Now that he was capable of a little speech, I would have liked him to say more, but he dozed again.
At six o’clock, I took the teacups back into the nurses’ room and washed them, leaving everything tidy, ready for the day shift.
When I went back into the corridor, PC Hodge was not at his post. He must have been taking a short break himself. Or perhaps the inspector had realised the nonsense of guarding a very sick man and had put his constable back on the beat.
I opened the sick room door and saw Constable Hodge holding Umberto’s arm, shaking him.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Waking him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he needs to hear what I have to say. You might be better to wait outside.’
‘I’m going nowhere. I’m nursing this man. You should leave.’
Constable Hodge cleared his throat. ‘I’ve had my orders.’
Umberto looked up at him, confused, fearful.
‘Right, so you’re awake and we have a witness that you are awake.’ The constable straightened his shoulders. ‘Umberto Bruno, you are charged with the murder of Horatio Erasmus Potter. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down in evidence and used against you. Do you understand?’
He brought out a pair of handcuffs.
I snatched them from him. ‘Are you mad? The man is very poorly. Are you trying to kill him?’
‘Madam, you are impeding a police officer in the course of his duty.’
‘Then charge me.’
‘I am instructed to secure the prisoner.’ He softened his tone, trying to sound reasonable. ‘He won’t be removed yet, Mrs Shackleton. Not until the order comes through.’
Reluctantly, I returned the handcuffs. But if the constabulary thought they would pin Dr Potter’s death on a sickly organ grinder, they could think again.
Having retrieved the handcuffs, the constable could not quite decide what to do. He tried handcuffing Umberto to the bed post, but it was such a stretch on the man’s arm that he gave up, and instead handcuffed his wrists together.
‘How can he be cared for like that? What happens when his nightshirt must be changed?’
‘I will remove the handcuffs.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Shackleton, but you see, he was in the basement, and so was Dr Potter, and there was no one else.’
‘And you think that rather than be evicted from his warm and cosy spot on a freezing flagged floor, this man would first stun Dr Potter and then, taking no chances, strangle him with his own silk scarf. You saw how sick he was. You carried him. How can you think such a thing?’
He hesitated.
‘Constable, you see the state of him. Does he look like a man capable of leaping from the bed and making his escape? Take off the handcuffs.’
‘It isn’t up to me, madam. Orders come through the sergeant from the inspector. If I don’t follow them, my head will be on the block.’
‘Then I’ll speak to the inspector.’
‘I know just what he’ll say.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘That you can’t take chances in a case like this.’
‘Where will I find him?’
‘Sergeant Ashworth?’
‘Inspector Wallis.’
‘In his office, in the Town Hall, but…’
‘But what?’
Whatever the constable had intended to say he thought better of it. He left, closing the door gently behind him.
What logic! The prisoner was in the basement, and so was the corpse. Ipso facto, Umberto must be the murderer.
Perhaps I had done no service by seeing Umberto through two long nights. To slip away in the throes of pneumonia would be preferable to swinging on the end of a rope.
In the corridor, a trolley announced the arrival of the early morning tea, and of the dayshift.
Bringing the chair close to the side of the bed, I sat down and took Umberto’s hands in mine. ‘What happened in the library basement?’
‘He took my monkey.’
‘Who did?’
Umberto closed his eyes.
One question had been answered: Leeds City Police had not seen fit to call in Scotland Yard. It would now be up to me to find Dr Potter’s killer.
Thirteen
A light drizzle fell steadily as I walked the short distance to the Town Hall. The sound of church bells broke the early morning stillness as the Catholic Cathedral pealed out a summons to its parishioners.
Leeds CID, in the person of Inspector Wallis, had taken the most direct route to “solving” the crime of murder: find a possible witness, Umberto Bruno, and pin the crime on him.
How should I approach the inspector this time, and attempt to make him treat Umberto Bruno with some semblance of humanity?
There are several reliable ways of dealing with a man who is not a relative and not a lover. Some women play the dragon queen, so imperious as to make a man quake. The femme fatale will, at least temporarily, take a man’s breath away. An old nursing friend successfully played nanny, chidingly putting officers on their best behaviour as if they were in a nursery rather than on a ward. My preferred way is to be the chum, encouraging, playing up and playing the game. That seems usually the best choice, but not easy with a man as taciturn as Wallis.
I reached the side door of the Town Hall, which is the only way in on a Sunday.
Dragon Queen-like, I announced to the commissionaire my name and business and claimed to have an appointment with the inspector. When the commissionaire did not see me on his list, I told him that was because the appointment was arranged by telephone ten minutes ago.
Without waiting for further comment, I climbed the wide staircase that led to CID headquarters.
In spite of the past four years spent investigating, I had never met any of the senior officers of the Leeds City Police in a professional capacity. It would have been so much better if my father had been superintendent here in Leeds, rather than in Wakefield. The two forces kept their distance from each other and my father rarely visited Leeds. The rivalry was unacknowledged, but real.
No one came between me and the inspector’s door. By clever deduction I knew it was his room. The nameplate etched on the glass read: Inspector G T Wallis.
I tapped.
A voice called, ‘Come in.’
I pushed open the door to a square office with a high window. The room smelled of ash and stale tobacco. Behind a heavy old oak desk sat Mr Wallis in his crumpled worsted suit, white shirt and navy blue tie. He stood, pushing back his chair.
I crossed the worn rug. ‘Excuse my coming unannounced, Inspector.’ I hoped I had struck a note between confident and friendly but suddenly felt I had struck no note at all, feeling a mess, rumpled, bleary-eyed, glad of the hat hiding my hair and wishing I had washed my face.
By now I was close enough to see his blue eyes. It is surprising how many people have odd eyes; not odd in colour but in shape. The right eye was bright, penetrating and round; the left eye, a little smaller, less intense and tending towards oval. I found this oddly disconcerting, and for a moment we simply looked at each other, as if for the first time. His fair hair shone from the application of pomade. He was more clean-shaven than yesterday. An amused half-smile curled his full lips.
‘Please take a seat.’
I sat down; so did he.
‘What can I do for you, Mrs Shackleton?’
‘It’s about Mr Bruno, Umberto Bruno.’
‘Thank you for going with him to the Infirmary.’
‘I was glad to help.’
‘Yes, I suppose you were. Though it must have been a bit of a shock for you to first find the body of one of your fellow readers, and then some smelly fellow curled in a ball, especially when you were expecting to see something more insubstantial. A ghost, I understand?’
I let the jibe pass.
He took a sheet of paper from his desk drawer. ‘You must be reimbursed for your time and trouble. If you complete this fo
rm…’
I took the form. ‘Thank you, but that is not why I am here. I have just come from the infirmary, where I spent the last two nights watching over Umberto Bruno.’
‘It was an imposition and the force is grateful to you.’
‘Mr Bruno has pneumonia. It was touch and go whether he would live. It still is.’
‘Oh, I think he will live. His sort do you know, surprising as it may seem.’
‘I am not sure what you mean.’
He smiled. ‘You served as a nurse in the VAD?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then you may know that many nurses have a reputation for being soft on malingerers, being easily taken in by a man capable of putting it on.’
‘You speak from experience of VAD nurses?’
There was an ever so slight change of manner, annoyance at being challenged and perhaps a discomfort that told me he had not fought in the war. Well, there was nothing surprising in that. He would have been exempt from military service.
‘I know enough of the gentle sex to understand that judgement may be clouded when a lady takes to nursing.’
I could have put him right, giving a host of examples of hard choices made under the most distressing conditions, but that would not have taken me an inch nearer changing his mind about Umberto Bruno. My hopes of playing the chum faded fast. ‘The man is critically ill and incapable of committing the crime he is accused of.’
I expected him to correct me. Umberto was arrested on suspicion. He had not yet been charged. Wallis did not trouble himself to set me right. ‘Bruno thought he had found a place to shelter, and to hide. He was wrong. Luck was on our side when he was unable to leave the scene of the crime.’
‘Handcuffs are unnecessary and will make it impossible for him to be nursed satisfactorily.’
‘The man is a vagrant, an intruder, with enough circumstantial evidence for him to be charged with murder. I recommend that you reserve your compassion for a more worthy recipient.’
‘He is not well enough to have given a statement. The man is hard-pressed to utter half a dozen words.’
‘Sometimes half a dozen words are enough.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Your comments are noted. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have much to attend to.’
It would have been a waste of my breath to argue. I stood. So did he.
‘One point, Mrs Shackleton, that you may be able to clarify.’
‘Yes?’
‘The valuable library item you picked up after you uncovered the unfortunate Dr Potter.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘Gothic Ornament. Where precisely was it, if you can recall?’
‘Not far from Dr Potter’s feet.’
‘And it was you who telephoned for the police?’
‘Yes.’
‘And to the Leeds Club, for Mr Castle?’
‘No. That was Mr Lennox. He rightly thought that as library president, Mr Castle should be informed. Also, Mr Castle gave Mr Lennox some support. You see, Mr Lennox’s wife died a year ago and he is still easily upset.’
‘So I understand.’ He nodded briefly. ‘Thank you for coming, and if you’ll fill in the form…’
Did he think that Umberto had attempted to steal the book, and Dr Potter had intervened?
‘May I ask a question, Inspector?’
‘Of course.’
‘I believe Dr Potter was hit before he was strangled. Was the only wound to his head, or was there some other blow?’
‘That is not something that needs to be known. Not yet, anyway.’
‘You see, Dr Potter was tall as a top shelf. Mr Bruno would struggle to reach a taper on a mantelpiece, and is as weak as a fallen sparrow.’
‘It is not height that matters, Mrs Shackleton, but posture – the position of those concerned.’ Inspector Wallis stroked his chin. ‘You said in your statement that when you and Dr Potter spoke, he seemed to believe something may have gone missing. What did he say, precisely?’
‘It was less in his words than his attitude. He was put out by the article about the library’s valuable stock being on display. He was enthusiastic about the possibility of the library removing to new premises where the stock may be more secure.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Nothing that I didn’t tell Constable Hodge. Dr Potter wanted me to read an article in a magazine he had written as an undergraduate, because it concerned the ghost, and a different disappearance.’
‘Different to…?’
‘He thought a library assistant had disappeared. But I don’t believe there is a mystery. I’m sure Mr Lennox can explain her departure.’
‘And did you read the magazine?’
‘No. I took it home and there has not been time since.’
‘I’d like to see it, please.’
Our talk was at an end. I had given him a better account of what happened in the library than anyone else, of that I felt sure. Why did he not budge?
‘What about Umberto Bruno?’
‘Nothing changes. He is our main suspect.’
He walked me to the door.
Outside in the corridor, I leaned against the wall, attempting to regain my composure. I felt like smashing the glass in his office door.
As I stood there, thinking what to do next, I heard him speak into the telephone. ‘Have Umberto Bruno brought in and put in a cell.’ There was a pause. The person at the other end must have had the temerity to question the order. In an impatient voice, Wallis said, ‘I am aware of that. Have our own doctor examine him.’
Oh no you don’t. I would not let him do it, but how was I to stop him? Who could I turn to? I hurried down the broad stairway. My father is a superintendent of the West Riding force, he would be able to talk to his Leeds counterpart. In theory, that is. In practice he would not do it. He would say that it was not his concern, it would be undue interference, and the man on the spot must make the decisions.
Then it struck me. Having given houseroom to the man’s monkey, why not do the same for his master? I could smuggle Umberto from the infirmary, abduct him and take him home; but how, without being seen?
Slowly I retraced my footsteps down the Town Hall stairs and out into the dismal street.
Why did this matter so much to me?
Because I felt pity for the man. Because I believed him to be innocent. Because during my wartime nursing there were so many men for whom I could do nothing. Because I felt devastated by the death of Dr Potter. I was unable to save them. I would save Umberto Bruno.
I had left my car at the entrance to the infirmary. I hurried back there now. Instead of making things better for my patient, I had made his situation worse. If the poor man was taken to the cells, he would die. Of course he would die. Case closed. There would be no need for the police to look for anyone else, and it would save the expense of a trial.
Perhaps it would be kinder to let him die. That might be preferable to wrongful imprisonment, a perverted trial and the rope.
Once back in the infirmary, I sought out matron, Millicent Formby. We knew each other from when she was a ward sister at St Mary’s during the war. At that time, I thought of her as an odd old stick, though she was then not many years older than I am now. In the end, when a couple of nurses wilted under the strain and I did not, we rubbed along very well and came to understand each other.
I had to wait about twenty minutes, until she had finished ward rounds.
Finally, I found her, pen in hand, at her desk.
‘Matron?’
‘Kate! I heard you were here.’
‘Hello, Millicent. I didn’t know you were so close by. I live just up the road.’
‘I know.’
‘You never got in touch.’
She shrugged and smiled. I understood what she meant. We had not been great chums, though what had seemed a huge difference between us then had diminished with time.
‘Millicent, you will know that Umberto Bruno has been charged with murder, and handcuffed.’
‘I saw on
my ward rounds just now. I’ve contacted the hospital chairman to protest. I have asked that the order be countermanded and the handcuffs removed.’
‘Thank you. That’s a relief.’
‘Let’s wait and see. The police may put up a good argument for keeping them.’
‘I don’t believe he did it.’
‘Of course you don’t. You always saw the best in people.’
‘That was then. I’ve changed. But I’ll swear that this man was too ill to do what he is accused of.’
‘I don’t know whether the man is guilty or not, but I won’t have a patient handcuffed on my wards. We’re not the Workhouse Infirmary where some beds are not much more than a holding cell.’
‘There’s something else. Inspector Wallis has ordered him to be taken to the cells.’
‘That’s madness.’
‘It’s vindictiveness because I tried to interfere. Can you stop it?’
‘I can try. They won’t be able to move him if the doctor and I say no. We would have to be over-ruled by the board and they won’t manage to meet before tomorrow afternoon, possibly tomorrow evening.’
‘That’s no time at all.’
‘If you think the man is innocent, try and persuade someone to believe you, and soon. Do you know a good solicitor?’
Fourteen
Did I know a good solicitor, Millicent, the matron, had asked. Yes I did: Mr Castle, library president. If anyone could persuade Inspector Wallis to show commonsense and compassion, it would be Edwin Castle, Esquire, one of the most influential men in the city. I knew where I would find him on this Sunday morning: the mayors’ nest.
Mill Hill Chapel in City Square is an attractive place of worship, with a long dissenting tradition, the spot where men of importance, including mayors past and present, worship and hobnob, so earning the chapel its nickname. Built in the perpendicular style, it possesses some fine stained-glass windows. On this particular Sunday morning, a row of expensive motor cars stood parked outside. I left my car on the other side of City Square and crossed back to the pleasant courtyard, its trees now almost bare of leaves.
The service was already underway, and with a packed congregation. I slipped in at the back. A well-dressed man in a good coat and kid gloves slid along the pew to make room for me.
Death of an Avid Reader Page 11