Death of an Avid Reader by Frances Brody Read Free Book Online

her?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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