‘Thank you.’
I hesitated, wondering whether to leave my card, and then fished one from my satchel and handed it to ‘O’ legs.
She looked at it upside down before passing it to the thin woman who took it carefully between finger and thumb, but said nothing.
I waited for a moment, but they had decided on silence as the group response. ‘Well thank you.’ I felt awkward, stupid and out of place as I walked away.
* * *
Fortunately the roads were not too busy. I drove along Briggate to North Street passing the Dispensary that is shaped like a battleship. This was where the poor took themselves with their broken limbs and damaged eyes. I passed the park they called the Jews’ park, and the tailoring shops, butchers, greengrocers, pawnbrokers and engineering works. It was my guess that if you worked on North Street, it must feel like the centre of the universe.
The blundering tram made its straight way before curving onto Roundhay Road. I followed it. There is something both reassuring and stifling about tram routes and timetables. They will take you only in the allowed directions; no going off the rails.
What I found dispiriting about whole swathes of Leeds was the sameness of the brick-built back-to-back houses, the cobbled streets and the dismal greyness that hung over lives. There was a feeling that this was it. Once locked in the greyness, there would be no escape to a greener place, to a broader life, to possibilities.
Perhaps Marian Montague had wanted more. Had she really stolen valuable books? ‘No one ever looks at them,’ she had told herself. ‘I’m clever. I can earn a little money.’
Lady Coulton’s daughter might well have an inborn sense of entitlement, and the acquisitiveness of the English aristocracy coursing through her veins.
Someone who had aspired to be a counter assistant in a library must have a rich inner life, an imagination, a thread of consciousness that took her out of time and space, to wilder or more romantic places.
It was hard to make up my mind who or what I was searching for: the truth about a murder; a missing daughter; a thief; a wronged young woman.
The stench of Sheepscar Dye Works almost choked me. Now I must make a right turn, onto Holroyd Street.
Once upon a time, I hardly knew how to find my way around Headingley. Now I knew the streets of Leeds so well that I could run a taxicab service if required.
Back Enfield Street was far more salubrious than Danby Court. The end house, Marian’s address, was the most impressive in the street. It was surrounded by a two-foot-high brick wall, topped by a foot-high fence. To the left of the gate was a dilapidated stable, converted into a garage; some sign of prosperity here. To the right of a green-painted door were two large sash windows, ground floor and first floor. Above them was a narrower attic window.
I knocked on the door.
After a moment, it was opened by a broad-cheeked pleasant-looking woman in a flowered pinafore.
I apologised for disturbing her and told her my name.
‘Have you come about the room?’
‘No.’
‘Only I thought you might have seen the card in the window.’
‘I’m here because this is the address I have for Miss Marian Montague.’
‘You a friend of hers?’
‘I’m from the library where she worked.’
‘You best come in.’
I edged into the heavily furnished room, past a table and chairs, a sewing machine, dresser, and a rocker and bedchair on either side of the fireplace.
She indicated the rocker for me, and perched on the bedchair.
‘Marian came because she saw my card in the window. Eighteen months she were here and then this.’ She stood up and took a sixmo sheet of paper from behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
I took the note from her. It read:
Dear Mrs Claughton, Sorry to leave without notice. Thank you for all you have done. Marian Montague
‘When did she leave?’
‘Early one morning, a couple of weeks ago. A Saturday. Had her supper as usual the night before. I didn’t hear a sound. She must have crept out like a cat burglar.’
‘Did she take her things?’
‘Yes. Not that she had much, her clothes and such, a nice brush and comb set, some photographs, and books. She didn’t take all her books.’
‘Do you still have her books?’ I felt a shiver of apprehension. Was I about to find a stash of stolen goods?
‘Well yes, I kept them because I didn’t like to throw them out. Might you be in touch with her?’
‘I would like to be, that is why I came.’
‘Come up then. I’ll show you the room. Perhaps you’ll know some decent person who’s looking for board and lodging. Not that it’ll be available long.’
I followed her up two flights of stairs to the attic. It was furnished with a single cast-iron bedstead with brass knobs on each corner. The bed was neatly made, covered with a cream candlewick counterpane decorated with roses. On the chest of drawers stood a cheval mirror, a basin and jug and a brass candlestick. Above it were two shelves. In place of a wardrobe, someone had ingeniously fixed a rail diagonally across the corner of the room.
‘My husband put up them bookshelves especially for her.’ A note of hurt entered her voice. ‘I wouldn’t have guessed she would just go off like that.’
‘Did she give any hint, any sign of something wrong?’
Being sacked from her job would be enough, I should think, but since Mrs Claughton did not know about this I was not about to tell her.
‘She was sometimes a bit nervy. Once I heard her crying. Over some lad I guessed but as far I know she wasn’t walking out with anyone.’
‘What about family?’
‘She had a stepfather. Her mother died years ago. The lass was treading her own path through the world as best she could, and making a good fist of it I thought. My children left long ago. I was fond of Marian. I’d like to know she’s all right.’
‘You didn’t think to make any enquiries?’
‘It’s not up to me. She left the note and she was off.’
I looked at three books on her shelf, and opened each one, hoping some note or photograph might fall out, but nothing did.
‘I’ve bottomed the room. Another person might have squeezed two paying lodgers in here but that’s not my way. If there’s anyone else at your library looking for a place, tell them this is a clean house.’
‘I will.’
‘You have me worried over her now. I hope it’s not some man taken advantage of her.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well it usually is, isn’t it? Though I wouldn’t have thought it. Marian is a respectable girl. She didn’t have much money, which of us does? But she kept herself clean and tidy, kept regular hours, was happy with her job, always had her nose in a book, spent far too much on candles, ate like a bird, but was fond of custard, never had visitors or gentlemen callers, except…’
‘What?’
‘Now that I think of it, just before she left, there was this feller. He was hovering about, out there, by the wall. I didn’t like the look of him. And I never would have connected him to Marian. He looked like he was up to no good. The kind you’d imagine might be spying out a house with an open window. Not that folk round here have much to steal. Me and mine, we’re probably the best off around here but that’s not saying a lot.’
‘Can you describe this man?’
She let out a puffing sound and pulled a face. ‘He were a biggish lout, dark hair a mess, cuffs short on his long arms. Bow legs.’
‘How biggish?’
‘Five foot nine mebbe, same as my lad, bit of an apish look. Swaggered off when he saw me looking. Could be summat or nowt but I hadn’t seen him round this end before.’ She handed me Marian’s books. ‘Keep them for her. I hope you find her.’
‘Thank you.’
There were two novels, a childhood copy of The Secret Garden and Compton Mackenzie’s Carn
ival, along with a French improver. So she had abandoned French.
Her job, her lodgings, her French; what else had she given up? And who was the loutish youth up to no good? I felt a sudden sense of dread.
Whether or not Marian proved to be Lady Coulton’s daughter, it seemed that life may have dealt her a cruel blow.
Twenty
There were too many maybes and possibilities. Longing for something I could be certain of, I began the drive home.
What I wanted was for Sykes to appear, brandishing a copy of a marriage certificate. Mrs Jennifer Bradshaw married Mr Somebody or Other Montague.
What I wanted was a telegram from Sophia’s old school friend: Sophia Wells took up a post in the Leeds Library, or the Harrogate Library, or Lands End, or John o’ Groats. Anywhere, as long as it was definite.
An eerie sound greeted me as I opened the front door, odd discordant strains from the piano.
I opened the drawing room door. There sat the monkey, Percy, on the piano stool, striking keys with one paw. With the other paw, he turned the page of the sheet music, and inclined his head towards me, as if waiting for praise.
‘Clever Percy.’
Mrs Sugden had heard the front door. She came into the hall. ‘What a racket it’s making. I hid the key to the piano, but it found it. Twice. Thinks it’s a game.’
‘It doesn’t help that I put something inside the piano that belongs to the monkey’s master. That’s why it sounds so awful, and it can’t be doing the piano any good.’
I lifted the top and took out the sovereigns. Immediately, the monkey became interested and began to sniff the bag.
Mrs Sugden handed me an envelope. ‘This came, an answer to your telegram.’
‘That was quick. I thought Miss Davidson would be teaching and not see it till she got home.’ I ripped open the envelope, hardly daring to hope for some proper information at last.
The message read:
DO NOT KNOW WHAT LIBRARY EMPLOYS SOPHIA STOP TELEGRAMS FRIGHTEN MOTHER STOP
SEND NO MORE
BELLA DAVIDSON
With a deep sigh, I handed the telegram to Mrs Sugden. ‘Put that in the Coulton file folder please.’
Mrs Sugden glanced at it. ‘Oh dear, you know what’s happened don’t you? Bella was busy at her teaching. The old mother hurried all the way to the school carrying your telegram.’
‘Yes, and she’s sickly. I’ve probably finished her off.’ I flopped down in the chair. ‘I am completely at a loss. I don’t know what to do.’
‘If you’re stopping in here, I’ll fetch a shovelful of the kitchen fire through.’
‘No. I’ll keep my coat on while I think.’
‘I’ll put the kettle on.’
The monkey had lost interest in the bag of coins and was rifling through papers on top of the piano. He brought me Dr Potter’s student magazine.
‘Thank you, Percy.’
He nodded acknowledgement.
The magazine contained a couple of poems by other students, an account of a rag day and charity collection. There was a plea for contributions on topical interest, short fiction and poetry. I could see why Editor Potter made this appeal. Almost all the articles were by Horatio Erasmus Potter himself.
His account of the library ghost bore a close resemblance to Miss Merton’s version, though with a little more detail. In the year 1884 on a dark night, gas lights having been extinguished, Mr McAllister, the librarian, was alone. He saw ghostly lights in the topography room. He caught sight of a pale face and a tall dark figure. Thinking this an intruder, he fetched a revolver and made a challenge, but the ghost vanished. In one crucial aspect young Potter’s account differed from Miss Merton’s. Before the librarian saw the ghostly lights and the spirit, he had heard a noise that disturbed him, a sound emanating from the bowels of the building. There was a hint that the ghostly intrusion was a student prank. The article ended with the words, ‘Play up and own up! Who perpetrated this jolly jape on a serious and conscientious librarian? Read the next issue.’
But, according to Dr Potter, there had not been another issue, and he should know.
Perhaps Dr Potter’s livelihood had been more secure as a mathematician, but he would have made a good writer. I flicked through his pieces. Then, as later, he had a tendency towards the scurrilous. There was an article about an absconding solicitor, Mr Nelson of Nelson, Castle and Nelson. An executor in several wills, Nelson had disappeared with clients’ funds. A young secretary had mysteriously gone absent at the same time. ‘Had they run off together,’ Potter asked in his article, ‘to live a life of luxury on stolen money?’
The comment about the secretary must have been what Dr Potter was referring to when he said there was a disappearance. Perhaps he thought that Marian Montague had also eloped, carrying valuable books with her.
I wondered whether the Mr Castle in the law firm was a relation of our Mr Castle, library president.
The pages included a round-up of local news: the arrival of the fairground at Holbeck, the success of local brewers and a bicycle club outing.
I took the magazine into the dining room and placed it in my filing cabinet, out of the way of Percy.
It was no use. I had to do something more about finding Marian Montague, if only to eliminate her from enquiries, as the police would say.
Picking up the telephone, I braced myself to speak to Mrs Carmichael. It would appal her to know that I had gone in search of Marian, but that could not be helped.
She answered on the third ring.
‘Hello, I’m sorry to interrupt your afternoon. After we spoke at lunch, I became concerned about Marian Montague. I wanted to see her for myself, but she seems to have vanished. She is not at her lodgings. No one in the yard you pointed out knew anything about her.’
‘I don’t understand. Why are you concerned?’
‘It’s not something I can explain, especially over the telephone, but believe me, I have my reasons. I wonder if you might check her records and see whether there is a home address for the stepfather, or a referee who might know her whereabouts?’
She gave a great sigh, letting me know what a waste of time this was. ‘I’ll look, if that’s what you want, but I shall have to ask Mr Lennox if I am allowed to divulge the information. Are you at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘I will telephone back to you.’
I could not settle to anything else but picked up a pencil and waited by the telephone. It was just possible that Mrs Carmichael would shortly tell me that the school certificate presented by Miss Montague was in a different name: Wells.
It was a good ten minutes before the telephone rang.
‘Mrs Shackleton speaking.’
‘Hello, it’s me. A most extraordinary thing … her records have gone. I have the most particular filing system and there is nowhere else they could be. It would not surprise me if she found her way in here and destroyed them, so as not to be traced and charged with theft.’
‘I see, well thank you for looking.’
The apprehension I had felt for Marian earlier turned to a kind of fear. I was suddenly chilly, my hands like ice.
As I disconnected the call, Mr Sykes arrived. I saw straight away that he must have had about the same amount of luck as I. None.
I picked up my mittens. ‘Let’s go outside and take a turn around the wood, Mr Sykes.’
We went out of the back door and through the garden onto our well-trodden path through Batswing Wood. The air was fresh and clear, the sky surprisingly blue and hosting busy white clouds.
Sykes thrust his hands deep into his pockets. ‘There are no records of Mrs Bradshaw having remarried, not in Leeds anyway. As to answers to advertisements, I picked up two more and followed through but without success.’
I told him about the telegram from Sophia’s friend.
He sighed. ‘I’ve kept on trying regarding libraries. I visited Central Library and some local branches. No one has heard of her. It’s as if she an
d her mother have vanished into thin air.’
Someone had spread crumbs on the grass for the birds. A couple of magpies pecked greedily.
‘Mr Sykes, I told you about my hunch, my theory, that Sophia Mary Ann Wells and Marian Montague are one and the same person.’
‘Yes. It’s the kind of theory to come up with when you meet a dead end.’
‘Marian was dismissed from the Leeds Library. Being a private library it is not linked in with the municipal libraries, except on a friendly basis between librarians. Anyhow, her staff records have disappeared. Am I making too wild an assumption in presuming Marian to be Sophia Wells?’
‘Anything is possible. Even if you are wrong, it’s worrying if a lone young woman has disappeared, thief or no thief.’
‘Dr Potter was concerned about her. I see that now.’
‘Our only hope is for better answers to our newspaper advertisement.’
‘I can’t bear to just do nothing.’
‘Mrs Shackleton, tomorrow it will be a week since you saw Lady Coulton. No one could have done more than we have. It’s a matter of time.’ We slowed our steps as a robin perched, cocking its head to one side as if posing for a photograph. ‘What else can we do but wait?’ Sykes asked. ‘I would suggest having a printer run off some letters that we could send to every library in the county, but we have only the friend’s word that Sophia works in a library.’
‘I’m going to the police, about Sophia, and Marian.’
‘They’ll love you, with a murder investigation going on.’
‘What murder investigation? Inspector Wallis has found a convenient culprit.’
‘It’s too soon to feel defeated. We’re not beat yet. This isn’t like you.’
I stepped into a crunchy pile of leaves that had been protected against the rain.
‘I can’t bear to do nothing. What if while we wait and wait, Lady Coulton dies?’
Twenty-One
The corridors of police headquarters ran wick with men stomping about in an important fashion, carrying pieces of paper. I could hear the tap tap of typewriter keys and the sound of raised voices. Don’t hesitate, I told myself. Act as if you belong here and know exactly where you are going.
Death of an Avid Reader Page 16