Death of an Avid Reader

by Frances Brody

  His manner was, as usual, warm and friendly. She was calm and confident as ever, if a little detached. Given that she had insisted I take part in Friday evening’s venture, I was surprised that she seemed more concerned about the books than anything else. She pointed out one that was very badly damaged.

  He straightened a small pile of books. ‘These are the volumes that took the brunt when the bookcase toppled. We are examining them to see which we will be able to repair ourselves and which must go to the bookbinder.’

  ‘Dr Potter would have hated costing the library money.’ Mrs Carmichael stretched a loving hand towards Gothic Ornament. ‘Fortunately Pugin was not in the least damaged.’

  One of Mrs Carmichael’s special interests is the library’s collection of Civil War pamphlets. I learned this when I had the misfortune to be co-opted onto the storage sub-committee. Mrs Carmichael put up a powerful argument against her precious pamphlets remaining in the basement after the war ended. No doubt she now felt fully vindicated.

  Mr Lennox said, ‘I expect you have heard that the police have charged a man with the murder of Dr Potter.’

  It gave me a small shock to realise that he did not know I had gone to the infirmary with Umberto Bruno and sat by his bed for two nights. Naturally he was ignorant of the fact that I was giving board and lodging to Umberto’s monkey, and taking care of his gold sovereigns.

  ‘Yes, I did hear.’

  Mr Lennox raised his eyebrows and sighed. ‘Bad business. I can’t decide how I feel about it all. It’s such a mess. In a way, it could be a relief that some vagrant found his way in and was disturbed by Dr Potter, that it was an outsider.’

  ‘Why do you believe that is what happened?’

  ‘What else could it be? The police have charged the organ grinder fellow.’ He blinked. ‘Do you have another explanation?’

  ‘Not yet. Mr Lennox, is there anyone else who could have been in the basement on Friday?’

  ‘I was here from half eight till noon, when I went to a meeting at the Central Library; we like to ensure we are not duplicating acquisitions. I saw Dr Potter briefly when he came in with you, and that was all.’

  Mrs Carmichael made a neat pile of books with damaged bindings. ‘I was here all day, but only on the counter when Miss Sturgeon went for her midday break. Professor Merton was here in the late morning. He and Dr Potter sometimes walk back to the university together.’

  Mr Lennox said, ‘The police inspector tried out a ridiculous theory – that Dr Potter was stealing books, or that he caught the organ grinder stealing books.’

  ‘What makes him arrive at such a conclusion?’ I asked.

  Lennox sighed. ‘Because you found Pugin’s Gothic Ornament near the body, the police seem to think that Dr Potter may have been our thief but that is not so.’

  Mrs Carmichael said. ‘It’s such a puzzle. Dr Potter had every right to be in the basement. We cannot say that this or that area is out of bounds to a proprietor, especially one as esteemed as Dr Potter.’

  Lennox nodded agreement. ‘He was a man beyond reproach, entirely unworldly and interested only in his subject, a most selfless and impartial individual.’

  ‘Mr Lennox, you just said that the police “seemed to think that Dr Potter may have been our thief”. What do you mean by that?’

  My question upset both Mr Lennox and Mrs Carmichael. They exchanged a look.

  Mrs Carmichael said, ‘Shouldn’t we tell Mrs Shackleton?’

  Mr Lennox made chewing motions, as if tackling a tough cut of mutton. ‘We kept it quiet.’ He swallowed the mutton. ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, valuable books have been stolen.’

  So that was what Dr Potter had meant when he asked me about stolen books in the same breath as he mentioned the lovely and obliging counter assistant. ‘You have your own suspect, I believe.’

  Mrs Carmichael’s nostrils quivered with distaste. ‘We certainly do. Will you tell Mrs Shackleton, or shall I?’

  ‘We can no longer be sure,’ Lennox said. ‘Don’t you see that?’

  ‘I am sure.’ Mrs Carmichael picked up a damaged book and moved it across the table. ‘The thief was a member of staff. That is how we know it was not Dr Potter, and certainly not the organ grinder, who would not have known which books are valuable.’

  Lennox barely moved his lips. ‘Perhaps we were wrong.’

  ‘We were not wrong. She hid books somewhere, intending to take them later when the coast was clear. Don’t you see, that is why she had no objection to working in the basement.’

  ‘Let us say no more.’

  For a moment, neither spoke. ‘Mr Lennox, Mrs Carmichael, you can’t leave it like that.’

  Mrs Carmichael lowered her eyes, and left the talking to Mr Lennox.

  ‘She is no longer here. We dismissed her.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘One of the counter assistants.’

  ‘What did she steal?’

  ‘William Bligh’s Narrative of the Mutiny on the Bounty. Mrs Carmichael suspected her when the cleaner found the index card in her waste bin and asked was this card meant to be thrown away.’

  ‘She stole more than one book?’

  Mrs Carmichael sighed but took her cue. ‘She denied it, of course. She went almost hysterical with rage. I thought she was going to strike me. Mr Lennox had to restrain her.’

  Mr Lennox nodded grimly. He lowered his eyes, as if the memory pained him.

  Mrs Carmichael continued. ‘She thought that by disposing of the index cards, anyone searching through the drawer for titles would not know the books were meant to be in stock, or would assume they had been withdrawn or disposed of.’

  How stupid of her not to take the cards home, I thought.

  Now Mrs Carmichael warmed to her tale. ‘She did not take into account that I have a shelf list and checked most carefully, cross-referencing with loans.’

  The episode still rankled and it incensed her to speak of it. She made the slightest gesture towards Lennox, as if to comfort him, but made no contact. ‘The person in question said I could search her locker and her bag if I did not believe her. She had never stolen anything in her life and anyone who said different was a blatant liar. That was her bluff. But I did search her bag and found Joseph Priestley’s History and Present State of Electricity. We know she took other books, including the Bligh, but unfortunately did not have the proof.’

  Why were they being so exasperating? I wanted them to speak her name. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘She has gone.’ Mr Lennox looked distinctly uncomfortable, almost as if he had been the thief’s accomplice. ‘Mrs Carmichael pointed out that she would have had to remove the library’s nameplate, a task of some skill. No doubt that is why she volunteered for the bookbinding course. Naturally Mr Castle has been informed.’

  ‘I don’t know why you are being so protective of her if you are sure of your facts. It is clearly Miss Montague. I saw her name in the minutes as having taken part in a bookbinding course, and she left three weeks ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ Lennox said. ‘You would have learned of her departure at the next committee meeting, under staff matters.’

  ‘What else went missing?’ I did not yet want them to know that my interest was in the person, rather than the books.

  ‘Walker’s Costumes of Yorkshire and Dugdale’s Monasticon.’

  ‘Were charges laid against Miss Montague?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’

  ‘No. We discussed the matter with Mr Castle and decided to keep it quiet, for the sake of the library’s reputation. We dismissed her without a reference. It could have been a most unwelcome scandal.’

  Just like the bank clerk Sykes had been investigating. An organisation must hold onto its reputation. Take the blow and say nothing.

  ‘I wish I had known. My assistant, Mr Sykes, is very good at instituting security into establishments.’

  Mrs Carmichael glanced at a book for damage and deftly
set it aside. ‘Indeed. One does not expect to have to make random searches of staff leaving a library, as if they were factory workers who might wrap a length of cloth around themselves and cover it with a bulky coat.’

  ‘I am sure we could come up with some discreet measures to minimise the risk of theft. Let us talk about it when things are a little more settled.’

  How should I approach finding out more? By pretending to know less than I did.

  ‘Remind me, what was Miss Montague’s Christian name?’

  Mr Lennox answered straight away, and softly, as though her name waited to fall from his tongue. ‘Marian.’

  ‘Mary Ann?’

  ‘No, Marian.’

  ‘Ah, I thought you said Mary Ann.’

  ‘She may well have been a Mary Ann,’ Mrs Carmichael said. ‘Perhaps she lied about her name as about everything else. A pity you weren’t on the appointments committee when she came, Mrs Shackleton. I expect you must be adept at spotting individuals with criminal tendencies.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. In my experience, appearances can deceive.’ Keep her on the subject, I told myself. ‘I’m trying to remember Miss Montague. Didn’t she have auburn hair?’

  Mrs Carmichael said, ‘Yes, she wore her hair long, not very well done up in a chignon, with fancy combs.’

  ‘She was quite striking.’

  Hastily, Mr Lennox stood and clumsily pushed back his chair. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll telephone to the bookbinder from my office.’ Looking most uncomfortable and without another glance at either of us, he left the room.

  Mrs Carmichael waited until he had closed the door. ‘Oh yes, Miss Montague was striking. She turned heads.’ It gave me a shiver to hear Mrs Carmichael use the same words about the library assistant as my Aunt Berta had used to describe Lady Coulton all those years ago. She turned heads.

  Mrs Carmichael continued. ‘At first I thought her a decent person but she had a coarse habit of rolling up her sleeves to just above the elbow, as if about to sink her arms into a tub of washing.’

  Just as young Sophia Wells had rolled up her sleeves and swept the pavement outside the wet fish shop in Scarborough.

  Mrs Carmichael wrinkled her nose. ‘Her demeanour gave a bad impression to gentlemen proprietors. It would not have surprised me in the least if she had come to work wearing earrings.’

  A dozen thoughts dizzied my brain. Mrs Carmichael’s sleeves ended just above her scrawny wrists. Her hands were veined and spotted. It would not suit her to have a young, attractive woman drawing the eye of her lover. It must have been convenient for Mrs Carmichael to have Marian Montague caught stealing.

  ‘Did she live with her family?’

  ‘No, and there’s another thing that is not to her credit. She was in lodgings, up Bayswater Road way. Said that her mother had remarried and she did not get on with her stepfather.’

  ‘Did she take the stepfather’s name?’

  ‘Who knows? One would not know what to believe about a girl like that.’ Mrs Carmichael looked at her watch. ‘Oh dear, look at the time. I take an early break and must be back for my hour on the counter.’

  I weighed my choices. Stay here and grill the reluctant Lennox, or see what information I could garner from Mrs Carmichael, who was revealing an unexpected streak of malicious jealousy.

  ‘Do you mind if I join you, Mrs Carmichael? I’m feeling a little peckish myself.’

  She hesitated. ‘I take a turn about town, and then eat a sandwich at my desk.’

  ‘Then please break your habit. Let me treat you to a bite at the Corn Exchange.’

  She blushed, whether from embarrassment or pleasure I did not know, but agreed.

  We left the building, walked along Commercial Street and took a right turn onto Briggate.

  ‘Tell me,’ she was making an effort not to sound ghoulish, ‘did Dr Potter look like himself when you found him?’

  I gave her a sanitised version, which lasted as far as the café where we were shown to a table near the centre of the room.

  The menu was chalked on a board.

  ‘What are you having, Mrs Shackleton?’

  ‘Sardines on toast, but choose whatever you want.’

  When the waitress came, she hesitated and then said, ‘Welsh rarebit.’

  When we were alone again, Mrs Carmichael said, ‘You don’t fool me, Mrs Shackleton.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You cannot help being a private investigator can you? I expect you want to know who else was at the library on Friday morning after you left.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  ‘You know how poor the weather was? Some of our Friday regulars stayed away. Miss Merton changed her library book. Miss Heaton placed a collecting tin on the counter for the widow of the retired commissionaire who needs medicines. Father Bolingbroke read Thomas Aquinas. Mr Castle looked at the cartoons in Punch. He never borrows books, you know, not in all his years as a proprietor. A gentleman from the university spent an hour poring over the London Gazette. Mr Lennox and Mr Castle discussed library business with Professor Merton.’

  So Professor Merton, Dr Potter’s rival had been at the library. Much as I would have liked to pursue an enquiry as to who did kill Dr Potter, my first obligation was to find Lady Coulton’s daughter.

  ‘I am afraid this dreadful business has me flummoxed, Mrs Carmichael.’ Slowly, I returned to the subject of Marian Montague. ‘A person who does intrigue me is the dismissed library assistant.’

  ‘Intrigue you? She is a brazen hussy and a thief.’

  ‘Just the kind of person who is interesting to a detective. I should like to visit her, if you have no objection.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’

  ‘Are there still books missing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then the least I can do is to try and retrieve them. It is my area of expertise.’

  ‘She will have sold them by now.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not. You say she lives in the Bayswater Road area?’

  ‘Yes, number nine, Back Enfield Street. But I don’t believe you’ll find her there.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  She hesitated. ‘In confidence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I saw her, shortly after she left. I believe she is now living in the kind of slum where she belongs. A den of thieves, probably. I have not told Mr Lennox. He had a soft spot for her, many gentlemen did, and she took full advantage.’

  ‘Dr Potter liked her.’

  Mrs Carmichael pulled a face, which was meant to express contempt but merely made her look unpleasant. ‘She fooled everyone.’

  ‘Where did you see her?’

  ‘In one of the courtyards, not far from here. I was in the market to buy an apple and came out onto Back New York Street, to walk along and eat it where no one would see me. It’s so unladylike to eat an apple in the street. I saw her coming out of an alley. Well, isn’t that just the kind of place one would expect to see her? She saw me and we ignored each other. I almost choked on my apple, seeing the thief at liberty, giving me a bold stare.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Goodness! Is that the time. I must rush.’

  I left with her and said, ‘Which was the courtyard where you saw Miss Montague?’

  She smiled. ‘I am glad I am not a detective. I expect you like to know things about the criminal classes and where they meet each other, their dens of iniquity. It’s just round the corner.’

  We left the Corn Exchange and walked a few yards. ‘That’s the place. I don’t know what it’s called. I hope you won’t go in there.’

  If entering this dismal alley might lead me to Sophia Wells, a troop of dragoons would not stop me.

  Nineteen

  One might pass the entrance to Danby Court on the way to or from the market without noticing it, except for the stench from the middens. Twelve paces through a narrow passageway of red brick took me across uneven cobblestones. My feet alternately squelched and crunched over cinders,
spread by some enterprising soul across filthy puddles. The overwhelming feeling was of gloom. Outside, the day was grey and in here several shades darker. Ahead, and on either side, loomed tall brick houses. Outside landings hinted at a multitude of occupants.

  Aware of being stared at from every side, I trod lightly, taking in everything while appearing to look at nothing and no one.

  A toddle of barefoot tots played listlessly at the bottom of broken concrete steps that led to upper rooms. One of the bairns hemmed in a spider that moved this way and that, trying to reach impossible sanctuary. Two men lounged by a wall, smoking. Three women formed a huddle, chatting to each other. One was immensely stout, one thin as a length of string and the other not taller than a child and with legs so bowed they made a perfect ‘O’.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  The length of string turned to me. Her eyes were hollow, her cheekbones prominent.

  I remembered something a ward sister had said about a patient who died after an operation, too weak to pull through: ‘Women feed their children and starve themselves.’

  This was a dwelling place not for the poor who lived from week to week but for those who scraped by on pennies, day to day, hour to hour.

  Counter assistants earned no fortune. Miss Montague should have afforded better than this, but perhaps not, if she had been sacked without a reference.

  The three women now all looked at me, as did the children. The tormentor of the spider forgot his work. Perhaps the spider scuttled free. One of the lounging men cleared his throat and spat loudly on the ground.

  ‘Hello. I’m looking for a Miss Marian Montague. I believe she lives or visits here?’ Even as I spoke, it sounded absurd.

  The thin woman shook her head. She looked at the other two and said something. They also looked blank. In unison, all three stared at me, and then looked away, as if that might make me vanish.

  A prompt might help. ‘She is tall and has reddish hair. She dresses well, keeps herself neat.’

  Finally, the short woman with the ‘O’ legs answered for them all. ‘You’ve come to’t wrong place. There’s no one by that name and no one fits that description.’