Death of an Avid Reader

by Frances Brody

  ‘Mrs Shackleton, what a blessing to see you! Are you driving home?’

  ‘Yes. Would you like a ride?’

  ‘That is most kind.’

  She is a little taller than I, sparsely built but well insulated in her dark tweed coat and broad-brimmed hat. ‘It was raining when I left the house. My dratted umbrella let me down. I took it to the man in the market to fix the spoke, which you think he could have done there and then but no. “Come back tomorrow.” One can get nothing done these days. And how I hate this fog! It plays havoc with my catarrh. A person like me, with narrow nostrils, has a hard time of it. You are fortunate to have broad nostrils.’

  We were by a plate glass window as she said this. I glanced at myself and at her in the pane. Fog prevented a nostril comparison. She stepped out smartly, not needing to avoid a puddle because of her stout galoshes.

  ‘I am so glad to have bumped into you for another reason than the fog and your kind offer. I was hoping to have a word.’

  We had reached the car. Once we began our journey, the noise of the engine and my need to concentrate on the road as patches of fog grew dense meant that we did not have that word. We shared some desultory comments, shouted above the noise, random remarks of little consequence.

  ‘Look! There’s another one.’ She was pointing at a group of children on the corner of Woodhouse Moor.

  ‘Another what?’

  ‘Guy Fawkes. Penny for the guy on every street corner. We’re a week off the 5th of November. They do it earlier every year and all they want is to buy firecrackers.’

  After we arrived back at our road, she stayed with me until I put the car in the garage.

  A couple of boys were dragging a huge branch out of the wood. ‘I don’t hold with it, and not just because Guy Fawkes was Catholic.’

  ‘Well there’s no stopping Bonfire Night, Miss Merton, like it or not.’ We walked down our street together. ‘Come in and have a glass of something with me. It’s such a chilly night.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.’

  We came through the front door. She unbuttoned her tweed coat. I took it from her and hung it on the hall stand hook. She slipped off her galoshes to reveal soft black leather shoes.

  It took only moments for me to pour fortified wine with a dash of quinine and put out a few crackers and slivers of cheese. Miss Merton settled herself in the drawing room.

  We sat either side of the fire.

  She took a sip. ‘Nothing like a medicinal wine.’ In the same slightly complaining tone as she had told me about the broken umbrella, she said, ‘I hope you are successful with the library ghost.’

  ‘You know about tonight?’ So much for Mrs Carmichael’s assertion that the business was being kept quiet.

  ‘Only because I reported seeing the ghost myself, last week.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was there for a Father Brown. One is always secure in the hands of G K Chesterton.’

  For the briefest of moments, it struck me that she did not look at all secure. Her air of discomfort made me wonder whether she would rather talk about something else. But my curiosity was aroused.

  ‘You really and truly believe you saw a ghost?’

  ‘I would not swear, but it seemed so.’ She adjusted her footstool. ‘My brother pooh-poohs it, and of course I would not breathe a word about it in the presence of university people, not with Theodore up for the post of vice chancellor.’

  ‘Mrs Sugden mentioned that. It’s quite an honour.’

  ‘So I keep telling him.’ She leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘The vice chancellor is provided with fine accommodation. You may have seen the official residence.’

  ‘I have indeed.’

  ‘I hope I did not tempt fate by taking a little peep around the grounds. It has an apple orchard. To be mistress of such a house would be a full-time occupation.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  ‘I have a very good apple chutney recipe, though I won’t tempt fate by counting the apple trees before Theodore is appointed.’ She took out a dainty hanky and blew her nose. ‘But you asked me about the ghost.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Theodore says that what I saw was a figment of my imagination. It’s true that when I was a girl, often I would run down the stairs very fast. As I neared the bottom, I would see a small dark figure lurking by the newel post. It would disappear as I drew closer, but seemed real enough, just as the ghost seemed real. But I shouldn’t influence you.’

  ‘Please don’t stop now. You saw a ghost.’

  ‘Very well, if you insist. I was in the reading room, by the fire with Pickwick Papers. I must have dozed a little because I was conscious of reading the same paragraph twice. Something made me look up. I saw the figure, not the small figure I saw as a child but large, dark, looming. He was there, and then he melted as it were into the bookcase by the far wall. He disappeared into shelves that held the Parliamentary Papers.’

  ‘And do you read some significance into that?’

  ‘I don’t know what to make of it. Until I saw him for myself, I blamed the counter assistants. You would think that intelligent young women with responsible positions would be above gossiping and chit-chatting but believe me they do more of that than any factory lass who wouldn’t be able to hear above the din of machinery. “Quiet please” the sign in the reading room says. We are asked not to talk because of the disturbance to other readers. Do they observe that silence? They do not. Whenever the librarian and his deputy are elsewhere, one hears them. Chitter chatter, chitter chatter like a family of monkeys. When there are two of them you’d think it was a tribe.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘They were particularly at it that day and that’s what I blame for my apparition. They are conjuring the ghost by their interest.’

  ‘What were they saying?’

  ‘They were talking about sounds emanating from the basement, unexplained noises, and then the dark-haired one, she told that old story about the ghost of a librarian and said something had touched her hair, and she felt a cold breath on the back of her neck.’

  The room was growing dark. Shadows lengthened on the ceiling. I picked up the tongs and placed a few more coals on the fire. It crackled and glowed red before orange flames began to lick their way to the shiny new cobs. ‘You’ve given me the shivers.’

  ‘Well there you have it. I am glad that you agreed to take part in the ceremony. Theodore is surprised, although he has a great deal of time for Father Bolingbroke.’

  Miss Merton is a convert to Catholicism, which I believe is genuine. Mrs Sugden claims it is entirely for the purpose of annoying Professor Merton, who strictly conforms to non-conformity.

  She reached out her elegant hand and with long, thin fingers, snared a cracker and a morsel of cheddar, taking a dainty bite.

  I refilled her glass. ‘Until recently, I had no idea the place was haunted.’

  She sipped her wine. ‘That is not surprising, since you hail from Wakefield. I expect there are many old Leeds tales that have passed you by. This one dates to the last century, before the invention of electric lighting, which my brother believes counts for a great deal in the way of dispelling strange phenomena.’

  The bright fire provided its own images of faces, deep caves and strange landscapes. She stared into the flames, as if her story lay somewhere between the red glow and the leaping dark orange tongue.

  ‘It’s over forty years since it was first seen, by a new young librarian, a Mr John McAllister, just twenty-four years old. It was night time and he was working late, and alone. He saw a light in one of the rooms but when he went to investigate, the room was in darkness. That’s what they say. I should hate to be alone in there at night even now that we have electricity. I shudder to think of it.’

  ‘Just a light, he saw a light?’

  ‘Not only that. As he was leaving, hurrying to catch the last train, he caught a glimpse of someone turning to look at him, a t
all man with a shimmering face and hunched shoulders. John McAllister thought someone had broken in and he rushed to fetch a revolver and shouted, hoping a passing constable might hear. His account is written down in the library files, and locked away.’

  ‘Perhaps someone had broken in.’

  ‘No. The doors were all locked, yet the apparition vanished.’ She paused and took another bite of cheese and biscuit. ‘This is very good cheese. Is it Wensleydale?’

  ‘Lancashire.’

  ‘I prefer Wensleydale.’

  ‘What happened next?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But the word is passed on through the staff. They all know about it and say nothing.’

  ‘The story is probably embellished as time passes.’

  We sat in silence for a moment. If McAllister had missed his last train, for whatever reason, he would have had much explaining to do when he got home. What had he been drinking, as he worked late and alone? Or perhaps he had not been working at all, or had not been alone. A spectral visitation would provide a most original excuse. ‘Sorry I did not come home last night, dear. I was detained by a ghost.’

  Miss Merton smoothed her skirt, glanced at the fire and then looked at me, perhaps sensing my disbelief. ‘That is how the story is told. There was a kind of corroboration, from a most reliable quarter.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘A priest told Mr McAllister that the description of the ghostly intruder fitted the deceased librarian, Vincent Sternberg, who died in post.’

  ‘I understand now how the staff could be unsettled, especially on these dark nights.’

  ‘The counter assistants should not be whispering these stories. I saw the ghost. They did not. I wouldn’t dream of gossiping about it.’

  ‘Of course not.’ I left a discreet pause. ‘And was that the end of the matter, regarding McAllister I mean?’

  ‘Some of the younger staff kept up the stories, held séances when the library was closed, claimed that they heard groans in the basement, a knocking sound behind a bookcase. Volumes would mysteriously leave their place and be found elsewhere. The bell that Sternberg used to summon staff was said to ring when no one touched it. Lamps would suddenly extinguish themselves when there was no draught.’

  I smiled. ‘Young people working in a library are no different from those working anywhere else. They must have a little amusement.’

  If we had not been sitting by firelight, I may not have asked my next question.

  ‘Miss Merton, what does your church teach about ghosts?’

  ‘I will partake of another small glass, Mrs Shackleton, if I may.’

  I obliged.

  She took a sip. ‘When a person dies, they are judged and go to Heaven, Hell or Purgatory. It happens in an instant. No souls hang about waiting to hear, Am I to ascend, descend or hover somewhere in-between. But it may just possibly be that in Purgatory God allows the soul to linger in those places familiar during life, perhaps to inspire prayers for the dead. If that is so, what better time than the approach to All Hallows’ Eve? But of course there is another possibility. Such visions as people claim to see in churchyards and old buildings may be demons, disguised as the once living, whose purpose is to draw men and women away from faith. The library staff should be discouraged from dabbling. The way they are going, it would not surprise me in the least if some of the younger people, for a prank, tried another séance. That would be most regrettable. I would feel it necessary never to set foot in there again, G K Chesterton on the shelves or no G K Chesterton.’

  A sudden loud knock on the door startled Miss Merton.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Reluctant as I was to break off our conversation, I went to the door. Before I reached it, the urgent knocking began again.

  ‘All right! I’m coming.’

  I opened the door to a small creature with the face of a demon. He looked up at me. ‘There’s a racket in your garage, Mrs Shackleton.’

  This was the time of year when children played tricks on their elders, most usually knocking on doors and running away, or stretching string across a gateway.

  ‘You don’t catch me that easily. It’s not Mischievous Night yet.’

  He took off his mask. It was Thomas Tetley, a sturdy ten-year-old who lived along the lane just below my house. The elastic of the mask had ruffled his brown hair. ‘I’m not kidding. There’s a funny noise an’ all. Did your cat run into the garage?’

  There would be a group of children hiding somewhere, waiting to see whether I would fall for their nonsense.

  ‘Thank you for telling me. Now don’t you have to go home for tea?’

  Miss Merton was behind me, slipping on her coat and galoshes. ‘My brother will think I lost myself in the fog on the way home. Thank you for the hospitality, Mrs Shackleton, and the conversation.’

  Thomas stood back to let her pass.

  I walked her to the gate. The fog had lifted a little. It occurred to me that there was something else she had wanted to say. Only rarely did she or I step into the other’s house.

  She paused. Glancing at the waiting Thomas Tetley, she spoke in a low voice. ‘There was something I meant to tell you, warn you about. None of us is safe. Be careful, you and the child.’

  Seven

  Thomas scratched behind his ear. ‘I’m not kidding, Mrs Shackleton, honest. Something is alive in your garage and making a right old racket.’

  My young informant once more assumed his demon mask to trot up to the garage with me. We walked through swirls of fog with small gaps of clear air between, as if the god of dirty weather liked to tease. Living north of the city, the theory goes, one should avoid the worst of the fogs that descend on the town and the industrial areas in the south, east and west. But like disease and good and ill luck, fogs sometimes break boundaries and seep into new territory.

  My car had been tucked away for an hour or so, since I returned home with Miss Merton.

  By the garage, we stood and listened. No sound emanated from behind the wooden doors. I inserted the key in the padlock and partially opened one of the double doors. Now was not the time to worry about rats. Perhaps an army of them had moved in to occupy an old worn tyre that leaned against the back wall. I planned, when winter changed to spring, to give the tyre to the local children to attach to a branch in the wood. If there was a creature lurking, perhaps it would be more scared of us than we of it. Leaving the door ajar would give it the opportunity to run away. Edging the door open, I half expected Thomas to run off and shout the late October equivalent of ‘April Fool!’

  We stepped into the garage. Now was the moment for a horde of giggling children to leap from behind the car and then rush off telling tales of how they fooled the lady detective. None appeared.

  ‘I definitely heard it.’ Thomas’s words through the mask sounded odd and clipped, like a puppet’s voice, like Mr Punch. He produced a torch from his pocket.

  The silence was absolute.

  Thomas played the flashlight’s beam over the car, and into each corner, sweeping light from floor to ceiling. ‘It must have heard us.’

  ‘What do you think it was?’

  ‘I don’t know. It chattered.’

  ‘Earlier you said it could have been the cat.’

  ‘Well it might have been. It made a scratching noise at the door.’

  Bravely, Thomas bobbed down. He shone his torch under the car. ‘Nothing.’

  The canvas flap by the driver seat was slightly raised. I pointed. ‘Here, direct the light here.’

  He did so, and then shone the beam around the motor’s car seats. He gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Shut the big door, Mrs Shackleton, or it will get away.’

  I did as he said, creaking the door shut.

  Thomas shone the light on the flagged floor, to guide me back.

  I took the torch from him and directed the beam around the interior of the car. Curled in the dickey seat at the rear was a small, trembling monkey, dressed in a red, yellow and green horizontall
y striped knitted coat with pearl buttons. It covered its eyes and peeped through its fingers, like a child that believes it can see you and you can’t see it.

  I turned to Thomas. ‘Is this some trick? Did one of you children run in after me and put it there?’

  I could not see his face but there was hurt indignation in his voice. ‘I wouldn’t put a monkey in a cold car, in the dark.’

  ‘Well where did it come from?’

  The monkey removed its paws from its face but still cowered at the far side of the seat.

  I handed the torch back to Thomas. ‘It must have climbed in when I was in town.’

  He shone the torch once more, before pointing the beam away from the creature. ‘It’s shivering.’ In the dim light, our shadows loomed large on the far wall. The place did not seem like my garage at all but outside of time and space. ‘Don’t let it run away, Mrs Shackleton. It might die.’

  ‘It will have to be returned to its owner, whoever that is.’

  ‘Don’t you even recognise it?’ His voice held a note of reproach verging on disbelief.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘Well yes, if you’re a proper detective. It belongs to the organ grinder. He came round here ages ago but I haven’t seen him since the summer holidays. My mother said he keeps to the town, where people pay him to clear off, and to the poor districts, where people pity him. He plays a little organ on a one-leg stand.’

  ‘We’ll have to do something to coax him out of that corner. I hope he won’t bite.’ I reached out a hand. ‘Come on, monkey.’

  Thomas raised the demon mask to the top of his head. ‘He might be scared of me, think I’m the devil or something.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll have to come back with nuts, give him one, put a little trail of them, to build up his confidence.’

  ‘He likes music. He likes what the organ grinder plays.’

  ‘I don’t have a barrel organ handy, do you?’