On an impulse I decided to get off the tram at the next stop. Only after my feet touched the ground did it occur to me that it was a little early to be calling on Sykes, but he does not lie abed even at the weekend.
As I turned onto Woodhouse Street, a lad hurtling along on a bike called to me and screeched to a halt. It was Thomas Sykes, sixteen years old, bound for his work at the joiners where he was apprenticed.
‘Are your mam and dad up and about?’
‘Mam’s still in bed. But go on, they won’t mind. Dad’s been out for his paper.’
He mounted the pavement and pedalled off, a danger to pedestrians but less bumpy for the rider than the cobbles.
At their house, on Beulah Street, I tapped lightly on the window. Sykes looked up from where he sat by the fire, reading. When he saw me, he came to the door and stepped aside to let me in. ‘Heyup! You’re early.’
‘I’ve been in the infirmary all night.’ He looked alarmed. ‘I was nursing a patient.’
‘I thought your nursing days were over.’
‘So did I. Look, I don’t want to wake the whole house. Will you come out to the café?’
He nodded. ‘Give us a minute. I’ll get my boots. I’d offer to toast you a teacake but I’d end up doing it for all and sundry and we wouldn’t be able to hear ourselves think.’
Moments later, as we walked in the direction of the café on Johnston Street, I gave him an account of my extraordinary Friday evening.
‘Well I’ll be jiggered. You went looking for a ghost and found two bodies. It could only happen to you.’
I told him about Umberto Bruno, and how I realised that he was the organ grinder.
‘You did better than me. I made the supreme sacrifice of going out in the fog for a couple of pints last night. You said in your note that you were parked on Commercial Street when the monkey decided to join you.’
‘Yes. I found the monkey’s fez at the back of the library. I wonder whether the door was unlocked and the pair of them went in to shelter.’
‘I did pick up one little bit of information. It’ll interest you to know that Umberto Bruno took his barrel organ into the Mitre two days ago, for safe-keeping. The landlord has it in a cupboard. He expected Umberto to come back for it, but he never turned up.’
The Mitre is the pub closest to the library and not one I would have expected the organ grinder to frequent, but perhaps the landlord had a soft spot for him.
‘Did the landlord say why Umberto took it there, or did he mention the monkey?’
‘No and no. Perhaps Umberto had to change lodgings. I asked but nobody knows where he lives. My guess is that he and the monkey were living rough. Do you think someone at the library felt sorry for the old chap and let him in the back door? With the weekend coming up, he might have camped out in that basement unnoticed.’
‘Well no, because the library opens on Saturday mornings, and the library staff wouldn’t let an outsider in.’
‘Not any of them?’
‘Young Bert has a kind heart.’
‘It’s the sort of thing a daft lad might do.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘The shops near the library have cellars. There could be another way in.’
‘A tunnel, you mean?’
‘Possibly, or a connecting door.’
‘But I found the monkey’s fez by the rear entrance.’
‘There could be different ways in and out.’
We reached the café. It is opposite the chemical works and serves strong red tea in big white mugs, always with sugar, and that everlasting milk that comes with a metal top.
I ordered sausage and fried bread.
While I waited for my breakfast, Sykes briefed me on developments in our only other current case: the sad story of the bank clerk with a gambling habit. The man had been well and truly exposed. Unwilling to face the bad publicity of a court case, the bank had dismissed him without references.
‘He’s lucky,’ Sykes said. ‘Fraud of that kind, he could have ended up inside for a very long time.’
I had put my satchel under the table. The heavy coins pressed against my toes.
Only when I had eaten my breakfast did I tell him about the idea that came to me out of the blue last night.
‘Sophia’s mother, Jennifer Bradshaw; it’s unlikely that she may have been kept on at Barnbow Munitions factory after the war.’
‘It’s not information that they’d part with that easily, but I can try and check.’
‘You see, I think had she gone on working there she would have stayed in the Compton Road area. It occurred to me that she may have looked for work with a fishmonger, because of knowing the trade.’
Sykes smiled. ‘Great minds think alike. I was going to tell you last night, except that it’s not the best news. Yesterday, I visited every wet fish shop and stall within a five mile radius. No luck, though one chap in the market knew Mr and Mrs Wells from their days in Scarborough.’ He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, drew out a newspaper, and pointed. ‘This is encouraging, though. Our announcement was in the Evening Post sooner than we hoped – last night’s late edition. I’ll call at the offices today and see whether anyone’s been quick off the mark in replying to our box number.’
‘That’s a boost. I’m glad you’ll be following up responses because I’ve agreed to go back to the infirmary tonight. I had thought if there was something I could be doing towards finding Mrs Wells and Sophia, then I should be doing it.’
‘Leave it with me. If mother and daughter are in this city, I’ll find them. And I don’t blame you for going back to the infirmary. There’s probably more satisfaction in nursing than detection, especially given how many blanks we’ve drawn so far.’
‘Nursing doesn’t rule out detection. I want to know who killed Dr Potter.’
‘Are they calling in Scotland Yard?’
‘I wish I knew.’
Over another mug of tea, I told him about my mistrust of Inspector Wallis, and about the organ grinder’s money bag.
‘How much?’
‘Fifty gold sovereigns.’
He let out a low whistle. ‘That’s an awful lot of brass.’
‘It must be his life savings.’
‘You don’t believe that. A man like him lives day to day, hour to hour.’
We sat in silence for a while. Sykes asked for more tea.
He took a drink. ‘The sovereigns could be a payment.’
‘For what?’
‘For murder? Murder of a mathematician.’
‘Umberto is too weak and ill, and too small. Dr Potter was a big man.’
‘It’s not to do with size. If he caught him in the right position, he could have whacked the back of his knees, bopped him on the head, and then finished the job. Do they know how long the body was in the basement?’
‘Not yet.’
I took a drink of tea. ‘I thought you’d be jumping up and down because I didn’t hand over the money.’
He shrugged. ‘In the unlikely event the money does lawfully belong to Umberto, and stranger things have happened, he would be hard-pressed to prove it once Leeds City Police have it in their coffers. There are always stories about someone dressed in rags, living out of bins, dying in extreme poverty and being discovered to have a hidden fortune.’
‘He’s too ill for me to question him about it. Of course it could be awkward if he comes to consciousness while I’m not there and asks for his sovereigns.’
‘Don’t rule him out as a suspect, just because he is your patient.’
‘He really and truly is too weak. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised to have missed something important last night.’
‘Not like you.’ Sykes lit a cigarette.
‘It was so bizarre. First, I was busy being acolyte to the exorcist, that took a lot of concentration. Then suddenly I was required to be a nurse again. The poor librarian, Mr Lennox, went into a terrible spin of shock. He and the priest bolted as soon as they could. My detective skills fell en
tirely into abeyance while I was thinking about poor Dr Potter and then caring for Umberto. That wouldn’t have happened to you.’
‘Why wouldn’t it?’
‘Because your outlook is always and forever that of a policeman, I don’t suppose you’ll understand how it’s possible to become someone else in an instant.’
‘You make me sound totally blinkered. Limited.’
‘Not at all. It’s very useful. If you were a stick of rock, the lettering all the way through would be “policeman”. It’s as simple as that.’
‘Detective.’
‘All right, “detective” then.’
‘What would your stick of rock say?’
‘Oh I don’t know. Daughter, widow, nurse, detective.’
‘Well then, it would be an interesting stick of rock. But don’t forget I’m a husband and dad.’
‘I’m not forgetting that. I’m just talking about how we look at the world.’
‘Do you always turn philosophical when you haven’t slept?’
‘I’m not a bit tired.’ A sudden great yawn contradicted me.
‘Come on then. Better give me that satchel before it dislocates your shoulder.’
He walked with me to my house, wanting to meet the monkey and admire the gold sovereigns.
Before he left, I put the bag of sovereigns inside the top of the piano, and locked the lid so that no one would play it.
‘Now you’ll know where the money is if I succumb to pneumonia, and the organ grinder lives and I die.’
‘Don’t die.’ Sykes replaced the vase on top of the piano, ‘at least not before you sign the business over to me.’
* * *
Although I had not felt tired, the moment I put on my pyjamas and climbed into bed, I was glad to stretch out and feel the cool pillow against my cheek. In no time at all, I was fast asleep.
It was late afternoon when I woke from the strangest dream. I dreamed that I was floating about the hospital, above the wards, looking down. I saw my husband Gerald, just as he was when I visited there once. He was striding along a corridor, to a door that was signed Operating Theatre. I floated in after him. He was not there. Constable Hodge wore a cloak decorated with sovereigns. Umberto, monkey perched on his shoulder, carried a candle and made a whooshing noise. He pointed to a balcony where a ghostly figure floated by.
I woke.
Ghosts. I was letting the thought of ghosts get the better of me.
After that, I did not want to sleep again.
A bath revived me, along with a dish of Mrs Sugden’s rabbit stew.
Mrs Sugden cut another slice of bread. ‘It’s very inconvenient, having a vegetarian in the house. How do you think that organ grinder fed the creature? Not very well if you ask me.’
‘If Umberto has come round when I go back this evening, I’ll ask him.’
‘You’re going back there?’
‘Yes. There has been illness among the nurses, and they are very busy. The ward sister is glad of my being there, especially as it’s the weekend. I think it will be different on Monday.’
‘I should say she is glad to have you there. Are you being paid?’
‘No.’
‘Then you’re doing some hard-up woman out of a job. Have you thought about that?’
‘It’s temporary.’
‘That’s what bosses always say.’
The monkey looked from one to the other of us, as if sharing our concern.
Mrs Sugden stood up. ‘That creature understands English. Are you sure his owner isn’t called Dr Dolittle?’
‘Not unless Dr Dolittle goes by the alias Umberto Bruno.’
She went to the kitchen. The monkey watched her go.
It was then I remembered Umberto’s knitted waistcoat. I took it from my satchel and offered it to the monkey.
He sniffed it.
‘Go on, take it.’
It took the waistcoat, put it on, though it swamped him, and began chattering excitedly.
‘What? What are you trying to tell me? And what will we do with you, monkey, if your master dies?’
Twelve
When I returned to the infirmary, PC Hodge was at his post, in the corridor outside the ward, exchanging words with another constable who must have been on duty during the day. Both men looked cheerful. This task, though tedious, probably came as a welcome change from pounding the beat in the drizzling cold.
Constable Hodge gave me a friendly nod as I passed through the doors and into the nurses’ room where I hung up my coat and put on the apron that Mrs Sugden had obligingly washed and ironed.
Sister O’Malley appeared, carrying her teacup. We exchanged a good evening and I asked about my patient.
‘Not much change. He’s poorly but comfortable. He managed a mouthful of oxtail soup.’ She rinsed her cup and saucer under the tap. ‘Oh and unless the police want you to stay here, I should be all right for staff tomorrow. I have two nurses over their bouts of flu.’
When she had gone, I filled a dish with boiling water and added Friar’s Balsam. As I picked it up, Constable Hodge put his head around the door. ‘Brewing up?’
‘No, not yet. And are you still expecting Mr Bruno to run off?’
He smiled. ‘No such luck. My colleague was here for the daytime shift. He took a statement.’
‘From whom?’
He nodded his head in the direction of the ward doors. ‘Chummy in there, Umberto Bruno.’
‘I don’t believe that.’
‘No, straight up. Our Umberto was seen following Dr Potter through the alley, into the rear of the building. When tackled about it, agreed it was so.’
‘He’s not up to agreeing anything.’
‘Well, apparently he did.’
‘And who is supposed to have seen Mr Bruno following Dr Potter?’
‘That I can’t say.’
‘Why would Dr Potter go into the library by the alley door? He wouldn’t have a key. I would never be able to go in that way.’
Constable Hodge tapped the side of his nose. ‘Dr Potter wasn’t like you, Mrs Shackleton. He was no ordinary library proprietor. His great-great-grandfather was one of the founders. He’ll have been privy to all sorts of inside information and prerogatives.’ He sniffed the Friar’s Balsam and turned up his nose. ‘That stuff don’t half pong.’
‘It’s meant to.’ I felt slightly sick, and not just from the smell of Friar’s Balsam. Surely the man could not have given a statement, except by groaning it and allowing the daytime constable to draw his own conclusions. ‘Did the person who saw Umberto say whether he had his monkey with him?’
‘That I don’t know.’ He held the door for me as I went back into the corridor. ‘You see, Mrs Shackleton, you look at yon fellow and you see a patient, because of the nurse in you. I look at him and I see a bit of a pest. When he’s about his business with that monkey, he accosts passers-by, no better than a beggar, and we have our own poor with their mouths to feed.’ In the corridor, he opened the door to the small cell-like room where Umberto slept fitfully. ‘I know what I’m talking about. I’ve had complaints enough.’
I did not answer. He closed the door. He and I were not as pleased with each other as we had been the night before.
I placed the basin by the bed. My patient was wheezing terribly. I checked his chart and saw that his temperature had gone down by two degrees. That was a good sign. The day staff had changed his nightshirt and sheets.
It was then I thought to do something that had not entered my head the night before. I took out my notebook and recorded everything concerning the patient’s condition since finding him in the basement. I entered details from his chart, including temperature, respiration and pulse. I noted when I had applied poultices, given drinks, brought in the steaming balsam, along with comments on his physical state and the way he had drifted in and out of consciousness. His only speech had been to ask where he was, and to wonder whether he was still alive; hardly compatible with giving a statement t
o the police.
Slowly, the evening ticked by. When Umberto showed signs of distress, I tapped his chest and back in an attempt to ease the congestion. At nine o’clock, he managed to take a few spoonfuls of broth. His weak gaze met mine, and he nodded appreciation. Perhaps he had nodded to the daytime policeman’s questions, and that had been construed as assent to being seen following Dr Potter into the building. After taking the broth, he lay back on the pillow, exhausted, eyes closed.
I noted this, wishing I knew what he was supposed to have said in his ‘statement’.
My world had shrunk to this small room, dimly lit by a night lamp. At about ten o’clock, I looked out of the window. The night was clearer than Friday, and I could see the shape of the Town Hall. These were rooms where my husband Gerald would have worked. Perhaps he looked out of this very window. As I thought of him, I remembered the roll of honour commemorating the infirmary’s war dead and bearing his name. Yesterday morning and this evening, I had passed it without a second glance, and a lack of feeling that surprised me.
I was no longer in love with a memory. The harsh thought came to me that if we who are still here are to be of use in this world, we must break faith with the dead, and make the choice to be in the land of the living, leaving the shades behind. Gerald was never coming back. My life could go on for another fifty or sixty years, and so must I.
* * *
In the early hours of Sunday morning, I made tea for my patient, myself and for Constable Hodge.
When Umberto opened his eyes, there was a spark of brightness there.
After he took a drink of the hot sweet liquid, he murmured, ‘I never been so comfortable.’
And then he closed his eyes. Part of me wished, for his sake, he might never open them again.
But he did.
‘Mr Bruno, what is your monkey’s name?’
His voice came out hoarse. ‘Percy. He fill my purse, or try to.’
After that, he dozed and when he came to again, he asked, ‘Where is he?’
‘Percy? He’s safe. He’s well. And so are your sovereigns. I have them at my house for you.’
He frowned, as though my words made no sense.
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