THE MYSTERY OF RAYLEIGH LIBRARY

 THE MYSTERY OF RAYLEIGH LIBRARY

By Richard Banks    

On the 28^th of July 1875 the stagecoach from London pulled up outside the Crown Hotel in Rayleigh where the horses were changed and the passengers took the opportunity to stretch their limbs or take refreshment in the saloon bar. It was an uneventful occurrence which generally attracted little attention except that on this particular day a small deputation of local worthies had gathered on the narrow pavement to welcome the one passenger not continuing on to Prittlewell. The passenger’s name was Nathaniel Rothwell who, earlier that month, had been appointed the town’s first librarian.

      He was the outstanding candidate of those interviewed for the position. A graduate of London University College he had subsequently taught at some of the better private schools in the metropolis before becoming assistant editor of the Finsbury Recorder, a position he had relinquished in order to write a biography of Milton. This task, although completed within the exacting deadline of his publisher, had proved injurious to the health of the author and, on the advice of his doctor, Mr Rothwell had decided to seek employment in the smoke-free environment of the Essex countryside. He was, he assured the interviewing committee, “much restored” and indeed his appearance gave every indication that this was so. He was an imposing figure, taller than average and with an upright posture not normally associated with those in academic occupations. Although a man of middle years he had retained a youthful appearance, and his dark complexion was accentuated by a full head of black hair that flowed downwards via thick sideburns into a well tended beard.

      His physical appearance was particularly pleasing to the ladies of the committee who were also impressed by his genteel manners and the fine cut of his morning coat. In the discussion that followed the interview, the collective voices of the ladies were more than enough to overrule the several gentlemen who considered that Mr Rothwell was over qualified for the position and unlikely to remain in post once more remunerative employment became available.

      On taking up his new appointment Mr Rothwell found himself to be a librarian without a library. His first task therefore was to secure premises suitable for the use of those willing and able to pay the weekly subscription of sixpence a week. With commendable promptitude he secured a lease on a grocer’s shop in the High Street which had been empty for several months since the demise of the elderly shopkeeper. A substantial refurbishment of the building soon followed and the first consignment of books arrived on the stage wagon from London. These developments were observed with keen interest by the good folk of Rayleigh who frequently saw Mr Rothwell busily directing operations or taking charge of deliveries.

      Those who sought to engage him in conversation found him courteous and helpful in matters concerning the library but curiously lacking in any intelligence about himself. When asked by a young widow if Mrs Rothwell would be joining him he merely replied that the living accommodation above the shop was sufficient only for himself. No doubt anticipating further questions on his matrimonial status, he had hastily excused himself on account of urgent business at the Vestry; if Mr Rothwell was an eligible bachelor he clearly had no intention of letting this be known to the ladies of the town or indeed to anyone else. His answers to other personal questions were equally evasive and the townspeople eventually took the hint and asked no more.

      This did not, of course, mean that they were no longer interested in Mr Rothwell’s personal circumstances. Indeed, his reticence only fuelled speculation, and the drawing rooms of Rayleigh’s chattering classes resounded with rumours that he was a jilted lover, a grieving widower or even, heaven forbid, a divorcee! Those of a less romantic disposition considered that Mr Rothwell’s upright bearing was evidence that he had once been a military man. That he had not mentioned this at the interview was taken by some as inferring that his military service had been less than honourable.

      These and other speculations about Mr Rothwell’s mysterious past ensured that the formal opening of Rayleigh’s library attracted almost as many onlookers as the annual carnival. When the speeches had been made and the blue ribbon across the doorway cut, the surprising enthusiasm of the local populace for their new library ensured that there was no shortage of persons ready to give Mr Rothwell their sixpence in return for a library membership card and his assurance that he, ‘looked forward to meeting their future needs’.

      In the several weeks that followed, Mr Rothwell found that these needs often obliged him to fetch down books from shelves beyond the surprisingly limited reach of lady members, while the menfolk of the town consistently sought his opinion on matters of a military nature. Although there can be little doubt that Mr Rothwell was bemused, if not bewildered, by such behaviour, he was at least able to take consolation from the steady trickle of sixpences that continued to flow across the library counter. Even to the most biased of observers it soon became obvious that the library under Mr Rothwell’s capable direction was an outstanding success. Despite the loss of some of its early recruits the steady increase in new members soon necessitated an extension in opening hours and the employment of a diligent young woman, named Sarah Donnell, as Rayleigh’s first assistant librarian.

      Mr Rothwell’s reputation continued to grow, along with that of his library, and his advice was sought by several nearby towns as to how they might establish libraries. Fearing that an offer of employment would follow, the parish authority chose the first anniversary of his appointment to promote him to senior librarian with a commensurate increase in salary; a decision which seemed fully vindicated when Mr Rothwell’s biography of Milton was finally printed by the London publishing house of Millard & Major. The speculation concerning his past life was now largely unspoken and would probably have remained so had it not been for the disappearance of Sarah Donnell.

      On a cold October evening Sarah finished work at seven pm, bid goodnight to Mr Rothwell, and set off for her parent’s house in Bull Lane. When she failed to arrive by nine pm her parents alerted the police, who waited until the following day before making door-to-door enquiries at all the properties along her route home. No one, it seemed, had seen Sarah that evening except Mr Rothwell, who recalled seeing her leave the library and hurry past the front window in the direction of her home. After several days, during which no further intelligence concerning Sarah was received, the police received a visit from Mr Pendleberry who owned the draper’s shop next to the library. “Were they aware,” he asked, “that on the evening of Sarah’s disappearance Mr Rothwell had been digging in the library garden by the light of a lantern?”

      The police were not aware, and an hour later two police constables arrived at the library, shovels in hand, ready to make their own excavations in the library garden, When they failed to find anything beyond a small metal box containing a cut throat razor and several blunted carving knives, they extended their search to include Mr Rothwell’s living accommodation above the library. Here they recovered a blood soaked cloth which they took back to the police office, along with Mr Rothwell, who was questioned until late evening. He was questioned again the following day and released only after giving assurances that he would not leave the town. Although the police were privately convinced that Mr Rothwell had murdered Sarah they had no evidence beyond the blood on the cloth which Mr Rothwell claimed to be his own. In desperation they interviewed Mr Rothwell for a third time, an interview that was abruptly terminated in the early afternoon when news was received that Sarah was alive and well and living in Aldershot. She had met a young soldier at the Whitsun horse fair and unbeknown to anyone else had continued to meet him in secret. Fearing that her parents would never approve such a liaison, the young couple had eloped, married and made their home in Aldershot, where the soldier was stationed.

      Mr Rothwell returned to the library, which reopened for business in the morning. Although the townsfolk had been deprived of a good mystery there was genuine relief, not only that Sarah was safe, but that Mr Rothwell was free of suspicion. While he was never to win their affection, the events of the previous seven days had earned him both their sympathy and respect. Another young woman was selected to replace Sarah and the library returned to its normal, well-ordered routine. More members were enrolled, and plans were made to move the library to more spacious premises in the Eastwood Road.

      All was well and might have continued so, but for the arrival of The Times newspaper on the doormat of one George Harker, JP for Rayleigh and Rawreth. It was on page 3, in the obituaries column, that Mr Harker discovered the surprising news that Mr Nathaniel Rothwell, scholar and author of the recently published ‘Life of Milton’ had died at his residence in Malta.

      It can only be supposed that Rayleigh’s senior librarian had also read the obituary, for his departure from Rayleigh was as sudden and unobserved as that of his former assistant. Unlike Sarah, he was never seen or heard of again.

 

Copyright Richard Banks