Death of an Avid Reader

by Frances Brody

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s only natural I suppose.’

  ‘But more of a shock to you?’

  ‘Perhaps it will hit me later.’

  ‘Sophia, I’m adopted, too. I didn’t meet my birth mother until last year, though I knew about her.’

  ‘Is that true? I thought you’d been spinning Mam a yarn.’

  Mrs Wells was seated at the table, which was set with sandwiches, and cakes on a tiered stand.

  Sophia pulled out a chair for me.

  This was much more than I had hoped for.

  Mrs Wells poured tea. ‘Sophia wasn’t as shocked as I thought she would be.’

  Sophia shrugged. ‘I’ve picked up hints that you didn’t know you gave, and Dad too. He was worse at trying not to tell me why I didn’t take after either of you. Of course a lot of girls imagine they must be from a different family, and that they don’t fit.’ Mrs Wells cringed, ever so slightly. ‘Oh, I don’t mean you, Mam. We’re quite a good fit.’ She turned to me. ‘So who is this other mother? Mam hasn’t given me any details.’

  I looked at Mrs Bradshaw. She must have become so used to guarding her secret. Suddenly I felt a little fearful. This young woman was bright and too breezy for my liking. My task was to find Sophia for Lady Coulton, not to find Lady Coulton for Sophia. Had I overstepped the mark?

  Mrs Bradshaw gave me a look that said, Go on then, you deal with it.

  ‘She is a lady with a husband and sons.’

  ‘Mam said my aunt Lily Tarpey was her nanny, so I can easily find out. If you work in a library that’s the part you most enjoy, digging about for information. It would be no trouble to me.’

  Mrs Bradshaw pushed dainty sandwiches towards me. The crusts had been cut off. At a different time of year, they would have been cucumber.

  I took one.

  ‘Take two, take three.’

  They were small. I took two. It was pickled beetroot. ‘Would you like to meet her?’

  ‘Depends on who she is, and whether she wants to meet me. Oh and don’t worry. I shan’t spread it about to the world, not for her sake, but for Mam’s.’

  I took a deep breath, and polished off a sandwich. ‘She is Lady Coulton. She lives on Cavendish Square in the centre of London. Let us try and arrange a visit.’

  ‘Good-oh. I’d like that. Will you come too, Mam?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been to London and I won’t start now. Take a slice of parkin, Mrs Shackleton.’

  I took a slice of parkin.

  ‘When will we go, Kate?’

  ‘Call her Mrs Shackleton!’

  ‘Kate will do.’

  ‘And what about your job, Sophia?’ Mrs Bradshaw asked. ‘You can’t just up and off to London like some flying duck. Who would take your place at the counter?’

  Sophia suddenly drooped. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. I was thinking of fitting in a visit to the British Museum Reading Room. We can apply for a visitor’s ticket through the library, you know, and I’ve never seen Buckingham Palace and … Oh I must go, now that you’ve said it.’ Sophia fetched a calendar from a hook on the wall. ‘I’ll ask Mr Emerson tomorrow. He’ll have seen your announcement in the paper. I’ll tell him that a distant relative is on her death bed and very badly wants to see me because…’ She turned to her mother. ‘What else might I say?’

  ‘You are the niece of her much-loved nanny, and she has heard that you are a fatherless child.’

  ‘That’s perfect, Mam, like something out of a novel.’

  I gave her my card. ‘Let me know what Mr Emerson says, and we will try and arrange a date.’

  Mrs Bradshaw walked me to the door and saw me into the street. ‘She’s fed up with her life at the library. She thinks this will change her world, but of course it won’t. Nothing ever does. You take your world with you, wherever you go. She’s yet to learn that most of the time life is a slap in the chops with a wet kipper.’

  Sophia bounded through from the house, a sudden excitement in her voice. ‘Kate, did Lady Coulton tell you who my father was?’

  I could truthfully tell her that she did not.

  Mrs Bradshaw met my eye. Her look said, No good will come of this.

  I wished them a cheerful goodbye, saying that I looked forward to hearing when Sophia would be able to arrange time off from the library for good behaviour.

  Sykes was waiting in the motor. He stepped out so that I could shuffle into the passenger seat. ‘You should have that wrist properly looked at.’

  ‘The bandage needs tightening, that’s all.’

  ‘Inspector Wallis should charge Edwin Castle, Esquire with assault and battery as well as murder.’

  ‘Perhaps I was one of the sprats the inspector used to catch his mackerel.’

  As we drove back to Leeds, bonfires were being lit in back streets, in fields and on waste ground. We paused to look at a fire as Guy Fawkes was hoisted atop the pile of branches and rubbish. Children were outdoing each other with their fireworks: Catherine Wheels spinning their stars, Roman Candles shooting to heaven, and Jumping Jacks leaping where they pleased, sending screaming youngsters scurrying in every direction.

  All the way home, the sky turned red, shot through with golden sparks.

  Thirty-One

  The train journey to London needed to be carefully coordinated since Sophia and I were setting out from different stations but could join forces in Wakefield. There was very little time for planning. She must have been formidably persuasive because on the day after my visit she telephoned to say that the librarian would allow her Saturday and Monday off. She seemed peeved that it was not longer. I thought it generous at such short notice, especially since he would let her leave early on Friday, in time to catch the 5.53 p.m. from Wakefield, arriving King’s Cross 9.25 p.m. I flicked through my railway guide as we spoke. That train had a restaurant car. She would like the novelty of eating on the train, and it would be a good time to prepare her, warn her not to blow in on her mother like a storm.

  Several times, I wrote and rewrote a telegram to Lady Coulton:

  LADY POCKLINGTON’S NIECE MRS SHACKLETON IN TOWN TO PAY HER RESPECTS STOP BRINGING NANNY TARPEY’S NIECE

  Try again:

  MRS SHACKLETON IN TOWN AND WILL CALL STOP NANNY TARPEY’S NIECE WISHES TO PAY RESPECTS

  Finally, I picked up the telephone. Lady Coulton had said that her maid was old and deaf, so just the kind of person who might rush to answer. Fortunately, I spoke to the housekeeper.

  ‘Hello, this is Mrs Shackleton, Lady Pocklington’s niece. I shall be in London this weekend and hope to call and tell her ladyship about some progress on a matter that interests her, and to bring a young lady to meet her.’

  There was a long pause. I guessed that the housekeeper was wondering how much I knew, what to divulge, and whether to put me off. In the end, she simply said that she would pass on the message.

  What had begun to seem impossible was now almost accomplished. I was glad that we were to travel right away, before Sophia’s feet turned cold. Of all the missing persons I had found, this case felt like both triumph and disaster. A triumph because there had been the race against time, and a disaster because mother and daughter would have no future, and because there would be no question now of my telling Lady Coulton that I had stumbled upon Sophia’s unfortunate father.

  * * *

  On Saturday, just before noon, we sat in Lady Coulton’s drawing room, waiting. Sophia, who had been the complete chatterbox on the train journey, was now silenced by the grandeur of her surroundings. She sat erect on a brocade-covered chair, her ankles touching, her eyes darting about the room to take in the rich furnishings, paintings and the ornate fireplace.

  Her voice became almost a whisper. ‘What a lot of room they have.’

  ‘Yes. You wouldn’t think it from the outside. All the houses round here are like this. Don’t let it overwhelm you.’

  ‘What must I call her?’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just say, ho
w do you do, and see what she says. She will put you at your ease.’

  ‘Is she coming down? You said she was ill. I thought we’d see her in her bed.’

  ‘I saw her early last week. I now realise why she didn’t come until afternoon, and what an effort it must have cost her.’

  ‘Then should we not have come this afternoon?’

  ‘No. Calls are made in the morning. If she did not want to see us, we would have been told she was not at home.’

  ‘She’ll be disappointed in me.’

  ‘Why would she be? You’ve made your own way in the world, Sophia. Anyone with an ounce of sense will see that.’

  We did not have much longer to wait.

  The door opened. A maid stood sentry until Lady Coulton had stepped inside and then closed the door behind her.

  Even in these last ten days, she had lost weight. Her face looked drawn, but she smiled a greeting.

  We stood. Lady Coulton came to me first and took my hand. ‘Thank you. I had not much hope, but you have fulfilled what I hardly dared dream of.’ She hesitated. ‘Sophia knows?’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Wells, now Mrs Bradshaw, told her, just yesterday.’

  Leaning on the arm of the sofa, she lowered herself gently into the seat. ‘Sophia, come and sit by me.’

  ‘I’ll leave you alone. Excuse me.’

  Lady Coulton looked up. ‘The butler knows we are not to be disturbed.’

  In the hall, the butler hovered. He gave the slightest of bows. ‘Her ladyship informs me that you have a great interest in plants and would like to visit the garden room.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  As he led the way, I realised that this was the man who had followed Lady Coulton to and from the Cavendish Club last week, not to spy, but to help her if she stumbled.

  The garden room was a space of utter tranquillity, the walls a pale green and the ceiling ornate and cream. Ferns and plants of every description filled the room. It led onto a garden with miniature fountains that even in November looked like spring, a fairytale place from a story book, creating the feeling that if I closed my eyes, it might disappear. I do not know whether ten minutes passed, or an hour. Time stood still.

  The butler returned. ‘Her ladyship has ordered tea, madam.’

  I followed him back to the drawing room.

  Lady Coulton stood as I came in. ‘Give me your arm, Mrs Shackleton.’

  I did so. She leaned on me rather heavily as we walked to the foot of the stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, she took hold of the banister. ‘I can manage from here. Good days and bad, you see, and I have medicine that sees me through.’ Suddenly she smiled. ‘Sophia works in a library.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She whispered, ‘She was conceived in a library. I almost divulged, but it is not the kind of thing the young need to know. Goodbye, Mrs Shackleton. Kate.’

  ‘Goodbye, Lady Coulton.’

  I watched as she climbed the stairs, realising that I was holding my breath, fearing she might fall as she took step by painful step. A nurse came onto the landing to meet her.

  Slowly, I walked back to the drawing room.

  There was tea and a plate of cakes on the low table.

  I glanced at Sophia. ‘I expect you should pour.’

  ‘My hands will shake.’

  ‘At least you have two good wrists. Go on. Try.’

  She picked up the teapot and poured with the greatest of ease.

  ‘To the manner born.’

  She gave a wry smile. ‘No such luck!’

  We drank our tea slowly.

  She took out a locket. ‘My father gave her this.’

  ‘It’s pretty.’

  ‘Yes. He was killed in the Great War. He was a student of philosophy.’

  ‘Ah.’ So that was what Lady Coulton had chosen to say. A wise move.

  Sophia sighed. ‘She asked me what we would do for the rest of the weekend. I told her I want to see the British Museum and…’ Her voice choked a little. ‘I asked her my father’s philosophy.’

  Pretending not to see that she was close to tears, I spoke of where we would go next and where we would go after that and how it would be best to change our shoes before setting off.

  It would not do to cry here and now. There would be plenty of time for weeping.

  I was glad we appeared to be at ease when a few moments later the butler entered.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I am instructed by her ladyship’s man of business to hand you this envelope.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  When he had gone, Sophia said, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not now.’

  We returned to the Cavendish Club and put on comfortable shoes for our walking tour.

  She came to my room and tapped on the door. ‘I’m ready.’

  I opened the envelope. It was a brief note of thanks and a cheque for two thousand guineas, one thousand guineas for Sophia, five hundred for Mrs Wells and five hundred for me. How gratifying that she trusted me so implicitly as to make the cheque out to me, and most generous of her. I wish my second thought had not been that now I would have to render tax on two thousand guineas.

  It was a great pleasure to see the sights of London through the eyes of Sophia, who had never been farther than the distance between Scarborough and Bingley.

  We had just finished breakfast on Monday morning, our bags packed and the taxi cab ordered, when a young lad brought a note from Lady Coulton’s butler.

  With deep regret, I must inform you that Lady Coulton passed peacefully in her sleep at 3 a.m. this morning.

  Thirty-Two

  The day for the funerals of Umberto Bruno and Dr Potter broke fine and clear, which was a great relief. I hate a funeral on a rainy day when dug earth turns wet and clay heavy. At Killingbeck Cemetery, I watched the coffin of Umberto Bruno lowered into his grave in the Italian section of the burial ground. Father Daley from St Patrick’s read the prayers. PC Hodge and the ward sister, Miss O’Malley, were there, and a clutch of Italian women in their black dresses and shawls, holding rosaries. Two old men without overcoats came dangerously close to the edge of the grave.

  Afterwards, the Italians stayed to talk to the priest. I slipped away with PC Hodge and Sister O’Malley, offering them a lift to town.

  Dr Potter’s funeral, that same afternoon, was an altogether grander affair, the university chapel being packed to capacity with his colleagues, students and former students. Mrs Carmichael and several library proprietors attended, including Miss Heaton who had taken a collection for a wreath.

  Professor Merton gave a glowing oration, praising his colleague’s intellect, his common touch and his popularity. The good Dr Potter would have proved a brilliant vice chancellor, Professor Merton said. He glanced with what might have been deep sorrow and a touch of malevolence towards the coffin of the man who had evaded the university’s calling and left the mantle of unwanted promotion to grace his own morose shoulders.

  In slow procession, the funeral cortege made the journey from the university to Lawnswood Cemetery.

  Dignitaries, colleagues and students strode behind the hearse that was drawn by plumed black horses.

  Close to the rear, I fell into step with Mr Morgan, too modest, self-effacing and cautious to claim his rightful place.

  After the burial, we walked to the gates together. He had not been invited to the funeral tea. We spoke briefly. I asked him about his plans.

  He rocked slightly on his heels. ‘It is that I am staying on in the cottage and I am to take a post as university porter.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  ‘Yes. It will be better than the alternative of teaching the reluctant young on an hourly basis, and it will leave leisure time for working with Clever Archie on his numbers, to continue my master’s work.’

  This seemed a good moment to talk to him about Percy. ‘You remember I told you about the Capuchin monkey Dr Potter was to have brought home, as a pupil.�
��

  ‘Ah yes, the scheme of work concerning counting by digits, so neatly written. And how is the creature now?’

  ‘He is well, and with me, but I don’t want to keep him. Do you think he may be more at home in a zoo?’

  A mad light filled Morgan’s eyes. ‘I will take him, if you please. See you, another porter will move into the cottage, so we can manage the rent. Blenkinsop has a lady wife and a young orphaned grandson, so the monkey would not be left alone during the day. My fellow porter and his wife are animal lovers or I would not have agreed to them coming in the vicinity of Clever Archie, Dunce and Polynesia, crippling rent or no crippling rent. My master willed the animals to me, into my care, along with his Bible which you know about.’

  We shook hands on the matter. I would bring Percy to meet Mr Morgan, and see whether they liked the look of each other.

  ‘And please to give me news of the librarian’s funeral. I should like to be there, to represent my late master and pay my respects to Mr Lennox.’

  He was about to walk away when Professor Merton approached. ‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Shackleton. It was a moving service.’

  ‘It was indeed.’ Morgan was about to slink away when I detained him. ‘Professor, have you met Mr Morgan, Dr Potter’s manservant? Mr Morgan this is Professor Merton.’

  ‘How do you do, Mr Morgan.’

  ‘How do you do, Professor.’

  ‘Potter spoke highly of you.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. It is most gratifying that he ever mentioned me.’

  ‘Well he did. Now you must come to the funeral tea.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream…’

  ‘Well I would dream. Come now, no arguments.’

  Morgan smiled with pride as Professor Merton guided him away.

  When I turned to go my own way, I almost bumped into Inspector Wallis.

  ‘Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Inspector.’

  ‘A sad day.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Did you find the persons you were looking for, Mrs Bradshaw and Miss Wells?’

  ‘Yes, I found them, thank you.’

  ‘My driver is over there. May I give you a lift? We’re going your way.’

  I accepted his offer. We sat beside each other in silence on the journey back.