Death of an Avid Reader (5 page)

‘It was after the war, but not so very long after. Perhaps the spring of 1919. I know I was out to buy a hat for a wedding and had very little luck in the matter.'

‘Did Sophia have any particular friends here, that you remember?'

‘Now that I couldn't say. If anyone knew, it would be a teacher. But you know girls. Friendships flare up and burn out for no reason.'

‘You said she got off to a difficult start here.'

‘I don't know whether that is worth mentioning now, or whether it is fair to do so.'

‘I am used to keeping confidences, Miss Stafford.'

‘It was to do with a tortoise shell comb. One of the girls said it was hers, and that Mary Ann had taken it, accused her of stealing. Mary Ann said she found it on Woodhouse Lane and finders keepers. It was sorted out but girls took sides, as they do. After that, if anything went missing, there was this bad atmosphere and suspicion of Mary Ann.'

‘Do you remember all your former pupils this well?'

‘Heavens no. It was her coming from Scarborough, then the business with the comb, and other items that inexplicably disappeared, then her being top of the class and so good at netball. She blossomed, you see. I also remember her because of her mother.'

‘Because of the husband's terrible accident?'

‘Well yes, but something else. She was such a capable woman. During the war, we dug up part of Woodhouse Moor, to grow potatoes and cabbages, be self-sufficient for the war effort. Mary Ann's mother came to help. Only one other mother did so. Mrs Bradshaw was cheerful, jollied the girls along, you know. She was very good with a spade, and quite an inspiration to the girls because she worked at Barnbow, the munitions factory, and this particular morning was one of her very rare off-duty times.' She touched her cheek. ‘The poor woman had that yellow tinge, a jaundiced look from working with the gunpowder.'

I thanked Miss Stafford for her time. My next call would take me even farther back into Sophia Mary Ann's life, to the photographic studio where she was captured on plate at the age of three.

*   *   *

Driving along Bingley High Street brought back memories of my first professional engagement. Over there was the Ramshead Arms where Sykes and I had discussed that tangled case. I spotted the familiar café with its check curtains where my erstwhile chum Tabitha had nervously smoked cigarettes while explaining that she wanted me to try to find her father, long after everyone else had failed.

Remembering that, I tried not to feel despondent about the present search. After all, I had only just begun. Having found lost sheep before, I must be able to do it again.

The photographic studio was on the same side of the High Street as the café, between a newsagents and a draper's shop. I parked outside, feeling a bit of a guy in my motoring coat, a great fleecy swaddler. There were display photographs in the window, including a bride and groom in the doorway of the old church. At least the business was still under the same management. The name
Felton Photographic Studios
was etched on the window and on the frosted glass of the door.

The clapper rang as I entered the premises.

The place was beautifully kept, with the wooden floor and surfaces well polished. An ornamental plant stood in the corner and there were two chairs for customers, one of them the same as appeared in the old photograph. Heavy drapes on the right must lead to the studio area. I was about to take a peek when a woman emerged from the rear of the premises.

‘Hello. Can I help you?'

She was about sixty, gaunt with pale blue eyes, her hair done up in a bun.

‘I hope so. It's a slightly unusual request.'

She glanced at me carefully and beyond, through the window to my car. ‘Oh? Well we manage all sorts here. Mr Felton is out on a job but I can take your details.'

‘I'm really here to try and trace someone.' I handed her my card. ‘The person I am looking for is Mrs Bradshaw, formerly Mrs Wells, maiden name Tarpey. She brought her little girl here to be photographed, over twenty years ago.'

‘Over twenty years ago?' She caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Oh dear. I don't think I'll be able to help with that.'

I placed the photograph of little Sophia on the counter. The woman looked at it without saying a word, and then left the counter, went to the drapes and drew them back. ‘The studio has hardly changed. So you've come to the right place. We've different backdrops. If Mr Felton was to take the picture now he'd probably set the kiddy on a little horse.'

She was right that the setting had not changed. There was the same plant stand, jardinière and perhaps the same fern. ‘The little girl is Sophia Mary Ann Wells.'

The woman smiled indulgently. ‘If you knew how many pictures Mr Felton takes you wouldn't ask. This would have been taken by his father and I know for sure he hasn't kept all the old records.'

‘Do the names Wells or Tarpey ring any bells, Mrs…?'

‘Watson. And no, I don't know anyone by that name.' She picked up a pencil and wrote “Wells” on the back of my card. ‘What did you say the other name was?'

‘Bradshaw.'

She wrote that too. ‘I can ask Mr Felton when he comes in.'

‘Thank you. There will be a reward for any information leading to my finding the lady and her daughter.'

‘Will there now? Well then I wish you and them luck.'

She looked past me, to the door. It opened and two women bustled in, a mother and daughter, bringing a cold draught and a buzz of excitement. It was my guess that they were here to arrange a wedding photograph.

I thanked Mrs Watson and left.

Leaving my motor parked near the studio, I walked along the High Street, trying to imagine what had brought the Wells family here all those years ago. It was too far to come simply to have a photograph taken. There must be some family connection with the area.

Crossing the Packhorse Bridge, hearing the gurgle of the water, I made my way to the ancient church, All Saints. There, I wandered through the churchyard, reading the inscriptions on the headstones. Several bore the name Tarpey, the family name of Lady Coulton's nanny and her sister.

Here was the connection I had been looking for. Someone in Bingley must know the family and have information. It was time to advertise.

The office of the
Bingley Bugle
was opposite the café.

On the sloping desk, I wrote my announcement requesting information about Mrs Bradshaw, formerly Wells, maiden name Tarpey, and Sophia Mary Ann Wells.

I handed my announcement across the counter to an ancient elf-like figure with a wispy beard. He peered at my writing through thick spectacles, as if checking for a secret code or spelling mistakes. For a mad moment, I thought he would come up with some useful information about those I sought.

His voice seemed to come from a deep barrel. ‘This week's edition came out this morning. It'll be next Thursday now.'

I paid him.

He wrote a receipt and the date my insertion would appear: Thursday, 5th November. Bonfire Night.

‘Do you know the family?' I asked.

‘I do not and I do not want to. No good will come of enquiring after Tarpeys round here.'

‘Why not?'

He looked across at me, eyes twinkling, and gave a toothless grin. ‘You'd have to go to the churchyard to find a Tarpey.'

Six

On Friday morning, I motored to the town centre, parked on Commercial Street, delivered announcements, and paid for insertions and box numbers in six newspapers: the
Yorkshire Evening Post,
the
Post,
Daily News,
Skyrack Express,
the
Herald
and the Northern edition of the
Daily Chronicle.
This felt like desperate measures but I was terribly disappointed that all the personal enquiries had so far come to nothing. Everyone reads a newspaper, even if only when it is wrapped around fish and chips or being scrunched in a ball to light a fire. Someone must know Mrs Jennifer Bradshaw and Sophia Wells.

I had parked by the Leeds Library and needed to pop in and speak to the deputy librarian, in the hope that she would relieve me of a rather odd task I had agreed to and that given my enquiries now struck me as irksome.

Dr Potter was bouncing up the stairs at the same time, carrying a hessian bag of books to be returned. He is a charming man, tall with a slight stoop, thinning hair, oodles of enthusiasm for life and a talent for waylaying people he likes to talk to. A renowned mathematician, he looks the part, thoughtful, every inch the learned man. Yet he has a theatrical quality, too. Even in winter when others are muffled, he wears an elegant white silk scarf. When he chats and smiles, he becomes so animated and expressive in speech and gesture that he has occasionally been mistaken for a Frenchman.

He tipped his black fedora. We exchanged a few words, pausing on the spacious landing at the top of the stairs.

Mid conversation, he came to an abrupt halt as something on the wall caught his eye. ‘What's Lennox put up now?'

It was a newspaper article from a couple of years ago that had been cut out and framed. It boasted of the library's valuable stock. Dr Potter scratched his head. ‘What will Lennox do next? Send a personal invitation to every book thief in the country?'

‘He's naturally proud of the library's acquisitions.'

‘So he advertises to the world. A big mistake.'

‘The
Gazette
is hardly the world.'

‘My dear Mrs Shackleton, there is no need for him to shout from the rooftops. Half of our shareholders are unaware of what books lurk on the shelves. That is one of the library's charms. And not every proprietor is as upright as you and I. The tales I could tell about one or two individuals would curl your hair.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, but not now.' He rested his arm on the banister. ‘I am recruiting supporters for a matter that will come up at a special meeting.'

‘I'm unlikely to come. I'm very busy just now.'

‘Oh but you must. You see, we have the opportunity to move to more suitable premises where there would be excellent security for valuable acquisitions. It is not to be missed. I shall circulate a paper.'

‘You sound like a salesman, Dr Potter.'

‘Oh dear, do I? Don't let my enthusiasm put you off.' He moved as if to open the door, and then delayed. ‘Have you noticed something odd going on lately, little huddles and whispers?'

‘I haven't been into the library for a week or so. Who was huddling and whispering, do tell.'

‘Oh far be it from me to say a word about our dear president, our librarian and his deputy…' Dr Potter has a waspish sense of humour and I am glad he shares his little jokes with me rather than making me the butt of them; though perhaps he does that too. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Where is the lovely counter assistant, Miss Montague? A charming young woman, most obliging.'

‘I can't remember when I last saw her.'

‘Quite so. Our pre-Raphaelite beauty has disappeared. This may be a case for you, our own private detective.' He spoke light-heartedly but something in his eyes belied the tone.

‘I hope not. Have you asked about her?'

‘Perhaps that will come better from you. But I miss her. She was the only counter assistant who would willingly go into that dreadful basement – skip down there at a moment's notice' He twinkled, taking the merest pause for breath. ‘Talking of which, a little bird tweeted a ghostly tale. I have something that may intrigue you, a personal item of historic interest.'

The trouble with Dr Potter's flow of words is that he invariably makes me feel like a music hall straight man, there to give encouragement and prompt the next outpouring. He moved nearer the door. ‘It's a magazine I wrote as an undergraduate, when the world was young. I only ever brought out two editions, and this copy was my last hurrah as a journalist. You'll find two articles of particular interest, or I'll eat this moth-eaten fedora.'

The door of the library opened. Chuckling, Dr Potter nodded to the man who was leaving and we both stepped inside. ‘Follow me,' Dr Potter whispered.

He led the way to the shelves where pamphlets are kept in box files. Bobbing down, he withdrew a box, opened it and took out several sheets of printed papers, bound together with string. No one speaks in the library. He mouthed, ‘Read this.'

I took it from him. With a gallant bow, he waved me to the counter before him.

Mr Lennox himself was there. He entered my item in the alphabetical register and in my personal ticket book.

I engaged in a little silent lip-speaking. ‘Where is Mrs Carmichael?'

He nodded in the direction of the committee room.

I tapped on the door, opened it and popped my head round.

Mrs Carmichael, deputy librarian, raised her eyebrows and smiled a greeting. She is about fifty, soberly dressed, and with salt and pepper hair. She radiates efficiency and would be excellent at evacuating a building in the event of a fire. Either she was born that way, or her inner calm is hard won. She wears a wedding ring, but there has never been mention of a Mr Carmichael.

She set down her pen and pushed aside a minute book. ‘Come and sit down, Mrs Shackleton. You're here about this evening.' She looked pleased, as if something important had been decided in her favour.

‘Yes. I could have spoken to Mr Lennox, but he is busy on the counter.'

Now I felt guilty, because I was going to let her down, and I could not even plead a more pressing obligation. Until there was some response to my newspaper announcements, or a lucky find by Sykes in the area of Compton Road, there was nothing more I could do about tracking down Sophia and her mother. It was only that I wanted to keep my concentration on the case, and not be caught up in some matter to do with staff discontent at the library. ‘The thing is, Mrs Carmichael, I was never sure from our telephone conversation quite what was expected of me this evening. As it happens I have rather a lot on just now so I am hoping that whatever it is can proceed without me.'