Death of an Avid Reader
Page 29
When we reached my gate, Wallis leapt from the car, came round to my side and opened the door. He picked up a brown paper parcel.
I smiled. ‘Thank you, I can walk to the gate.’
‘Am I allowed to see the monkey?’
‘It hid the last time you came.’
‘Clever monkey. By rights it should go to the Duchy of Lancaster. Its owner died intestate so it belongs to the Crown.’
We were on the doorstep. ‘That is where you are wrong, Inspector. It was lawfully sold, remember? Dr Potter took delivery. His manservant inherits his animals.’
‘I stand corrected.’
‘Then come inside, and see whether Percy will say hello.’
His banter was hiding something, but what? I wondered about the brown paper parcel. Perhaps it contained spring bulbs. Wallis had appointed himself horticultural supplier to Catherine Shackleton.
We stepped into the hall. The inspector cleared his throat. ‘If the monkey has found a new owner, the bag of sovereigns should go to the Duchy of Lancaster.’
‘It is very noble of you, this desire to enrich the Crown. Do you really think the King needs fifty sovereigns from a poor Italian?’
‘There were only forty-nine.’
‘Oh dear. I let Percy play with them. He’s probably tucked one away.’
‘There would have to be a relative who could put in a claim for the sovereigns.’
‘Then I’m sure one can be found. There is a priest at St Patrick’s, Father Daley. He can be trusted to find the right way of channelling the money to some poor Italians.’
‘It would have to be a relative with a claim.’
‘I will pass that information to Father Daley.’
The drawing room door stood open. ‘Percy’s probably in here.’ A slight rustle of the curtains told me that Percy was hiding behind the piano.
‘Sit down, Inspector. He’ll feel less threatened. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, I won’t keep my driver waiting too long, I have a meeting.’
‘Come on, Percy.’
Percy peered round the piano.
Inspector Wallis held out a brown paper parcel. ‘Yours, I believe, Percy Bruno.’
Slowly, with his swaying knuckle-walk, Percy came closer.
The inspector put the parcel on the hearth rug.
Percy snatched it and took it back to the piano, keeping his distance.
‘What have you brought him?’
Percy ripped the brown paper, tossing aside shreds until he sat in a den of litter. He held up his harness and lead for display.
‘We found them in the basement. I’m assuming that Mr Bruno removed them, perhaps to give a demonstration of how Percy responded to commands without tugs in one direction or another.’ He watched as Percy made a small mound of shredded brown paper. ‘I believe Dr Potter was disturbed by Edwin Castle. The monkey got out. Either Castle did not see Bruno, or thought that he had also cleared off. I don’t know yet.’
‘Do you think the charges will stick?’
‘I’ll know more by this evening. We are still assessing evidence in relation to Dr Potter’s murder. We can place Castle at the scene for the murder of Samuel Lennox. He may try to retract his confession on the historic charge of murdering his partner, but I doubt it. Mrs Carmichael will be able to arrange a proper burial for her father now that we have recovered his body.’
‘Poor Mrs Carmichael. I dare say she’ll never get over it, but at least she knows the truth.’
‘Her mother always knew, and I think she did too.’ His fingers played on the chair arm as if testing the material for flaws. ‘I looked into several cases when I took up my post here, wondering what kind of place I had fetched up, including the case of embezzlement and the disappearance of Mr Nelson and the secretary. You see, Mrs Shackleton, I don’t like people to disappear any more than you do. I went to see old Mrs Nelson. She was very hard up, having refused financial support from Edwin Castle, her husband’s former partner. She never believed the story about her husband running off with a secretary. That same secretary came to see her two years after his disappearance and told her it wasn’t true. The young woman was too afraid to go to the police. But Mrs Nelson went once a week for three years, and she wrote to the Chief Constable.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Did you know that Pamela Carmichael was the Nelsons’ daughter?’
‘Yes, but I did not know that she had been watching and waiting all these years. Even she did not suspect that Castle was library president for a reason, the most foul of reasons. Why should she? He was everywhere, Chamber of Commerce, chapel, local council. I thought I would never be able to touch him, but he went too far, and he did not count on you…’
‘And on the fact that Peter Donohue would never have been bent to his will in that way, and that Peter and Marian Montague were friends.’
Wallis smiled. ‘An unlikely friendship. But such things happen.’
‘Yes, across all sorts of barriers.’
‘Even you and I might be friends, Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Stranger things have happened.’
He stood. ‘I had better be going.’
‘Thank you for telling me about the background to the Castle case.’
I walked him to the door.
‘You know, we had two women employed by Leeds City Police once. If we ever had the funds to employ a woman, I hope you might apply.’
I smiled. ‘Never! I did a little of that in a volunteering way at the start of the war and it didn’t suit me. But let me know if you need my help.’
‘Likewise, I’m sure.’
I opened the door. He was about to say something else, but hesitated, pulled on his hat, smiled and turned up the path. At the gate, he waved.
Percy twitched the curtains, peering at the car and then at me in the doorway.
When I went back inside, Mrs Sugden opened the kitchen door.
‘The kettle’s on. Is it time for you to take a few hours off? Your mother was on the telephone.’
‘I will speak to her later. Time for tea, I think and then I have one more job to do.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Dr Potter’s manservant wants to adopt Percy and teach him his numbers.’
‘Thank God for that.’
‘I think it will be good for Mr Morgan to have fresh company, and the sooner Percy goes, the sooner he will settle in.’
‘Let’s take him up there quick, before Mr Morgan changes his mind.’
I led Percy into the kitchen where Mrs Sugden gave him slices of carrot. I attached Percy’s harness, and wrapped him up warm for the second car journey of his life. ‘You’re going to a new home, Percy, where you will be lavished with intelligent attention.’
‘We must remember to tell Mr Morgan Percy’s likes and dislikes.’ Mrs Sugden poured cups of tea and a saucer of tea for Percy. He took it in his usual dainty manner.
Mrs Sugden said, ‘We’ve hardly had time to share a word, what with everything that’s been going on.’ She cut a russet apple in quarters, one piece each for her and me and two pieces for Percy. ‘Tell me, Mrs Shackleton, the young woman, Miss Wells, how did she get on with her mother, if that’s not breaking a confidence?’
‘I left them to talk together, but I believe they took to each other, I’m glad to say.’
‘Well that’s a blessing. Did she glean any information about her father?’
I felt a small stab of anxiety in case I had inadvertently given something away with regard to the unfortunate Samuel Lennox. But Mrs Sugden did not appear to notice my hesitation.
She handed Percy his second piece of apple. ‘I expect Sophia must have been curious, in case her father was some bigwig who might want to acknowledge her one fine day. Might that happen?’
‘No. Lady Coulton told Sophia that her father was a student of philosophy, and that he died in the war.’
‘Did he, do you think, or was she
just saying that?’
‘If that is what she said, then who am I to question it?’
‘A student of philosophy, eh? I wonder what he philosophised?’
Sophia had asked Lady Coulton that very question. On the train journey home, with tears in her eyes, she told me what Lady Coulton had answered. I thought there was no harm in passing on this philosophy to Mrs Sugden.
‘His philosophy was that we must look forward, build a kinder world, and remember that we are put on earth a little while to learn to bear the beams of love.’
I could not quite read Mrs Sugden’s expression, whether she was impressed, or sceptical. ‘Is that philosophy? The last bit sounds like poetry to me.’
Percy crunched his apple with vigorous jaw movements, looking from me to Mrs Sugden, as if understanding every syllable, and believing not a word.
Author’s note
The Leeds Library and the Cavendish Club are very special places. During the Great War there was nowhere in London for women of the Voluntary Aid Detachment to stay. At the end of the war, Lady Ampthill, Chairman of the Joint Women’s VAD Department of the Order of St John and the British Red Cross Society, felt there should be ‘A First Class Ladies’ Club’ for all VAD women past and present, with charges that reflected the limited incomes of potential members. An appeal was launched, and shares issued. The Club’s first home was Queen Anne House, 28 Cavendish Square. The Club’s website quotes the Spectator: ‘The work of decorating and fitting the club has been carried on extremely quickly, partly owing to the fact that many of the workmen engaged on it have during the war been in military and auxiliary hospitals where the VADs were serving. They therefore feel and express a real personal interest in the progress of the work and of the building being ready in time.’ The Club opened on Friday, 14 June, 1920.
This summer, the New Cavendish Club, 44 Cumberland Place, W1, will close its doors for the last time. I am sad that I won’t be able to visit in future. Happily, Kate Shackleton will.
‘In Leeds, where one would not expect it, there is a very good public library, where strangers are treated with great civility,’ wrote James Boswell in 1779, revealing his prejudices eleven years after the opening of the Leeds Library, the country’s oldest proprietary subscription library still in existence, housed in its present premises since 1808. I am indebted not only to present-day library staff but to those who have worked there over the years, written the history, served on committees and chronicled the mystery of the library ghost. The library welcomes new members.
Thank you to the usual suspects who have cheered me along during the writing process (you know who you are), and to agents Judith Murdoch and Rebecca Winfield for their encouragement, coffee and cakes.
Special thanks to Caroline Kirkpatrick and Grace Menary-Winefield for their superb editorial attention; to copy editor Robin Seavill; to the publicity and production staff at Piatkus; and to cover illustrator Helen Chapman for her evocative images of Kate Shackleton’s world.
Frances Brody
Leeds, February 2014
Also by Frances Brody
Dying in the Wool
A Medal for Murder
Murder in the Afternoon
A Woman Unknown
Murder on a Summer’s Day
About the Author
FRANCES BRODY is the author of Dying in the Wool, A Medal for Murder, and Murder in the Afternoon. She lives in the North of England, where she was born and grew up. Frances started her writing life in radio, with many plays and short stories broadcast by the BBC. She has also written for television and theatre. Before turning to crime, she wrote sagas, winning the HarperCollins Elizabeth Elgin award for most regionally evocative debut saga of the millennium. You can sign up for email updates here.
Thank you for buying this
St. Martin’s Press ebook.
To receive special offers, bonus content,
and info on new releases and other great reads,
sign up for our newsletters.
Or visit us online at
us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup
For email updates on the author, click here.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Author’s note
Also by Frances Brody
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
DEATH OF AN AVID READER. Copyright © 2014 by Frances McNeil. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.
First published in Great Britain by Piatkus, an imprint of Little, Brown Book Group, an Hachette UK company
First U.S. Edition: September 2016
eISBN 9781466875708
First eBook edition: September 2016