Death of an Avid Reader (12 page)

His hair needed a wash and his feet more attention than I had given him, but the poor man must rest, and have nourishment.

I returned to the nurses' room and put on the kettle to make him Bovril, searching the cupboards for an invalid cup.

When I came back to the room, the doctor was with him. I felt pleased to have made my patient presentable.

The doctor was of the old school, self-important but thorough. He nodded curtly, and then ignored me as he placed a stethoscope on the patient's chest.

‘Name?'

‘We don't know his name yet, Doctor.'

He picked up the chart. ‘No TPR?'

‘I haven't taken his temperature and pulse yet.'

He cleared his throat. ‘Soon as, then.'

He prescribed cough medicine, which we both knew would do little good, and aspirins to try and reduce the fever. At the door, he turned, giving me a curious look. ‘Sister said you are former VAD Nurse Shackleton?'

‘Yes.'

‘Any relation to Gerald Shackleton?'

Someone must have said, ‘Gerald Shackleton's widow is working for the police.'

‘Gerald was my husband.' As I spoke, that old lurch to the guts upset me more than I can say. People say time heals. No it does not.

‘Ah. Well … fine chap … good work.'

When he had gone, I coaxed my patient into taking a little Bovril.

Something was happening to me, and it was unwelcome. Too much of the past flooded back. All those times spent trying to do my best for patients, hoping, praying, someone would do the same for Gerald if he needed nursing and was far away. Then there would be that inevitable attachment, willing a man to live while watching him die little by little.

The inner turmoil was at odds with my measured words as I attempted to soothe and reassure. ‘I'm going to make you comfortable. Can you tell me your name?'

His eyelids flickered. He slumped onto the pillows, exhausted.

In the nurses' room, I made poultices, found aspirins and replenished the Bovril cup with water.

Applying the poultices seemed cruel when he was in such a weak state, but it might relieve his breathing just a little.

He was thin; I had noticed that of course, but now I saw just how thin. His forearm was narrower than mine. Skin hung loose on his wasted calves. If he lasted the night, it would be a miracle. I would not leave him. During the war, there were times when it was not possible to sit by a dying man. One had to move on and tend to the ones who might live, who might be patched up and sent back to fight another day. As I sat by this man, whose name I had yet to learn, I remembered all the men whom I had watched die. Not another. Not this one. This one will live.

‘Do you hear me?' For the umpteenth time I cooled his brow with a damp cloth. ‘You are going to pull through and tell me what you were doing in that dratted basement.'

He held the clue as to who killed Dr Potter. If it was within my power, he would not keep his information for the grave.

I reached for my satchel, which I had placed under the bed, and took out the hessian bag of sovereigns, intending to count the money. There was a tap on the door. Quickly, I pushed the bag under the blanket and placed my satchel on top.

It was Constable Hodge. ‘Here I am, better late than never, eh? How is he?'

‘Badly.'

He stepped into the room. ‘He looks grey as clay.'

‘He is a very poorly man.'

‘Any name yet?'

‘No.'

‘Looks familiar.'

I refrained from saying that Constable Hodge had probably seen the man looking a little healthier than this as he played his barrel organ about the town during the summer.

My conviction that this was the organ grinder was not simply based on the colours of his waistcoat and the monkey's jacket. Man and monkey had a certain smell in common. If I was right, someone at the station would know his name. Perhaps it would dawn on Constable Hodge. Eventually.

Why was I keeping the information to myself? I could not quite put it into words. It was something to do with not trusting the inspector. I felt sure this man had done nothing really wrong, except perhaps trespass for the sake of shelter. His crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was too weak to have committed murder.

The constable stepped further into the room. ‘That sister's fierce. Insists on me staying in the corridor.'

‘Where is she now?'

‘Dealing with an emergency.' He looked down at the figure on the bed. ‘Mind, he's looking a bit better.'

‘That's because he's clean.'

A sound in the corridor prompted the constable to retreat. ‘The porter's offered me a cup of tea. Do you want one?'

‘No thanks. I can brew up in the nurses' room.'

‘All right for some.' He gave me a friendly smile, and was gone.

When he had closed the door, I withdrew the bag. The gold sovereigns glittered. There were too many coins to count without putting them into my satchel, which I did, in tens. Fifty gold sovereigns – a small fortune. This was an astonishing amount of money for a monkey to have collected for his master.

Stashing my satchel under the bed, I sat down in the straight-back chair.

I had not intended to doze but feeling suddenly tired I slept, in spite of the discomfort.

When I woke, I could not tell whether the fog had cleared. It was impossible to see out of the window, like looking at a solid curtain of the darkest grey.

At four o'clock, my patient opened his eyes.

‘Where am I?'

‘In the infirmary. You'll be cared for here.'

A look of dread came over him. His lips parted wide, his chin dipped. ‘Workhouse?'

‘No. The General Infirmary, Great George Street.'

‘Who brought me here?'

‘I did.'

He shut his eyes.

‘I'm going to change the poultice on your chest and on your back. Might you be able to help me?'

His already limp body drooped and wilted. After the effort of speaking, the last scintilla of energy deserted him.

While he slept, I went back to the storage room and boiled water, poured it into a basin and added Friar's Balsam. I placed this by his bed, hoping that the pungent steam might bring some relief. Sweat poured off him, soaking the sheets.

At six o'clock, I changed his nightshirt and bedding. He groaned as I renewed the poultices.

A little before seven, I set about making tea, including a cup for Constable Hodge. As I stood in the doorway of the nurses' room while waiting for the kettle to boil, PC Hodge finally took my statement about the events last night at the library.

He closed his notebook. ‘The counter assistant Dr Potter was concerned about, has she left the library?'

‘Mr Lennox said she left suddenly.'

‘What is she like?'

‘Miss Montague is in her twenties, efficient, attractive, red-gold hair.'

‘And that valuable book you found, Mr Lennox was rather concerned that it was in the basement and not on its usual shelf.'

‘Yes.'

He put his notebook in his pocket. ‘Well thank you, Mrs Shackleton.'

After that, it was my turn to ask a question.

‘Mr Hodge, if it's not a rude question, why are you here? The inspector must know that our patient isn't going anywhere. You could come back when he recovers.'

‘The minute he's fit to talk, I'm to take a statement from him. You see, the question is, what was he doing in that basement? There was only the two of them there, him and the dead man. Looks bad for him.'

‘But you saw the state of him. You don't believe he could have had anything to do with Dr Potter's death, do you?'

‘Could be he was putting it on a bit.'

‘You can't “put on” pneumonia.'

The constable watched from the doorway as I poured tea. ‘That's not for me to say. But I'm here, should he come round and turn peculiar.'

So that was why he had come into the sick room earlier. Perhaps the inspector had said that my patient might be dangerous.

I handed the constable his teacup. ‘He is a very sick man and far too weak to cause trouble.'

PC Hodge held the doors for me as I returned to the room. The organ grinder was breathing heavily.

It felt like a small triumph when I managed to help him drink, putting the spout to his lips, and watching him sip sweet tea.

Sister came in just as I finished noting his temperature, pulse and respiration on the chart.

‘You can add a name, Mrs Shackleton. The constable has remembered who he is. Umberto Bruno, an organ grinder.'

In the corridor, there was a clattering of teacups on a trolley, and nurses talking. Someone dropped a bedpan.

Sister said, ‘That girl is so clumsy.' She moved to go, turned at the door, and said, ‘Oh, I spoke to matron. She remembers you from a stint at St Mary's during the war. She is agreeable to your returning this evening, if that is convenient to you.'

This took me by surprise, but I was not sorry. If Umberto recovered during my shift, I would be able to hear his account of why he was in the basement and whether he saw Dr Potter's assailant.

‘Yes. I'll be glad to come back.'

‘The shifts are seven till seven. You should go home now, and get some rest.'

When she had left the room, I picked up my satchel, heavy with coins.

Inspector Wallis and his superiors had twenty-four hours after finding the body in which to request Scotland Yard to take over the investigation. If the Yard was called in after that time, Leeds City Police would have to foot the bill, something they would be most reluctant to do.

By the time I returned this evening, I would know who was leading the investigation.

I hoped for the sake of Dr Potter and Umberto Bruno that it would not be the inexperienced Inspector Wallis.

Eleven

Walking out of the infirmary, I wanted to stretch my legs which felt as leaden as the grey sky looked. But my legs didn't want to be stretched. They claimed to be tired, and so did my feet which cried out for a tram ride. Decision: should I catch a tram and rest, or walk and have a stretch? The choice was made for me because the tram came into view as I reached the stop.

The heavy satchel dug into my shoulder. This was hardly surprising given the amount of coins it contained. Like Silas Marner, I felt the urge to re-count them. A law-abiding citizen would have handed the money to Constable Hodge. The good constable would have passed it to Sergeant Ashworth. The sergeant would, in turn, have tendered it to Inspector Wallis. There were too many opportunities for something to go wrong. I am a deeply trusting person, too trusting according to Jim Sykes, but the person I trust most is me. Umberto Bruno's sovereigns would be safe in my hands, even if they should not have been in his hands in the first place.

I climbed aboard the tram and gratefully slid into the nearest seat. The conductor took my penny.

A gentle mist covered the bleached-out grass on Woodhouse Moor. Pavements shone darkly from early rain.

On an impulse I decided to get off the tram at the next stop. Only after my feet touched the ground did it occur to me that it was a little early to be calling on Sykes, but he does not lie abed even at the weekend.

As I turned onto Woodhouse Street, a lad hurtling along on a bike called to me and screeched to a halt. It was Thomas Sykes, sixteen years old, bound for his work at the joiners where he was apprenticed.

‘Are your mam and dad up and about?'

‘Mam's still in bed. But go on, they won't mind. Dad's been out for his paper.'

He mounted the pavement and pedalled off, a danger to pedestrians but less bumpy for the rider than the cobbles.

At their house, on Beulah Street, I tapped lightly on the window. Sykes looked up from where he sat by the fire, reading. When he saw me, he came to the door and stepped aside to let me in. ‘Heyup! You're early.'

‘I've been in the infirmary all night.' He looked alarmed. ‘I was nursing a patient.'

‘I thought your nursing days were over.'

‘So did I. Look, I don't want to wake the whole house. Will you come out to the café?'

He nodded. ‘Give us a minute. I'll get my boots. I'd offer to toast you a teacake but I'd end up doing it for all and sundry and we wouldn't be able to hear ourselves think.'

Moments later, as we walked in the direction of the café on Johnston Street, I gave him an account of my extraordinary Friday evening.

‘Well I'll be jiggered. You went looking for a ghost and found two bodies. It could only happen to you.'

I told him about Umberto Bruno, and how I realised that he was the organ grinder.

‘You did better than me. I made the supreme sacrifice of going out in the fog for a couple of pints last night. You said in your note that you were parked on Commercial Street when the monkey decided to join you.'

‘Yes. I found the monkey's fez at the back of the library. I wonder whether the door was unlocked and the pair of them went in to shelter.'

‘I did pick up one little bit of information. It'll interest you to know that Umberto Bruno took his barrel organ into the Mitre two days ago, for safe-keeping. The landlord has it in a cupboard. He expected Umberto to come back for it, but he never turned up.'

The Mitre is the pub closest to the library and not one I would have expected the organ grinder to frequent, but perhaps the landlord had a soft spot for him.

‘Did the landlord say why Umberto took it there, or did he mention the monkey?'

‘No and no. Perhaps Umberto had to change lodgings. I asked but nobody knows where he lives. My guess is that he and the monkey were living rough. Do you think someone at the library felt sorry for the old chap and let him in the back door? With the weekend coming up, he might have camped out in that basement unnoticed.'

‘Well no, because the library opens on Saturday mornings, and the library staff wouldn't let an outsider in.'