Death of an Avid Reader (9 page)

My find was a tiny scarlet fez with black tassel, just the right size for the head of a Capuchin monkey.

The rest of the alley revealed nothing of interest. I tucked the fez in my satchel, along with the flashlight, and walked round to the library's main entrance which faces south on Commercial Street.

The librarian opened the door on my first ring. He gave a quick smile of greeting: ‘Nasty night.' His eyes darted beyond me, looking left and right as though expecting to see someone else. I stepped inside. In a trice he closed the door. ‘Don't want to give the impression we are open for business.'

Mr Lennox is what I suppose people call a rangy kind of man, who swings his arms and takes long strides over short distances. Had there ever been a ponderous bone in his body, he must have had it surgically removed. This excess of physical movement is not matched by decisiveness. He usually waits to see which way the wind blows before making a decision.

We mounted the broad staircase. ‘Father Bolingbroke will be here shortly. He has gone to the Cathedral for a supply of blessed candles and holy water.'

The fog had followed me in and crept up behind us, adding to that already sulphurous smell that had built up during the late afternoon and evening.

‘Is it thick up your way?'

‘It is. I came on the tram.'

‘I am much obliged to you, and sorry to bring you out on such a night.'

At the top of the stairs, he pushed open the door. I stepped into the deserted main room, where the fire had been allowed to burn low. The electric lights glowed brightly, surely a disincentive to any wandering spirit.

A cheerful fire blazed in the committee room. Mr Lennox shut up a ledger that lay open on the long table. He drew a comfortable chair close to the fire for me, and sat down opposite.

My throat and nose were dry from fog. I wondered whether he would offer a drink. He did not.

‘Father Bolingbroke won't be long. He will be praying for the strength to do a thorough exorcism.'

This sounded alarming.

‘What are we to do?'

‘We will walk the building. He will bless each room, paying particular attention to the corners, I understand. Any lingering spectre will be encouraged to continue its unearthly journey and cease to haunt the material world where once it dwelled.'

‘Does he really need two attendants?'

‘We are the witnesses, and will report to the committee, and reassure staff and nervous library members.'

‘Do you believe the building is haunted, Mr Lennox?'

‘It is not a matter of what I believe. The committee has agreed and even those not of his persuasion place great trust in Father Bolingbroke.'

‘Do you?'

‘Oh yes, fine chap, was an army padre. He was with the missions before the war and the stories he can tell! We're very fortunate he has come to spend time at the library during his sabbatical.'

‘Why? I mean, why has he come here?'

Lennox stared at me, surprised that any living soul would question the value of a stint in this hallowed place. ‘We have the complete works of St Thomas Aquinas.'

I did not know whether to be pleased or disappointed that Lennox no more believed in a ghost than I did. But I could see that the arrival of the charismatic priest would appeal to members of the committee. They were giving the clergyman access to the library's treasures. As true Yorkshiremen, they might as well avail themselves of his services while he was here, to expel the ghost, whether it existed or not.

Of course it could backfire. Lennox and I would be weak links in the armour of righteousness. The ghost would take umbrage at our disbelief and dig itself deeper into the bookcases.

A neutral topic was in order. I remembered my conversation with Dr Potter earlier in the day, about the counter assistant he had taken a liking to.

‘I haven't seen Miss Montague lately.'

He gazed at a print on the wall. ‘Ah. No. You wouldn't.'

‘Why?'

‘She left our employment rather suddenly.'

The interruption, when the doorbell rang, brought a look of undisguised relief to Lennox's face. He bounced to his feet. ‘Here comes Father Bolingbroke.'

Alone in the brightly lit room, I felt the weight of silence. It was easy to imagine that panels by the fireplace might slide open to reveal a secret passage, or that behind a bookcase a hidden room concealed ancient bones.

Footsteps broke the silence.

Father Bolingbroke strode, smiling, into the room and filled it with his presence.

‘Mrs Shackleton, so good of you to come.'

A tall, broad-chested man with gentle eyes, he has a face out of a medieval painting: pale, prominent forehead, long pointed nose, sucked-in cheeks and a jutting chin. His appearance should be grotesque but is somehow attractive. Although he has taken up residence in the library only since September, he has been the victim of much hospitality, which he bears in a kindly, accepting manner. I suspect that all his life, like a popular library book, he has been in demand.

He handed his dark felt hat and threadbare coat to Mr Lennox. He took a large white hanky from the pocket of his cassock and blew his nose loudly enough to alert any ghosts that they had better watch out. ‘Something to cut the fog, you say, Mr Lennox?'

The priest took Mr Lennox's seat while the librarian disappeared across the corridor for glasses.

‘God bless you, Mrs Shackleton for taking part in His work. That you are here will greatly reassure the ladies. May we set this spirit to rest if it is benign and if it hovers here in order to beseech prayers. If it is a demon, I will cast it out in Jesus's name.'

The librarian produced glasses and a bottle of stout. He glanced at me with a question. I nodded. Stout is not my first choice of drink but since nothing else was on offer it would have to do.

As we sipped our stout, and there was no further talk of the task in hand, the two men discussed St Thomas Aquinas. I considered mentioning the organ grinder's monkey but disliked to lower the tone. There are certain people who are always ready to regale listeners with something odd that happened to them today. Now that something odd had happened to me, I felt unable to say a word about it.

When we had finished our stout, the priest produced two candles and squashed their bottoms into the waiting brass holders. Taking a taper from the jar on the mantelpiece, he lit the candles and handed one to each of us.

He took a missal from his pocket, opened it and murmured a prayer.

Lennox and I dutifully added the amen.

‘I'll start at the top,' Father Bolingbroke announced briskly, as if intending to produce a broom and give the place a good clean.

From the committee room he led the way up the staircase to the balcony, followed by Mr Lennox. I brought up the rear, hoping the ghost was not tagging along behind laughing or, worse still, ready to grab me.

In procession, we walked around the balcony as the priest murmured prayers and incantations. Lennox managed the situation better than I, quick with his amens and good at shielding his candle. Given that two out of three of us did not believe in ghosts, the procedure had a seriously unreal feeling to it. I detached my thoughts and began to glance at the titles of volumes. I did not usually come up to the balcony. It brought me up short to see the title
Dead Souls,
by Gogol. I snapped myself back to attention. If there really were a ghost and it refused to leave, then I might be to blame for not being sufficiently wholehearted.

Father Bolingbroke had certainly familiarised himself with the labyrinthine layout of the library and missed no small room, no nook or cranny. He led us at a cracking pace. Any watching spirit might feel dismay at being dubbed unclean and summarily cast out. He beseeched any lost soul not to linger in this material world, this vale of tears, clinging on in a place from whence its companions were long fled. Prayers would be said. Deliverance would be at hand.

When we had walked the entire library, Father Bolingbroke led us to the basement entrance. He opened the door.

I did not relish going down there.

Lennox's comment did not help. ‘Father Bolingbroke, this is where my late wife said she felt the cold air of the afterlife. Staff call it the tenth circle, where hell freezes, reserved for souls who deface library books.'

Father Bolingbroke ignored these comments and cast a careful eye at our candles, which burned steadily. ‘Is there electric light down there?'

‘Yes but it is not well lit.' Lennox stepped through the door and flicked a switch. ‘Wait here until I call, when I have the lights on.'

He picked up a flashlight.

In solemn silence, the priest and I waited. Through the open door to the basement, I watched as the librarian sped down the steep dimly-lit steps with the agility of a ballet dancer.

It was a good three minutes before he returned, whitefaced and trembling. Never have I seen such a total transformation in a person. We both stared at him. He blocked the doorway, so we could not see beyond him.

The expression on Father Bolingbroke's face changed from serene holiness to panic. He stepped back a little, as if some evil power was at this very moment attempting to throw him off course. I half expected him to hold up a crucifix and denounce the devil and all his pomp and works.

Lennox swayed. I feared he would fall. At the same time, Father Bolingbroke and I each took an arm and led him to the nearest chair.

‘There has been a most terrible … an accident.'

‘What kind of accident?' I asked.

‘A bookcase toppled. There is someone under it.'

‘Stay here, dear lady.' Bolingbroke thrust his missal and candle at me. ‘Are you up to showing me where, my dear Lennox?'

Lennox did not answer.

Hoisting his cassock, Bolingbroke headed for the basement door.

Mr Lennox looked deeply shocked. I had left my satchel by the counter. I fetched it and took out the flask of brandy. ‘Here, take a drink. Give yourself a moment to recover and then telephone for an ambulance and the police. I will go downstairs and help Father Bolingbroke.'

Feeling a sudden horror of becoming trapped in the bowels of the building, and the lights going out, I propped open the basement door with a chair.

Nine

Hurrying down the worn stone steps, I touched the wall more for reassurance than for balance. The steps dipped in the middle from generations of use. Gripped by an irrational fear, I forced myself to continue. What if more people trod their way down these stairs than ever stepped back up? Spiritualists believe that just on the other side of some part of our everyday world is a portal into the beyond. Would this basement provide the entrance to hell?

Lennox may have panicked, and only imagined that there was a body under the books.

The atmosphere changed. Breathing in rank air, with the faint whiff of a distant sewer, I stepped across the cold flagged floor, shivers tickling the soles of my feet and shooting ice into my veins. In the stillness, I thought I heard the rush of the river under the ground. I wanted to call out to Father Bolingbroke, but felt a choking sensation in my throat. Hearing a faint noise, I moved through the narrow space between two high shelves of musty volumes. At the end of that passageway, I saw that a free-standing bookshelf had toppled. It leaned precariously against a bookshelf that was attached to the wall on the left. The sound came from there.

In the dim light, I made out the figure of Father Bolingbroke, on his knees with his back to me. He was moving books. That had been the sound I heard. A mountain of volumes lay on the floor, having fallen from the tipped shelf.

Startled by my footsteps, he turned suddenly. ‘Stay back!'

There was no choice but to stay back. The space was too narrow for more than one person. As I stared, I realised that the fallen volumes took the shape of a burial mound. I saw the toe of a black shoe protruding through the books.

Surely being hit by falling books was not fatal. If the person were still alive, he needed to be able to breathe. I must be at the other end, and take the books from the man's head. What was Bolingbroke thinking of?

Hurrying, I walked behind the fallen bookcase so that I could reach the head of the person who lay wedged. He must be freed.

I knelt as close as I could and began to move books, hurling them aside. Dust and the mouldy smell of old print caught my throat. How tall you are, I thought.

And then I saw the battered black fedora. Time stopped as I picked it up by the brim and set it carefully to one side. I knew, but did not want to know. The hat was as familiar to me as the man. It belonged to Dr Potter. My job now was to be quick, be quick about it. Don't let your hands shake. Look what you are doing.

His grey hair had kept its careful parting. His head lay to one side, at an awkward angle. Blood congealed at the back of his head, where he had taken a bump, or been hit.

I stared into unseeing eyes, once grey, now shot through with blood. Dr Potter's face was red and distorted, his dark tongue protruding. The elegant white silk scarf tightly encircled his throat. In some futile hope that I was wrong and he might breathe again, I loosened it. The skin on his neck was red where the scarf had choked him. This could not be accidental. Dr Potter had been strangled. Knowing he was dead, I still felt for a pulse.

Father Bolingbroke was suddenly by my side. ‘Who is it?'

There was no pulse. I could not move or speak, but knelt there, staring, willing this not to be true.

The priest helped me up. ‘There's nothing more to be done for him in this life. Who is it?'

‘Dr Potter.'

‘Give me a moment with him.'

I stood, rooted to the spot. Gently, Bolingbroke put his hands on my shoulders and led me back to the space beyond the fallen bookshelf. ‘Go back upstairs, Mrs Shackleton. I will pray for him.' He turned back.

Stumbling, I retraced my steps. Looking back, I glanced at Dr Potter's highly polished black boots, lightly coated with dust, so strange and unreal. A small volume caught my eye. It rested near his heel. I recognised it as one of the library's treasures, sometimes on display in a glass cabinet. I bent to pick it up, which seemed an absurd action but also somehow fitting.