they had changed their name to Seaside Snappers. The company’s main business was now weddings, but the present owner had a catalogue of old photographs he sold to tourists and collectors. As the shop was on the way back from Frederick Williams’ house, Eleanor decided to kill two birds with one stone and call in.
She left the car and walked through the park and past Waterborough Abbey to find the narrow cobbled street where the Dipton family had run a shop for over a hundred years. At some point, somebody had evidently decided to modernise the place. The beautiful bay window she’d seen in old pictures had been replaced by a single large pane of glass covered in posters urging passers-by to “Get Snappy!”.
On entering, Eleanor was pleased to see that the shop was still quite traditional on the inside despite its lurid exterior and silly name. A middle-aged man in a figure-hugging Seaside Snappers T-shirt came forward to greet her, extending his hand. “Kevin Dipton at your service. How may I help? Passport photograph? Graduation? Golden wedding? Not for you, obviously – you’re much too young!”
Eleanor did her best to smile at the witticism. “Actually, I’d like to buy a copy of a photograph I saw on the wall of the King’s Head in Combemouth.”
“Splendid, splendid – I get quite a lot of custom from visitors to that pub. I should put the landlord on commission.” Kevin rubbed his hands together. “Do you happen to have the number of the photo?”
“Yes, I copied it down from the back of the frame.”
Eleanor handed a slip of paper to Kevin who nodded. “Oh yes, this is one of our bestsellers. The ladies do like those handsome fishermen,” he added with a wink, then went behind the counter and began to leaf though a large box filled with photographs in crinkly plastic covers. “Here you are,” he said, passing Eleanor the photograph, which had a label identifying it as “Fishermen tending their nets, Combemouth harbour, 1898”.
Eleanor stared at the men in their broad-brimmed soft hats, all paused in their work to look at the camera. Three were squinting into the light, clay pipes clamped between their lips; two others were looking out of the frame, as though unwilling to engage directly with the photographer.
“Do you know who these men were? That gent is clearly not an ordinary sailor.” She pointed at the tall man in a suit and tie who was standing slightly apart from the group.
“I’ll have to look elsewhere for that information.”
“If you could find it for me, I’d be very grateful.” Eleanor smiled obsequiously, keen to know more about these long-dead men, especially the gentleman whose face now seemed oddly familiar.
“Anything to oblige our customers,” said the shop owner, as he unlocked a tall metal filing cabinet and pulled open a squeaky drawer. “Although I don’t expect they’ll be identified.”
“Really? And why’s that?”
“Because these were photographs of ‘picturesque types’, not portraits as such.”
Eleanor waited patiently as Kevin sank down to his knees and extracted a file. “Well, this is interesting,” he said, reading a card. “It says here the fishermen were residents at the St Brendan hostel.”
Eleanor thought she knew Waterborough well but, as she scanned its layout in her mind’s eye, she couldn’t place the hostel. “Can you tell me where the hostel is?”
“It was up by the town hall, but I’m afraid it isn’t there any more.”
“How come? What happened to it?”
Kevin rubbed his chin, trying to remember. “I seem to recall the council demolished the place in the early 1970s to build the bus station. Progress, don’t you know? Shame, because it gave plenty of the old salts a decent place to live when they’d fallen on hard times.”
“That is a pity.” The card was still in Kevin’s hand and Eleanor was trying and failing to read the faded text upside down. “Does it say anything more about the men in the picture?”
“Not really – oh, hang on a second. This might interest you.” He turned the card and read the other side. “It does mention that the gentleman on the right-hand side of the picture was the founder of the hostel.”
“And what was his name?”
“Alfred Pinkham, Esquire.”
The name took Eleanor completely by surprise and she couldn’t help laughing out loud. “Pinkham? As in the local Pinkhams?”
Kevin looked at her oddly. “I should expect so. The family has been living in the area for many years now.”
Eleanor took the photograph and peered at the faces, her head whirling. If the photograph was taken in 1898, the man in the suit could be Joshua Pinkham’s grandfather. Why had he never mentioned his illustrious ancestor, a man who had opened a hostel for poor sailors? “Could I ask you one more thing?”
“You may.”
“Did the original Mr Dipton also take studio portraits at the time?”
“He certainly did. That was the mainstay of the business.” A look of immense pride and nostalgia passed over Kevin’s face. “We had the most varied selection of backdrops in the county – folk came from far and wide to have their pictures taken in front of the pyramids or the Alps.”
“How marvellous! You wouldn’t happen to have portraits of a John Able or a Violet Makepeace would you?”
Kevin’s eyes alighted on the clock, which showed nearly 5pm. “We’re about to close, I’m afraid. Perhaps you could come back another time?”
Eleanor’s face dropped. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back. Couldn’t you take a very quick look at your records? I can tell from how easily you found my photograph how efficient your filing systems are. Please?” With that she clasped her hands together in supplication, gave Kevin her warmest smile and hoped for the best.
It worked. “Very well, but if I can’t find anything in the next ten minutes I’m afraid you will have to come back.”
“Sure,” said Eleanor, nodding eagerly. “And I can help you look, if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Kevin opened a cupboard beneath the counter and brought out a number of index card boxes. Slowly, he flicked through the cards while Eleanor tried to hide her impatience. “Well, I can tell you now there’s nothing under A for Able.”
“How disappointing,” said Eleanor, drumming her fingers on the counter as Kevin slowly opened and closed the other boxes until he found M–O. She had her heart in her mouth as Kevin dug out a card.
“However, you’re in better luck here. It seems that a Mrs Violet Makepeace (née Bennett) did have several portraits done with us over a period of many years.”
“Would I be able to see them, do you think?” Recognising that Mr Seaside Snapper was clearly in a hurry to shut up shop and go home, Eleanor tried bribery. “I’ll buy lots of copies, of course.”
Kevin looked wearily at the clock once more, then turned the sign on the shop door to “Closed”. “You’d better come through to the office,” he said, showing Eleanor into a room at the back of the shop. “If you’d like to sit there one moment, I’ll see what I can find.”
Eleanor watched impatiently from a hard plastic chair as Kevin lifted down two large boxes from a row of packed shelves, placing the index card with Violet’s details on the table in front of him. He then pulled out a selection of photographs, carefully placing a tick beside each number on the card.
When Kevin had finished, he called Eleanor over. “These are all the photographs we have of your lady, taken before and after she married.”
“Fabulous – thank you so much!”
On the table were over a dozen photographs of Violet taken during her long life and showing a change from a slight child to the rather buxom author described by Frederick Williams. In one or two, she stood next to a thin-faced man who must have been her husband. In another, she sat with a dimpled child on her lap. Eleanor eagerly scanned the pictures then gasped and brought her hand to her lips as she picked up a small photograph in an oval cardboard frame.
Kevin spoke kindly. “You’ve found the one you were looking for, I gather?”
All Eleanor could do for a moment was nod, too overwhelmed to speak. “Yes, I think I have.”
* * *
By the time Eleanor arrived home, she was buzzing and thrilled by her successful day.
Daniel poured his wife a glass of wine and listened as she told him what she’d learned from Kevin Dipton about the fishermen photo. “And I’ll have to call Mr Williams in the morning and tell him about the photographs Kevin found of Violet Makepeace.”
“Speaking of calls,” said Daniel, “the vicar left a message for you to ring him.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“No, but it didn’t sound urgent.”
“I’m pooped from all the running around, but I’ll definitely call him tomorrow.” Eleanor smiled at her husband and grasped his hand. “But that’s enough about my day, what have you been doing?”
“As it happens, I’ve had rather a good day, too.”
“Tell me more.”
“I have been speaking to my contacts in the planning department and guess what?”
“What?”
“They’re going to give our attic conversion the thumbs up, so we’ll be able to start work on it properly very soon.”
“At last! That’s great news, Dan.” Eleanor threw herself into his arms. “This is turning out to be a very positive day indeed.
* * *
At lunchtime the next day, Eleanor dashed round to St Cuthbert’s to tell the vicar what she’d discovered from Frederick Williams and Kevin Dipton.
“There was a hostel set up by one Alfred Pinkham, Esquire?” Philip laughed. “That is very interesting. Meanwhile, I’ve been doing some detective work of my own and I think you’ll be pleased with what I’ve discovered.”
“Tell me, I’m agog!”
“Well, I was disappointed not to find proper records for the stained-glass window and the inscription, so I got in touch with my boss to see whether he had any bright ideas on how we might trace the donor.”
Eleanor smiled. “Your boss?”
Philip chuckled. “Not the Almighty. I think He has more important things on his plate at the moment. No, I went to see the bishop – he owes me a favour. Anyway, he couldn’t help specifically with our window, but he was able to lend me a book about the work of Gideon Smith.”
“And he was…?”
“Smith was the artist who made our St Brendan, remember?”
“Ah, I remember now. And what did you find out?”
“Only this,” said Philip, opening the book and turning it towards Eleanor.
“Ooh, there’s a photo of the window in our church. What does the text say?”
“It says quite a lot – Mr Smith was clearly not a man to trust with your secrets. The donor wanted to remain anonymous, as we know, but Gideon told the author of the book everything about the commission. Here, I think you should read it for yourself.”
“Now I’m intrigued.” As she read, a contented smile spread over her face. “Well, what do you know?” And, although Eleanor thought it probably wasn’t the done thing to exchange a “high five” with a vicar, she did it anyway.