Free Death of an Avid Reader by Frances Brody Page B

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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I see. Well I noticed you here earlier and…’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Did you see the organ grinder today?’
    â€˜I heard nowt and seen less, specially since this fog come in.’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I have something that belongs to him. Do you know where he lodges?’
    â€˜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.
    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