Death of an Avid Reader (15 page)

He walked me to the door.

Outside in the corridor, I leaned against the wall, attempting to regain my composure. I felt like smashing the glass in his office door.

As I stood there, thinking what to do next, I heard him speak into the telephone. ‘Have Umberto Bruno brought in and put in a cell.' There was a pause. The person at the other end must have had the temerity to question the order. In an impatient voice, Wallis said, ‘I am aware of that. Have our own doctor examine him.'

Oh no you don't. I would not let him do it, but how was I to stop him? Who could I turn to? I hurried down the broad stairway. My father is a superintendent of the West Riding force, he would be able to talk to his Leeds counterpart. In theory, that is. In practice he would not do it. He would say that it was not his concern, it would be undue interference, and the man on the spot must make the decisions.

Then it struck me. Having given houseroom to the man's monkey, why not do the same for his master? I could smuggle Umberto from the infirmary, abduct him and take him home; but how, without being seen?

Slowly I retraced my footsteps down the Town Hall stairs and out into the dismal street.

Why did this matter so much to me?

Because I felt pity for the man. Because I believed him to be innocent. Because during my wartime nursing there were so many men for whom I could do nothing. Because I felt devastated by the death of Dr Potter. I was unable to save them. I would save Umberto Bruno.

I had left my car at the entrance to the infirmary. I hurried back there now. Instead of making things better for my patient, I had made his situation worse. If the poor man was taken to the cells, he would die. Of course he would die. Case closed. There would be no need for the police to look for anyone else, and it would save the expense of a trial.

Perhaps it would be kinder to let him die. That might be preferable to wrongful imprisonment, a perverted trial and the rope.

Once back in the infirmary, I sought out matron, Millicent Formby. We knew each other from when she was a ward sister at St Mary's during the war. At that time, I thought of her as an odd old stick, though she was then not many years older than I am now. In the end, when a couple of nurses wilted under the strain and I did not, we rubbed along very well and came to understand each other.

I had to wait about twenty minutes, until she had finished ward rounds.

Finally, I found her, pen in hand, at her desk.

‘Matron?'

‘Kate! I heard you were here.'

‘Hello, Millicent. I didn't know you were so close by. I live just up the road.'

‘I know.'

‘You never got in touch.'

She shrugged and smiled. I understood what she meant. We had not been great chums, though what had seemed a huge difference between us then had diminished with time.

‘Millicent, you will know that Umberto Bruno has been charged with murder, and handcuffed.'

‘I saw on my ward rounds just now. I've contacted the hospital chairman to protest. I have asked that the order be countermanded and the handcuffs removed.'

‘Thank you. That's a relief.'

‘Let's wait and see. The police may put up a good argument for keeping them.'

‘I don't believe he did it.'

‘Of course you don't. You always saw the best in people.'

‘That was then. I've changed. But I'll swear that this man was too ill to do what he is accused of.'

‘I don't know whether the man is guilty or not, but I won't have a patient handcuffed on my wards. We're not the Workhouse Infirmary where some beds are not much more than a holding cell.'

‘There's something else. Inspector Wallis has ordered him to be taken to the cells.'

‘That's madness.'

‘It's vindictiveness because I tried to interfere. Can you stop it?'

‘I can try. They won't be able to move him if the doctor and I say no. We would have to be over-ruled by the board and they won't manage to meet before tomorrow afternoon, possibly tomorrow evening.'

‘That's no time at all.'

‘If you think the man is innocent, try and persuade someone to believe you, and soon. Do you know a good solicitor?'

Fourteen

Did I know a good solicitor, Millicent, the matron, had asked. Yes I did: Mr Castle, library president. If anyone could persuade Inspector Wallis to show commonsense and compassion, it would be Edwin Castle, Esquire, one of the most influential men in the city. I knew where I would find him on this Sunday morning: the mayors' nest.

Mill Hill Chapel in City Square is an attractive place of worship, with a long dissenting tradition, the spot where men of importance, including mayors past and present, worship and hobnob, so earning the chapel its nickname. Built in the perpendicular style, it possesses some fine stained-glass windows. On this particular Sunday morning, a row of expensive motor cars stood parked outside. I left my car on the other side of City Square and crossed back to the pleasant courtyard, its trees now almost bare of leaves.

The service was already underway, and with a packed congregation. I slipped in at the back. A well-dressed man in a good coat and kid gloves slid along the pew to make room for me.

I looked round for Mr and Mrs Castle. He has a healthy head of white hair and wears gold-rimmed spectacles. She has a taste for extravagant hats in plum or navy. Mr Castle and Dr Potter held each other in high regard. Mr Castle told me so once, at a library Christmas sherry do, when he was marvelling at Potter's mathematical genius. At the same do, Dr Potter told me that Mr Castle was a very clever man, the glue of the library and one of those men whose presence on a committee ensured that it ran smoothly.

I could not see the Castles, but that was probably because they were near the front of the chapel. Now that I was here, the misgivings set in. Mr Castle may not yet know that Umberto Bruno had been charged with murder. The service ended as I was trying to decide how best to break the news, and ask for his intervention.

I stood to allow the people in my pew to leave, all the while keeping a watch for the Castles. Filing out was a slow business because many stopped to shake hands or exchange a word with the minister. Eventually, Mr and Mrs Castle appeared. She is in her late sixties, a little younger than he. Both are well preserved. He wore a good alpaca overcoat. Stately Mrs Castle linked his arm, her lambswool brushing his alpaca. She sported a maroon hat with high crown, broad brim and veil, the kind of hat you would hate to sit behind in a theatre. Both have a healthy look that comes from a lifetime of good food, leisure, and holidays in Switzerland.

I smiled, as if it was my habit to accost people as they left chapel.

‘Mr Castle, Mrs Castle, good morning.'

She glared at me suspiciously, giving a royal nod.

He was charming, as always. ‘Mrs Shackleton. You have decided to join our congregation?'

‘Not exactly. I came hoping to have a word with you.'

Mrs Castle, not a person likely to win an award for subtlety, scowled.

‘Of course.' He ignored the squeeze his wife put on his arm. ‘My sympathy over the terrible shock you had on Friday evening.'

‘Dearest, the children are coming, and the grandchildren.' She looked at me. ‘And the great-grandchildren,' she added with a note of triumph befitting the fertile matriarch.

‘Then I wouldn't dream of detaining you. But Mr Castle, I am wondering whether…' We were by the door, and there were still people passing. I adopted a conspiratorial tone to encourage him to step aside with me, which he did, releasing his wife's steely grip. ‘Have you heard that the man found in the library on Friday evening, Umberto Bruno, has been charged with murder?'

‘How do you know this?'

It suddenly occurred to me that none of them knew I had been at the man's bedside. ‘I was at the infirmary this morning.'

‘You were at the infirmary?'

‘I went with him in the ambulance on Friday evening. You know I was a wartime nurse?'

‘Yes.'

‘He is dangerously ill, but handcuffed. I don't believe for a moment that he killed Dr Potter, and the handcuffs are inhumane. People listen to you, Mr Castle. I wonder if you might intervene.' There was a subtle change in his posture and that glance some people give when one makes an appeal, a mixture of reluctance and vanity.

‘Perhaps he is handcuffed to prevent escape, or self-harm.'

‘He can barely move without help, and there is a policeman on the door of the ward.'

‘Leave it with me.'

Mrs Castle was suddenly beside us and must have been listening. ‘My husband has his professional reputation to consider, as well as his duties as library president. A solicitor cannot act in a way that would be contrary to a police investigation, especially when Mr Castle saw the vagrant follow Dr Potter into the alley.'

I stared at Mr Castle. ‘You did? It was you who saw him?'

‘I thought nothing of it at the time. Dr Potter was such an eccentric. There was no accounting for his whims, and the vagrant was some distance behind him.'

‘When? What time?'

Mrs Castle stepped between us. ‘Mrs Shackleton, we all know about your hobby, but please to practise it elsewhere.'

Castle said, ‘It's all right, dear. Mrs Shackleton has had a shock. We all have.'

Mrs Castle was not easily put off. ‘We have prayed for the repose of poor Dr Potter's soul.' There was a challenge in her voice. She suspected I had not prayed for anyone's repose. ‘Come, Edwin!'

‘I'll be with you in a moment, dear.'

She drew back her shoulders and threw out her chest. ‘On this date in 1768, the library opened its doors for the first time. It is disgusting to commemorate that date with talk of murder.'

She strode out of the chapel.

Slowly, Mr Castle and I followed her. ‘If you can spare just another moment, Mr Castle…'

‘What is it?' he asked. ‘It would be wrong of me to talk about a police investigation when I may be called as a witness.'

Mrs Castle was at the gate, turning, marching towards the row of cars.

Mr Castle exchanged greetings with several important looking men as we moved away towards the farthest tree. A sharp wind brought down a leaf that landed on his hat.

‘I'm most grateful for everything you did on Friday, Mrs Shackleton. Lennox was very sorry afterwards that he lost his nerve a little, and of course Father Bolingbroke apparently had another engagement, visiting the sick I believe. I thought you had left, or I would have made sure you reached home safely.'

‘Thank you, there was no need.'

‘As a matter of fact I did know about Bruno. Inspector Wallis telephoned to me. It has not been made public yet.'

‘I believe the police are wrong.'

‘Why so?'

‘There are too many unanswered questions, Mr Castle. What motive could Bruno have had for such a deed?'

‘That is for the police to find out.'

‘Bruno did not do it. He needs legal representation.'

‘My practice does not handle criminal matters.'

‘But you could look into it. Someone else must have been there. Do you know of any enemies that Dr Potter may have had, or of any possible connection between his death and thefts from the library?'

‘Thefts?'

‘Dr Potter suspected books had been stolen.' I was exaggerating a little, but something in Castle's manner told me I had touched a nerve. ‘I can't imagine the organ grinder would have been a book thief. There must be something the police are missing.'

Mr Castle's face was a picture of surprise. ‘It never occurred to me that the police could have made a mistake. It seems such an open and shut case, but if you believe there is cause for concern…'

‘I do. Apart from lack of motive, Dr Potter was well-built and fit. Umberto Bruno is skin and bone, and besides, I have this feeling…'

‘Ah, a woman's intuition.'

‘If you want to call it that, but really to do with physical disparity between the men. I should like to take another look around the basement.'

‘The police are not allowing us down there just yet. If it will set your mind at rest, I will ask them when we are allowed access.'

We walked out of the grounds together. Most of the cars had gone. Castle stood and stared. ‘Oh dear. My wife misunderstood me, I think.'

There was only my car left, on the other side of City Square. Mrs Castle had deserted her husband.

‘Let me offer you a lift. Mine's that blue Jowett over there.'

It would give me an opportunity to ask him a few questions on the journey.

I began with the most innocuous. ‘Have you historic connections with the library?'

‘Oh no, not like Potter. I purchased a share in the library as a young man, when I qualified as a solicitor. A professional man has a duty to become part of the life of the city.'

Mr Castle made no attempt to staunch my queries but in his calm lawyer's manner carefully deflected every question. He was cautious, unwilling to commit himself, and reluctant to believe that Inspector Wallis could be mistaken. ‘We must remember, Mrs Shackleton, that this is a police matter.'

Of course he was right. This was not my case. But I had one more idea. The person who may know whether Dr Potter's suspicion about thefts was correct was the librarian, Mr Lennox.

*   *   *

There is no great distance between Meanwood and Chapeltown. Mr Lennox lived at Grange Villas, Chapeltown. I knew this because he and his late wife once held a sherry party for committee members.

It was possible that Lennox would visit his wife's grave in the afternoon and that if I called now, I may find him at home.

Within a quarter hour of dropping off Mr Castle, I drew up outside Grange Villas, a fine stone-built mansion that sometime in the previous century had been turned into flats. I do not always look through windows before ringing a doorbell but on this particular day I did, and a good thing too.