Death of an Avid Reader (6 page)

Even to myself, I sounded wishy-washy. To say no having once said yes is such bad form. Yet sometimes I say yes too easily.

The weight of disappointment in her face would have launched a ship from its moorings.

‘Oh Mrs Shackleton, please do not retreat from this. I cannot be present myself, you see, and no one else … we have kept it quiet, except for a few individuals.'

‘But what am I expected to do? You said on the telephone that staff are uneasy about working in the basement. You want to be able to reassure them. Mustn't their unease be to do with poor lighting, or a damp atmosphere? We have proprietors who are expert in that sort of thing.'

She clasped her hands and leaned forward, staring at the table as if something in the grain of the wood might give her inspiration. When she looked up, her words came slowly. ‘I expect you have heard stories of the haunting, that the library has its ghost?'

‘It was mentioned to me once. I did not pay much attention.'

She sighed. ‘Then you are going to think me a very superstitious woman.' She played with her wedding ring. ‘I am not superstitious. I was brought up in a rational household. My father was a solicitor, though he died when I was very young. My mother, too, studied law and worked as a clerk until her marriage. She was active in the rational dress movement. I married a rather jolly man, fond of jokes, and in the end we did not suit each other. I am telling you this because I do not want you to laugh at what I have to say.'

‘I wouldn't laugh.'

She took a deep breath, placing her palms flat on the table, as if instructing her hands not to fidget. ‘The stories have always been about a former librarian haunting the place. But that is not all. There is something strange about the basement, several of us have felt it, a powerful feeling that comes over one suddenly, a cold chill, creaks and groans.'

‘This is a very old building.'

She continued as if I had not spoken ‘… a rush of cold air. I have experienced it myself. The librarian's wife, Mrs Lennox, she was a sensitive, as they call such people. Mr Lennox confided in me that she had second sight. Two years ago, she came to help unpack books. Afterwards, she was white and shaking. She would say nothing but she looked at me with such … I thought it was pity, at having to be here, in this place. A week later, she took to her bed and never recovered. There is something evil at work here.'

This was upsetting to hear, but it gave me a perfect excuse. ‘Then what you need is a man of the cloth, the vicar from the parish church, or the minister from Mill Hill.'

‘We have such a man. He will be here this evening.'

‘That's all right then.'

‘It is Father Bolingbroke. He is a Roman Catholic priest, versed in these matters, here on a sabbatical, studying the works of St Thomas Aquinas. Mr Lennox has prevailed upon him to bless the building.' I waited. Something told me that I was not off the hook. She leaned forward and this time clasped her hands as if in prayer. ‘He needs two acolytes who know the library and who are completely trustworthy. You are one. Mr Lennox is the other.'

‘Could you not take my place?'

‘I am a coward. Something in me revolts against the whole idea. I feel I would be overcome. You have the courage to do it. Afterwards I will be able to tell the counter assistants that you were here. That will make a difference.'

This was very flattering, but also absurd. I did not want to ridicule her fears and while I wondered how to respond, she continued. ‘It was Dr Potter who suggested you.'

‘Was it indeed?' I must remember to thank him, and find some way to return the favour.

‘He said that as the only lady on the committee, you are the perfect choice as far as discretion. Also, he believes that it would be difficult to enlist a staunch Protestant, or a strict non-conformist. They wouldn't do it. A Catholic would need permission from a parish priest. A fervent atheist would laugh. Say you will, Mrs Shackleton.'

‘So it's because of my sex and lack of religiosity.'

‘Not only that. Dr Potter thinks highly of you as a detective. He paraphrased Shakespeare. There is more on heaven and earth and in our basement than we dream of. He said that if anyone could discern the “more” that is in our basement, it would be our lady detective.'

He would have had his tongue firmly in cheek, but there was little point in saying that. Mrs Carmichael had me cornered. It was time to recognise defeat. I agreed as graciously as annoyance would allow.

‘Oh good. Thank you very much.'

Leaving Mrs Carmichael to her work, I took my leave.

I treated myself to lunch at Schofields. I would have preferred this to be a celebration for finding Sophia and her mother. Instead, it was my consolation for having to wait and hope. After that, I looked about the town for an hour or so. When I emerged from Marshall & Snelgrove, I was dismayed to see fog floating through the streets and to breathe in that horrid sulphurous dampness.

Time to go home.

This would not be the best of evenings to return to the library after hours in order to help lay a ghost, or a legion of ghosts.

Having parked near the library, I hurried back in that direction. That was when Miss Merton, my neighbour, hailed me. An avid reader, maker of jams and chutneys, she is housekeeper for her brother, the professor. They live directly opposite me. She bustled towards me, being a person who walks like a crowd, dangerously swinging her string bag full of borrowed books into the thigh of a passing businessman. With her other arm she held a shopping basket.

‘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 tall 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?'