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  “Time to go, old friend. We have a busy and challenging day tomorrow.”

  When he saw Percy’s covetous glance at the remaining whisky in his glass, Hood emptied the drink onto the floor, rose, and left the tavern with Percy at his side.

  OUTSIDE THE TAVERN, Hood gazed across to the west side of town at the flickering lights of gas lamps on the streets and lights in the windows of the houses. He had no interest in the grand properties on the west side of the town.

  They walked north towards the east side of town. He lived on Wilson’s Yard. The tenement building had a basement and a fisherman’s storage area. Uneven stone steps led up to a flimsy wooden balcony where his home stood. Number thirteen.

  “Six in the morning, Percy,” said Hood.

  “I won’t be late,” said Percy, who lived a few hundred yards away at Boulby Bank. He waved at Hood and made his way home.

  Hood opened his door to the lingering scent of stale tobacco. When he entered the house, he had to tread carefully. The bookcases were full to bursting, and he had several tall piles of books scattered on the floor. Most of them had the Whitby Library stamp on them. On top of huge sideboards were several glass jars and tanks containing snakes. A small, green, glass jar contained live mice.

  When he was acting as a tour guide, he would exaggerate stories or simply lie. This captured the imagination of visitors to Whitby. He applied the same philosophy when it came to the snake routine. He would give the snake an ominous name to suggest its deadliness when, in fact, it was harmless. He had eight snakes. He’d attached labels on the jars and tanks. All the labels, but one, indicated that they were highly venomous and deadly with names such as BLACK DEATH or DOOM VIPER.

  He got all his foreign snakes from crews on ships coming into Whitby harbour. The crew of the Santana had supplied him with snakes in the past, and he anticipated buying a venomous snake from them when they docked in Whitby in the next two or three weeks. The snakes came from all over the world. All but one of his snakes were kingsnakes from California, Mexico, Australia, and South America. He preferred to use the name Lampropeltis, their Latin name, rather than refer to them as kingsnakes. Because kingsnakes come in a vivid array of colours, to the untutored, they were all different and exotic and dangerous. In the tavern tonight, he’d taken his Common Kingsnake.

  At the corner of the sideboard was an empty glass tank. The label on it said BLACK DEATH. He tenderly took the snake from his bag and placed it in the tank. He needed to reward his snake after its faithful work in The Frigate Arms. He would feed his other snakes in the morning. Hood reached in the small green jar and removed a wriggling mouse.

  He threw the mouse into the tank and looked on in fascination as the mouse darted from one side of the tank to the other while the snake remained completely motionless. The mouse stood still, and the snake lunged and eventually swallowed the mouse whole.

  With careful handling, all his snakes were docile. He could sit in his chair for hours just looking at the moving colours in his tanks. The snakes had to be kept in separate tanks; otherwise, they would try to eat each other.

  His Scarlet Kingsnake was red with white and black horizontal patterns. The Eastern Kingsnake had a dark, bluish colour with white horizontal stripes. His California Kingsnake was black. It had a white head and white horizontal stripes. Hood noticed that it was unusually sluggish this evening and removed it from its tank. A healthy kingsnake should have a round, firm body. He pressed against its body and found it soft. It should also have shiny, smooth skin. He brought it close to his peering eyes. It was a dull colour. A healthy kingsnake should also move smoothly and without tremors. As he let it move along his hand, there was a tremor. Hood sighed and placed it back in the tank with the label DOOM VIPER on the side. He was sure it would be dead before Christmas. The largest tank contained the dangerous snake. The label in red ink said CHIEF CONSTABLE. The Thai cobra was over a yard long and had a distinctive, small head no bigger than a walnut, and its body was brown and scaly.

  Hood was no coward, but he had no intention of taking this snake out of its tank. He knew what would happen if he tried. The snake would straighten up, spread its neck flat, and hiss. It could spit corrosive venom into the eyes of people from three or four yards away, and its bite was fatal. At the side of the tank there was a sliding panel where he could place rodents and chicks for the snake to eat.

  This snake was venomous, but so was Len Tanner, the chief constable. The police officer came from a family that still lived on the next street to Hood. As Tanner rose to become the chief constable of Whitby, he turned on his own family. He even had two of them arrested and sent to jail. Then Tanner turned against the east side of Whitby as a whole. He was far more venomous than the snake in Hood’s tank.

  In Hood’s eyes, there is no greater crime than turning on your own people. Some of his friends and associates were rotting in jail due to Tanner. Eleven years earlier, Hood’s best friend Tommy Young was hanged for a series of aggravated robberies in West Whitby due to that odious man in uniform. As a result, Tanner got his promotion to chief constable.

  Hood went into his kitchen. He pulled up a loose flagstone and removed his journals that recorded all the good deeds he’d performed in Whitby over the last twenty years. He took them back to his living room and sat in his chair by the fire.

  He looked up, as if he had the power to see inside heaven, imagining the soft outline of his late wife lingering there. He might be labelled a charlatan but that didn’t stop him living up to the promises he’d made to Claire shortly before she died. Dwelling on his journals eased his melancholia. He flicked through the pages.

  He’d helped three members of the chief constable’s family financially because the great man himself could not be seen or asked to care. He paid for a doctor for one of them, food for another, and the funeral expenses for the third. Hundreds of pages detailed his good deeds. He’d even helped a few people who lived on the west side of Whitby, like Mrs Jenkins.

  Children on the east side of Whitby would not go without shoes while he was alive. He’d steal, sell contraband, conduct tours of Whitby, and hold séances. Whatever it took; he would do it. His only extravagance, apart from his beer, tobacco, and whisky, was the money spent on his snakes. If it came to a choice between keeping one of his beloved snakes or putting shoes on children’s feet, he would sell a snake.

  Of all the people in Whitby, he was unique. Other citizens of Whitby would die, and in a few years’ time, no one would remember them. Their lives had no meaning or purpose. But he would never die. He was immortal. A thousand years from now, he would be remembered. He would be a legend, living on in the hearts of the poor and oppressed. In the future, The Whitby Herald would write articles referring to him as Whitby’s very own Robin Hood. Books would say that he was not sufficiently appreciated in his time. He would have to agree with them on that assertion. Claims that he was a scourge of the rich and respectable citizens, he had no quarrel with, either. But they would also talk of his numerous acts of kindness to the poor and vulnerable.

  Hood imagined a plaque and a statue erected in his memory and wondered if it would be placed close to The Frigate Arms, assuming it was still there in a hundred years or more.

  He had seen spirits walk the streets of Whitby so couldn’t rule out the possibility that his ghost would return in the future. If ever the poor in Whitby called out his name in a time of crisis, then there was at least a chance that he could return.

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  Chapter 8

  Friday 24th August 1894

  “PUSH HARDER, JOHN!” urged Mrs Jenkins. “They had a cheek to change the locks on the door.”

  “It’s beginning to budge. I’ll soon have it open,” John spluttered.

  She saw David standing with his arms folded. “You could at least help!”

  But David didn’t budge. “We should leave immediate
ly.”

  “Get a move on!” she barked, shaking her head, and when she realised her usually tidy grey hair was now dishevelled, she tucked a stray curl under her bonnet.

  “I’m doing my best!” said John as perspiration started to collect on his forehead. He pushed against the wood, grunting, and seconds later came the sound of breaking wood. “It’s coming away from the frame now.”

  John strained with all his might and had to arrest his fall as the door suddenly sprung open. He lurched inside but managed to regain his balance. Mrs Jenkins and David followed him inside.

  Inside the Jenkins Photographic Studio once again, her nostrils twitched when she smelt the sharp, acrid odour of the chemicals used in developing the plates. She always found the smell obnoxious but knew that David and John, like her late husband, found it as inviting as any perfume.

  “I will light some candles,” she said. “They should be behind the counter.”

  She went and collected a few candles and lit them. “We’ll get through quite a lot of these tonight.” She nodded to herself.

  “I thought we were only staying a few minutes?” said David.

  “David’s right. A police constable could be making his rounds,” said John. “We should leave now, or in a few minutes at the latest.”

  “I cannot be rushed!” she snapped.

  “Why not?” John asked.

  “For the last twenty-five years, this studio has been my husband’s life.” She looked up at the ceiling. “He’s probably looking down at us right now.”

  “He wouldn’t want us to be arrested,” said David.

  “My husband’s blood, sweat, and toil built this business,” she mumbled through her tiny, pursed lips. “Those creditors have an unmitigated nerve. They have no respect for my husband’s memory!”

  “I’m as angry as you about what is happening to this place—” David began.

  “This place!” She shook her head. “Have the decency to address it with its proper name. A name that goes back before you were born!”

  “I care about Jenkins Photographic Studio just as much as you,” said David with more conviction.

  “It’s just not right,” she whimpered. Her lips remained tightly pursed as she gazed around the studio at the stools, benches, tripods, and cameras. Her hands began to tremble when she saw how the bankruptcy officials had placed light brown labels on the equipment.

  “Robbers struck eight years ago, but they didn’t get the better of my husband.” She raised her head high once more. “Instead, it was an employee that finished him off. Arnold Bailey might as well have stabbed my husband straight through the heart.”

  Mrs Jenkins’ eyes glazed over as she recalled in her mind details about Bailey and the unfortunate chain of events that followed.

  Arnold Bailey was a thirty-five-year-old bachelor who had worked as a photographer in Blackpool. He moved to Staithes, near Whitby, in June 1887 and set up a photographic business there. He had only been in business for six months when his studio burnt down in January 1888. His story featured in The Whitby Herald and attracted the sympathy of Mrs Jenkins. She realised her husband was not getting any younger and needed an assistant. Mr Jenkins employed Bailey, a short, jovial, chubby man with a large nose and thick lips, and found him a pleasant and agreeable man.

  Things went well until the middle of February 1889. Mr Jenkins had to return to the studio late one night to collect his wallet. When he entered the studio, he saw Bailey photographing three naked, young females. Bailey admitted he had been doing a brisk trade in lewd images but that Mr Jenkins shouldn’t worry about the attentions of the police since the photographs were destined for the overseas market. Mr Jenkins threw Bailey out of his studio on the spot.

  A few weeks later, Reginald Swan, the husband of one of the nude women, began to blackmail the Jenkins. He lived in Loftus, several miles up the coast from Whitby. Swan had the photographs, and his wife would swear under oath that the photographs were taken at the Jenkins Studio. Mr and Mrs Jenkins paid Swan thirty-five pounds at the beginning of March 1889 hoping that this would be the end of the matter. Meanwhile, Bailey had set up another studio in Ruswarp, a few miles from Whitby.

  Each month, Swan would come in the studio demanding money. They paid him twelve pounds a month, and then, the blackmailing suddenly stopped in August 1889 when Swan went to prison for theft. None of the lewd photographs ever circulated in Whitby, and there were no visits from the police. Mr and Mrs Jenkins breathed a sigh of relief, and eventually, they were able to afford to engage David and John as apprentices in 1890.

  Then, in March 1893, Swan came into the studio demanding money after his release from prison. They paid him twelve pounds each month until July 1894 when the business was in ruins and with Mr Jenkins’ health rapidly deteriorating.

  Mrs Jenkins only discovered later that Bailey had blighted other people’s lives. He’d taken lewd photographs in Staithes, including that of the fourteen-year-old daughter of a Methodist minister there. Bailey had also made the young girl pregnant. But there were other photographers she despised as much as Bailey, principally Byron Marsh. Her part-time servant girl, Susan Watson, had been violated by Marsh. When her mother Meredith complained to the police, they refused to take any action.

  “Are you alright, Mrs Jenkins?” asked John. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages.”

  “I can’t stop thinking about Arnold Bailey.”

  “Let’s find what you’re looking for and leave as quickly as possible,” said John.

  “I think we should go now,” murmured David.

  “We’re in no rush tonight.” Mrs Jenkins folded her arms and looked pointedly at the cut on John’s head. “At least if I’m around, you will not get into any more fights.” She unfolded her arms. “My husband put something aside for both of you. The last thing he’d want is for those wretched receivers to get their hands on it.”

  “They might have already put a label on it,” said John in resignation. “It’s probably too late.”

  She shook her head. “It’s in the safe. They kept asking me for the keys, but I didn’t hand them over.” She reached in her purse with her swollen hand and pulled out a key. Her rheumatoid arthritis had been getting steadily worse. David tried to assist her, but she pushed his hand away. “Those officials have itemised all the cameras, John. I’d let you have one, but they will know all the registration numbers. I do not want you to get in any trouble. But I know that my husband’s strong desire was to treat you the same as David.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Mrs Jenkins,” John said.

  “The officials had the nerve to say that the studio was past its best and run down,” she said.

  “It’s the best photographic studio in Whitby,” agreed John.

  “In Yorkshire,” she corrected with a grin. “This was the finest little studio anywhere in the county. Customers were lucky coming here because their photographs would be far superior—”

  “Even when compared to those grand, swanking studios operating in Scarborough,” interrupted John.

  She noticed that he had a copy of The Whitby Herald folded in his coat pocket. “Does it say anything about the bankruptcy sale in your newspaper?”

  Taking the newspaper out of his pocket, John looked down the back pages. “Not a great deal.”

  “What does it say, then?” she asked impatiently.

  “It says the bankruptcy sale will take place next Tuesday. Everything’s for sale…including the safe.”

  “It’s simply not right what they are doing!” she cried and limped to the safe resting on the floor in the corner. She bent down, only to feel a shooting pain in her back and knees, but she was determined not to give in to it. David brought over one of the small stools for her to sit on, which she reluctantly accepted. She struggled with the key in the lock but finally opened the door to reveal a safe bulging with brown and white documents and folders. When she placed her hand inside, some of the dust from the papers came
out. She inhaled, and it tickled the back of her throat.

  She handed a large envelope first to David, and then to John, who ripped his envelope open first. Six one-pound notes fell out. John picked them up along with a single sheet of paper. Inside the gold-leaf border in large, bold, italic writing said: Certificate of Completion of Apprenticeship in Photography.

  John shook his head in disbelief. “There’s a mistake. I had five weeks to go to finish my apprenticeship…I can’t take your money after all that has happened.”

  “My husband would want you to have it to buy a camera.”

  “I can’t accept it,” insisted John.

  Her cheeks reddened with impatience. “You will make me very upset if you refuse to take the money, John Evans.”

  “But you have no income now,” said John softly.

  “My brother has rescued me financially. He is coming to live with me when he retires after Christmas.”

  David had no money in his envelope, but there was the same certificate of completion. He took a slow breath. Then he smiled broadly, and in his surprise couldn’t summon any words of appreciation.

  She beamed. “I kept all the records and accounts for the business, including the dates when you were first employed by my husband if any official wanted to confirm that you are both fully accredited photographers. No one will know the truth, apart from us...and my dear husband.”

  John’s face flushed. “I don’t know what to say, Mrs Jenkins.”

  “The same goes for me,” added David. He brushed his finger delicately against the gold-leaf border of his certificate.

  She put her finger to her lips. “Say nothing…though a kiss on my cheek would not go amiss.”

  John kissed her on the cheek followed by David.

  While the lads looked on, stunned by this news, she checked inside other envelopes. In one, she found a certificate of excellence in photography given to her husband in his early years as a photographer. In other envelopes, there were letters from grateful customers. Skimming through these brought her a sense of pride until she came to a string attached around a large batch of pale brown envelopes. Bile rose to her throat. These were demands from the bank and from creditors in the weeks preceding the bankruptcy. She threw these back in the safe in disgust. They hit the rear wall with a thud.