Death of an Avid Reader (8 page)

The monkey did not want to be prised from Thomas, but reluctantly, eventually, it let me take its paw, and made little cries as Thomas went into the hall.

At the front door, he turned. ‘You'll let me know what happens?'

‘I will.'

When he had gone, Mrs Sugden said, ‘Are we taking monkeys as clients now?'

‘Where are those hazelnuts?' I opened the cabinet. ‘Are they in here?'

‘They're for Christmas. I've put 'em somewhere. Don't ask me where.'

It is very annoying to have groceries I buy and pay for hidden from view. ‘Then where are the dates?'

‘They're for Christmas an' all.'

‘We'll get some more.' I pounced on the box of dates. ‘It'll have to eat.'

‘How did it find its way here?'

‘It must have popped into my car when I wasn't looking. I gave Miss Merton a lift up from town and neither of us noticed it.'

‘Shouldn't the thing be wearing a collar and lead?'

It was a good point. ‘I suppose so. I hadn't thought of that.'

‘Has it bitten you yet?'

‘Not yet.'

‘It will. And its fleas will eat you up, and me, and the cat.'

‘I don't think fleas would survive in this weather.'

‘Oh they will, under its armpits, believe you me.'

‘I didn't know you were such an authority on monkeys.'

‘You don't need to be an authority to recognise that a wild animal doesn't belong in a civilised home.'

I opened the box of dates. She glared. ‘Don't blame me if I can't get any more and we're date-less for Christmas.'

‘Do you think it will swallow the stones?'

‘Your tea's ready. Happen you'd like it to have that.'

‘I'll be through in a few minutes.'

The monkey eyed the dates.

‘Wait on, don't be in such a rush.'

Taking stones from dates is sticky work and when an impatient monkey watches every move and makes small grabs, that does not make the task any easier. The poor thing was hungry. When the monkey had eaten all the dates, I gave it the box to play with and went to wash my hands, leaving the monkey to amuse itself. Taking apart a date box can be quite engrossing.

I went into the kitchen to eat as we had no fire lit in the dining room. Mrs Sugden took my food from the oven and put it on the table, lifting the pan lid that had covered it. ‘Don't blame me if it's not piping hot.'

Sausage, mash and peas, still piping hot.

The monkey appeared in the kitchen and sat on the rag rug in front of the range. Having peeled away the fancy paper from the date box, it fiddled with the balsa wood lid, separating the edge from the top. It worked with such delicacy that it was a joy to watch it make a mess, spreading paper and wood across the floor.

Mrs Sugden folded her arms. ‘Is it stopping the night?'

‘I don't know where else it will go.'

‘Where will it sleep?'

‘We'll think of something.'

This called for a diversion. Nothing pleases Mrs Sugden more than to have a little research to carry out. While her housekeeping skills are first class, the work does not satisfy her natural curiosity and retentive mind.

‘It would be a good idea if you could look up what type of monkey this is. Then we'll know its habits. If I have to advertise for its owner, I can give a proper description.'

‘I should think “monkey in a poorly knitted coat” would be sufficient.'

‘There are lots of kinds aren't there? It's not a chimpanzee. I'd feel very foolish to just say brown monkey with a whitish circle of hair around its head and a tail as long as itself.'

‘I hate long tails. Rats have long tails. I suppose I could look in your Mees'
Children's Encyclopaedia.
'

‘What a good idea.'

She was very slightly placated and slapped a cup of tea on the table while the monkey tactfully kept out of view. It even avoided tearing the bottom of the date box into tiny pieces, until she had left the room.

The monkey climbed onto a chair, staring at my cup of tea.

‘Want some?'

It pursed its lips.

I poured tea into a saucer. ‘Sugar? One lump or two?'

I stirred in a sugar lump.

This was the right thing to do. Monkey must have been well trained. It picked up the saucer and slurped the tea.

A few moments later, I went back into the drawing room where Mrs Sugden sat on the piano stool, an encyclopaedia open on the piano lid, under the glow of the lamp. She tapped at a picture. I stood beside her and looked at a photograph of a monkey that could have been cousin to this one.

‘It's a Capuchin, said to be bright and intelligent. They like to swing through the woods and they're not too fussy whether they eat nuts, berries or insects. They come from the Amazon.'

She glanced at the monkey. It was beside me, holding the hem of my skirt, its head tilted, listening to Mrs Sugden's every word. She softened a little. ‘Poor little mite. He should have been left to swing through the trees. If he swings through our trees he'll die of frostbite before you can say bananas.'

She closed the book and returned it to the shelf. ‘Better shut them curtains. Don't want neighbours looking through thinking we've started a menagerie.' She paused as she closed them and glanced at the house across the way. ‘You gave Miss Merton a lift up from town?'

‘Yes.'

‘Did she say anything?'

‘I was very surprised that she accepted my invitation to step inside and take a glass of wine. She doesn't usually.'

‘And what did she have to say may I ask?'

I had no hesitation about telling Mrs Sugden what Miss Merton had to say. The two are thick as thieves on all sorts of matters.

‘Her brother, Theodore, is in line for the post of vice chancellor.'

‘Did she tell you he has a rival?'

‘No.'

‘Well he has, and a very popular rival, a clever mathematician, Dr Potter.'

‘Then I hope she won't raise her hopes too much.'

‘What else did she say?'

‘She told me a ghost story, about the spectre of a librarian who haunts the Leeds Library.'

Mrs Sugden made a clucking noise, expressing disapproval. ‘That's not why she came in. I'm surprised you didn't winkle it out of her.'

‘She hinted at something before she left, that she meant to warn me, that we're not safe.'

‘She's worried about her brother. I think he's receiving funny letters. I was there two days ago when the postman came and she turned white when he handed her an envelope. I didn't deliberately read it, but I could see that it was addressed to the professor, the name and address written in block capitals, the kind of writing that would let a person disguise their handwriting.'

‘Isn't that reading rather a lot into the delivery of a letter?'

‘Well all I can say is I've never seen her so on edge. I wouldn't be at all surprised if someone is blackmailing him or threatening him in some way.'

‘She mentioned nothing like that.'

‘She wouldn't would she? Not unless you provided the opening. When she's summat of importance to say, she never does anything less than go all round the houses before she gets to it.'

‘I'll speak to her tomorrow, if I can find a way of doing so without being intrusive. She'll be interested to know how I get on tonight at the library.'

Mrs Sugden's face expressed utter dismay. ‘You're going out again in this fog?' She stared through a gap in the curtains. ‘If ever there was a night for keeping out of harm's way, this is that night.'

Eight

Mrs Sugden made no further comment about my venturing out on such a night, but I could see that it was hard for her to keep quiet. She put the kitchen fireguard in place, a concession to the monkey who, after a drink of milk, had curled up on the rug next to my bemused cat, Sookie. Sookie had hissed, resenting the intrusion into her realm, but the monkey skilfully ingratiated himself. Now they both slept. Mrs Sugden, who would normally retire to her own quarters at this time, brought in her knitting, to sit by the fire and keep an eye on the little primate.

‘No good will come of it,' she called into the hall as I wrapped a scarf around my nose and throat and set off to see Jim Sykes before catching the tram.

Sykes lives a short distance away. I cut through the wood and the back streets to his house. Sophia and her mother Jennifer had lived on Compton Road, with the ill-fated second husband, Mr Bradshaw. Reaching Beulah Street, I thought how wonderful it would be if Sykes opened the door and said, ‘I've found them!'

It would have been wonderful, but only the opening of the door part came true.

‘Come in! I was going to call round soon as we'd finished tea.'

The family was gathered at the table, each with something to say, and offering me a chair.

‘I'm not staying more than a couple of minutes.'

‘She's come to talk to me, not you lot.'

‘Any news?' I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing, or I would have been round to see you like a shot. I enquired with neighbours, the post office, and all the shops. The newsagent remembers Mrs Bradshaw coming regularly for a paper, but no one knows where they went when they left the area.'

‘That's a pity.'

‘But it's good that she buys the local paper.'

‘Yes. I paid for the insertions today. They will be in tomorrow's editions.'

Sykes put on his cheerful voice. ‘With a bit of luck, mother or daughter will read the announcement on Saturday and write to us on Sunday. Who knows, perhaps by Monday there will be something to collect from the box numbers.'

‘That would be excellent.' I pulled my scarf tight. ‘Best be going. I'm off to catch the tram to town. I'm expected for a meeting at the library.'

Sykes's wife, Rosie, looked up from dishing out potatoes. ‘Jim, won't you drive Mrs Shackleton?'

‘I don't need to be driven. Safer on the tram in this weather.'

Sykes took his coat from the hook. ‘Then I'll walk you to the stop.'

Rosie picked up a plate. ‘I'll put your tea in the oven, Jim.'

I did not object to being walked to the tram. Mentioning the monkey in front of the Sykes's three children would have caused far too much interest. He listened as I gave an account of finding the creature, and asked him to keep his ear to the ground for news of the organ grinder.

‘A monkey like that's a valuable commodity. I wonder what's happened to the man. I'll have a word with the local beat bobby. He might know something.'

Our conversation was cut short as the tram arrived.

I settled into my seat. Street lamps shone dimly through the gloom, blobs of dark mustard paste. Here and there I saw the dim outline of a familiar building, transformed into something strangely Gothic: the university, the chapel, and later Becketts Bank, alerting me to give a nod to the conductor who rang the bell.

Perhaps this would be a good night for a departing ghost. Fog would seep into the building, swallow up the spectre and slide away through gaps in the window frames.

I hopped off the tram and walked for a few yards, the weather turning a simple journey into an adventure. When turning the corner, I heard the muffled voice of the newspaper seller.

He stood close by the gas lamp, cap pulled down, muffler tightly wound. A short man, he wore a greatcoat that was too large. Its shoulders hung about his upper arms. The cuffs were turned up but even so reached his fingertips.

I bought the evening paper with a sixpence and told him to keep the change.

As he thanked me, the muffler slipped. His mouth hung lop-sided.

‘Have you been here long?' I began, by way of starting a conversation.

In answer, he held up his right hand for inspection. I peered closely and saw that he was missing a finger and thumb.

‘I been here twelve years, ever since I lost two digits and was let go from my job as a joiner. Not that I couldn't have shifted just the same, but I was slowed down, see. Nobody wants a man who's slowed down.'

‘I see. Well I noticed you here earlier and…'

‘I come here from Morley. No man wants to be seen in a reduced state in his own town. So we flitted here and the better for it.' He coughed and spat politely, keeping his phlegm well away from me. ‘Late ed-i-tion. Read all abaht it.'

‘Did you see the organ grinder today?'

‘I heard nowt and seen less, specially since this fog come in.'

‘Thank you.' It had been worth a try, but this would be no kind of day for playing tunes and gathering pennies.

It was not yet 6.30 p.m. I took a flashlight from my pocket. Not that it did a great deal of good, but I could see my own feet and a little space on either side. I walked the length of Commercial Street, glancing in doorways. On the far corner was a glowing brazier and the welcome smell of roasting chestnuts.

The chestnut seller was a small man with a big head. It was as if his body had forgotten to grow and sent all its power into his head, arms and hands the size of shovels.

I bought a bag of chestnuts. ‘Have you seen the organ grinder today?'

He stamped his feet and rubbed his hands, holding them over the coals. ‘There'd be nowt doin' for him on a day like this.'

‘I have something that belongs to him. Do you know where he lodges?'

‘No idea, missus.'

Another customer came for chestnuts.

I turned away, warming my hands on the bag.

A narrow alley, Change Alley, runs along the back of the library and adjoining shops. I entered the alley with some trepidation, knowing it to be a haunt for ladies of the night. Fortunately, the weather kept such ladies and their gentlemen at bay and the place was deserted. I walked along the alley from the Lands Lane end, torch in one hand, chestnuts in the other. In two places, steps lead down to basement entrances. At the first spot, I flashed the torch, not sure what I was seeking. Was the organ grinder homeless, or hurt? Near the second set of steps, a back entrance to the library, I spotted something amid the debris of empty cigarette packets, the page of a newspaper, a torn brown paper bag. As I bobbed down to look, chestnuts fell to the ground. Food for rats. I half-expected an army of them to come running.