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
“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
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