Leaving the infirmary building was easy. No one challenged me, including the policeman who sat in the chair by the ward entrance, and the porter who did not look up from his newspaper.
Back in the car, I tore a page from my notebook and wrote, ‘Mr Umberto Bruno, gravely ill patient at the General Infirmary, requests a visit from Father Daley.’ I folded my card inside, and set off for St Patrick’s on York Road.
I brushed away the thought that Umberto would never come to trial. Inspector Wallis’s mistake would go unchallenged.
Not if I could help it.
Seventeen
Having put in two night shifts at the infirmary and had very little sleep on the third night, I still expected to wake at the usual time on Monday, but slept late and stared bleary-eyed at the clock. I slid from the bed and pulled on my dressing gown.
Gingerly, I made my way downstairs. This was Mrs Sugden’s day for removing all the stair rods and setting them on the kitchen table. The smell of Brasso filled the air.
She was annoyingly cheerful. ‘I’ve lit a fire in the dining room. I expect Mr Sykes will be coming round with replies to your advertisements.’ She put a teapot on the table, between stair rods.
I poured. ‘I hope he won’t come before I have a cup of tea.’
‘You needed your beauty sleep.’ She produced a letter. ‘This came by first post.’
I carried my tea and the letter into the dining room. The envelope was written in a neat hand and postmarked Manchester. The inside address was Wythenshawe, causing me a shiver of anticipation as I realised that it was from Sophia’s old school friend, the English teacher.
Dear Mrs Shackleton
Regarding your enquiry about my school friend Sophia Wells, I have not heard from her in a long time. My letter to her at the Compton Road address came back, returned to sender. I am disappointed that she has not let me have a new address and so cannot help you. I only know she found work in a library. That was the last I heard.
If you see her, please ask her to write and say I am still at my teaching post and still taking care of my sick mother.
Yours truly,
Bella Davidson
I put the letter on the dining room table, to show to Sykes as Mrs Sugden brought me a steaming dish of porridge. The Goldilocks complaint: my porridge was too hot.
I took out the file, containing the photograph of Sophia, aged three, and Lady Coulton in her twenties.
Turning over Miss Davidson’s letter, I picked up a pencil and jotted down what I had learned. Children almost always grew taller than their parents. Sophia would be above average height, with auburn hair, if she took after her mother. She had been suspected of stealing at school, and reacted furiously, so good at sticking up for herself. If she had continued as neighbours remembered her as a child, she was ready to roll up her sleeves and get stuck in. Now I knew that she most probably worked in a library. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she had mentioned the name of the library to Bella Davidson?
I took a telegram form from the filing cabinet and copied down Miss Davidson’s name and address, adding this message:
THANKS FOR LETTER STOP AT WHICH LIBRARY IS SOPHIA EMPLOYED?
Shackleton
Mrs Sugden appeared, followed by the monkey.
‘You haven’t eaten your porridge.’
‘I’m letting it cool.’ I pushed the picture of Lady Coulton towards her. ‘Take a look at this photograph.’
She polished her spectacles on her apron. ‘She’s well-to-do.’
‘Don’t pay attention to her dress or hairstyle. Look at her face and the way she stands, the wave in her hair. Does she remind you of anyone?’
‘Is her hair the colour of this tint?’
‘Yes, reddish gold.’
‘Well there’s one person she puts me in mind of.’
‘Who?’
‘The young woman who works at the library. I’ve returned your books to her.’
‘Which one?’ I tried to suppress my excitement. It seemed too much to hope that the very person I was searching for had been employed at my own library until recently and would easily be found.
‘Which book?’
‘No! Which assistant?’
‘Well there’s only one that looks like this. I don’t know her name.’
‘Miss Montague.’
‘If you say so, you know them best.’
‘If you can bear to tear yourself away from polishing stair rods, I’d like you to take a telegram to the post office please, and pay for a reply.’
‘I’ll do it right away. Is there owt else, because if not I’ll run a few errands while I’m out.’
‘No, that will do. Thank you.’
‘Get that porridge down you. You look terrible. State you’re in, you’d blow away in a strong wind.’
‘Mrs Sugden, you are not required to be my mother’s eyes, ears and deputy.’
‘Well she asks me, when she telephones and you’re not here. Am I supposed to lie?’
‘Stretch the truth. I am very well, thank you.’
‘And don’t forget the stair rods are out. Your mother will blame me if you take a tumble and break your neck.’
Dutifully, I ate my porridge, went upstairs to wash and dress, and only just in time.
Sykes gave his familiar rap on the door.
I went down and let him in. He took several envelopes from his pocket and followed me into the dining room. ‘Responses to our newspaper announcements.’
‘Anything definite?’ I knew by his face there was nothing definite, no reply from Mrs Bradshaw or Miss Wells saying, Here I am!
‘Early days, so I’m not downhearted, but take a look. We have one helpful reply, a try-on from a con artist, and a nasty note from a poison pen merchant.’
The first letter had the address 27 Britannia Place, New Wortley. It read,
Dear Sir,
For information concerning whom you seek, send an unmarked ten shilling postal order to the above address by return post. You will not be disappointed.
J Willoughby.
‘It might be genuine.’
Sykes snorted. ‘J Willoughby is getting his bid in early, while thinking of a good story that will extract a few quid from a muggins.’
The second letter was written on ruled paper, in a round, careful hand.
29 Valley Street
Leeds
Dear Sir
In answer to your advertisement in the paper, I know of a woman who came from Scarborough to Leeds before the war. Her husband worked in the tailoring trade, Ernest Bradshaw. I worked alongside him at Sumries Tailoring. He referred to his wife most fondly. She was a widow and had a daughter. He went to work at Burton’s which was closer to his home but sadly met with a bad accident.
Yours faithfully,
Arnold Hepplewhite
This was encouraging. ‘Mr Hepplewhite is genuine. What he says about Mr Bradshaw’s accident is true.’
Sykes nodded. ‘He sounds a straight kind of chap, willing to do a good turn for his old workmate’s family. I’ll see if he can come up with anything else, as long as I can convince him I’m not a debt collector.’
‘You could be mistaken for a bailiff.’
‘Thank you. That makes a change from my looking like a policeman. I’ll pay him a visit. He may have heard gossip through the trade, what happened to his workmate’s widow, but given that I’ve already drawn blanks around the previous address in Compton Road, it’s not highly promising.’
He was right about the third note being a poison pen letter. It read simply, I knew Sophia Mary Ann Wells at school. She was a thief and a liar. She fooled some people but not me.
I tried to sound hopeful. ‘We only placed the announcements on Friday. People will go on reading the papers for weeks.’
‘Maybe you’re right. We could have a lot of folk chasing a reward by the time next week’s out.’ He set the poisonous letter aside and put the others in his inside pocket. ‘Oh and I went to Ba
rnbow this morning, to see whether I could glean any information about Jennifer Bradshaw. No luck, I’m afraid. They act as though there’s a still a war on and treated me like an enemy agent asking for military secrets.’
I handed him the letter from Bella Davidson. ‘This came from the schoolfriend. She says Sophia took a job in a library. Mrs Sugden is sending a telegram to ask if Bella knows which library, because I have a theory.’
‘Oh?’
‘I know it sounds far-fetched and too much of a coincidence, but I have begun to think she worked in the Leeds Library until very recently. She’s the same age, carries herself well, and has a look of Lady Coulton.’
‘That sounds too good to be true. But why only “think”, surely you can be definite about something like that.’
‘The library assistant’s name is Marian Montague.’
‘Well then how can it be her?’
‘Sophia called herself Mary Ann, that’s almost Marian. Some girls like to play about with different names. Perhaps her mother married a man called Montague and she took the name.’
‘I’ll go the register office and see if I can find out whether Jennifer Bradshaw did remarry, and if so what her name is now.’ He took out his notebook. ‘When did Marian Montague leave the library, and why?’
‘She left not long since, but I don’t know why. I’ll enquire today.’
Sykes looked at the poisonous note accusing Sophia of theft. ‘I wonder if there’s any truth in this?’
‘She was accused of stealing a comb at school. I don’t believe we should take that seriously.’
‘If I were deciding to follow a life of crime, I’d apply for work in a bank, not a library.’
‘There have been rumours about books going missing from the library. Some of them are valuable.’
Our conversation was cut short by the ringing of the telephone.
I went to answer. ‘Kate Shackleton speaking.’
‘Mrs Shackleton, this is Jane Coulton.’
‘Lady Coulton.’ I had a sudden feeling of guilt, as though I had not been trying hard enough.
‘Any developments?’
‘Not yet, but we have excellent leads.’
‘Good.’ There was a long pause. ‘I know it is less than a week since we spoke.’ It would be a week tomorrow. I waited. Perhaps she had some other idea that might speed up our search. ‘When we met, I told you that a certain person was very ill.’
‘Yes.’ She had said Lord Coulton was seriously ill. Had he died?
‘That was not entirely true. That person is in reasonable health. The one who is ill is his wife.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry.’
‘Yes.’ Her voice was rueful, slightly good-humoured. ‘So am I of course. And what I did not want to say, but must, is that the doctors hold out no hope.’
She waited, but I could not think what to say, except, ‘Oh…’
‘So you see, there is some urgency. I asked if they thought it would be a year, or a few months. It may be months, but it is more likely to be weeks. It is only fair that I should tell you. I could not bring myself to do so when we met.’
‘Thank you for telling me. We will redouble our efforts.’
‘Please do. Goodbye, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Goodbye.’
I felt as if the floor might give way beneath me. She thought I did not care, that I was not doing everything to find her daughter, and it was true. I had spent the weekend at the bedside of an organ grinder.
What if it had been my birth mother, wanting to see me for the first and last time before she died?
I dragged myself back into the dining room, feeling that I was the one who had been given a death sentence.
Sykes looked up. ‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘That was Lady Coulton. What a bombshell she has dropped. She has only weeks to live.’
Sykes looked, waiting for me to say more. When I did not, he said, ‘What’s the matter, and when did she find out?’
‘I don’t know, but she knew when we met that she was ill, and concealed it.’ I dropped into the chair. ‘We need to find her daughter.’
‘Why didn’t she tell you when you met?’
‘Perhaps confiding about Sophia took all her energy and determination. I feel dreadful, and stupid for not realising she was ill.’
‘Poor woman.’
‘I mentioned someone followed her to and from the club.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought it must be one of the staff, spying for her husband. Now I suspect the man was looking out for her, probably fearing she may collapse on the short walk.’
‘Then she’s brave.’
‘What a performance. It must have been a terrible strain to hide her condition. I can’t bear the thought that we may fail her.’
Eighteen
The hessian bags filled with Dr Potter’s library books hung heavily on my arms as I climbed the library stairs. I hoped Mrs Carmichael would be at the counter because I did not want to upset one of the younger members of staff.
Of course who was at the counter but Miss Sturgeon, a slightly nervous, old-fashioned young woman who has worked here for a couple of months. She wore a grey skirt and black cardigan, with her usual spotless and crisply ironed high-necked white blouse, an antique gold locket at her throat. She recently bobbed her almost-black hair, perhaps in an attempt to look modern. Miss Sturgeon is one of the assistants accused by Miss Merton of revelling in stories about the ghost.
Fortunately, someone came in behind me so I simply put the bags of books behind the counter and said, ‘I’ll speak to Mrs Carmichael about these.’
‘All right, Mrs Shackleton. I’ll tell her.’
I walked through to the adjoining room
More seats than usual were occupied. News of Friday night’s events had spread. Readers remained quiet yet watchful, alert to the slightest sound: a clearing of the throat, the rustle of a newspaper. Usually people in this room are lost in words. Now they were lost for words, waiting for an explanation of the untimely death of one of their number.
I glanced at a newspaper, and then became aware of Miss Sturgeon, hovering nearby. She whispered, ‘You were here on Friday, Mrs Shackleton?’
I nodded and led us into the corridor.
She gulped. ‘Mr Lennox won’t say much. I feel so nervous when I’m here alone on these dark days. Poor Dr Potter. To think, I was up here on Friday, and he down there in the basement … What happened?’
If Mr Lennox had thought it wise to be sparse with information, I had better not say too much.
‘It will all come out in time. So you saw Dr Potter on Friday?’
‘Yes, when you and he came in at the same time, just before ten. No one saw him after that. I was on the counter all day. We had hardly any readers in the afternoon because of the bad weather.’ She closed her eyes and lowered her head. ‘It’s so horrible. First we are haunted by the ghost, and then a death.’
‘Miss Sturgeon, we are not haunted. This is an old building. Sometimes there are unexplained noises.’
‘There is a ghost. I think that’s why Miss Montague left.’
So Miss Montague had gone without fanfare or the opportunity for our stalwart Miss Heaton to take a collection for a leaving present.
‘You need no longer worry about the ghost. Father Bolingbroke saw to that.’
‘I suppose we should all be reassured, even though…’
‘Even though what?’
Her whisper became a mere movement of the lips. ‘He is a Roman Catholic.’
‘Catholics are very good at that kind of thing. They have had a lot of practice.’
Her look told me that she was not reassured.
I wondered what had brought about this resurgence of interest in the ghost. After all, it was over forty years since his first appearance. But if youthful imagination was to conjure him again, this season of restless souls and spectral fogs would prove the best and worst of times for a haunting.<
br />
‘When did Miss Montague leave?’
‘About three weeks ago.’
Although our brief conversation was muted, a stooped, elderly gentleman passing through the corridor glared at us, clearing his throat to indicate ostentatious disapproval.
‘Where is Mr Lennox?’ I mouthed.
‘In the committee room.’
On my way, I saw Father Bolingbroke, in the new room, poring over Thomas Aquinas. I tried not to make a sound, but perhaps he is sensitive to another’s presence. He turned and gave me a look of great concern before glancing about, to ensure we were alone, and no one would shush him. ‘Mrs Shackleton, tell me, have you recovered from your ordeal?’
‘Fully, thank you.’
‘Thank the Lord.’
I could not resist, because to tell the truth I was a little annoyed by the way he rushed off with no thought for Lennox, or for me. ‘Do you think we accomplished our task of sending the ghost on his travels, Father Bolingbroke, in spite of our dreadful discovery?’
‘We must trust in God. I did everything I could. May God forgive the poor sinner who murdered a blameless man.’
‘Umberto Bruno is innocent until proven guilty.’
‘I believe he has confessed the crime, which is to the good of his soul.’
I don’t quite know what expression I plastered on my face, but I took my leave and walked to the committee room where I tapped on the door.
After a moment, Mr Lennox opened the door.
He and Mrs Carmichael were seated at the long oak table. It was piled with damaged books. After glancing at them, noticing the age and the covers, I realised that here were the volumes that had fallen and covered Dr Potter’s body.
In the centre of the table was Pugin’s Gothic Ornament.
‘Good morning.’ My manner was a little breezy because I wanted to be sure that no look of mine betrayed that I had seen them together, in their dressing gowns, over the Sunday morning breakfast table at Mr Lennox’s flat. ‘Sorry to interrupt.’
Mrs Carmichael gave a small smile. ‘Some tasks warrant the occasional interruption.’
‘That’s quite all right.’ Mr Lennox pulled out a chair for me. ‘I am glad you are here. I worried about you over the weekend. I felt I let you down on Friday.’
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