The Silver Bough (22 page)

In the bakery, she bought a fresh, warm loaf of bread, four morning rolls, and—so as to have something to offer Graeme and Ashley—four assorted sweet pastries. She made a change from her usual route on her way back by turning down a back street behind the Orchard Hotel, and saw a shop she’d never noticed before. It was the sort of odd, old-fashioned business she’d occasionally encountered in this country, a shop that offered specialist items, obscure hardware, or obsolete technologies ignored by the profit-driven superstores. Appleton had several small, family-run shops that appeared to operate on the narrowest margin of survival as they sold sweets, sundries, or restaurant supplies to an ever-shrinking market, but Kathleen had not seen this one before. Peering into the dim interior—it wasn’t open yet, of course—she tried to work out what it sold. There was no window display, and the ancient wooden shelves that lined the walls were filled with plain cardboard boxes that gave no clue as to their contents. They might have been shoes or fishing tackle or office supplies or even magic wands.

Stepping back, she looked up at the storefront where the name
W
.
P
.
MACTAGGART
&
SONS
shone out in carved and apparently recently regilded letters, but there was not a hint of what their business might be. There ought to have been a shingle hanging out, with a carved and painted picture of something…a wizard, or a bubbling cauldron; then it would have been at home in Diagon Alley. Smiling at her fanciful thoughts about what was probably no more exciting than an out-of-business shoe shop, she went on her way. But it bothered her that she couldn’t remember having seen the shop before. She did notice things, usually.

She’d switched on the office coffeemaker a few minutes before Graeme and Ashley arrived, and he sniffed appreciatively as she ushered them into her office.

“Would you like a cup before we start?”

“Mmm, please!” Graeme rubbed his hands and beamed, but Ashley shook her head.

“There are pastries.” She offered the plate.

“No, I’m OK.”

She looked faintly sullen; Kathleen wondered whether Graeme’s idea of a special treat had been imposed against her will. “Juice, water, anything? I think there might be a diet Dr Pepper…”

“I’m fine.”

“Why don’t you go have a look around the museum?” said Graeme. He glanced at Kathleen. “Are the doors open?”

“Yes, everything’s unlocked.”

“We’ll come get you when we’re ready,” said Graeme, treating her more like one of his children than the adult she was. “Or just come back here if you get fed up.”

She shrugged and sighed before wandering off. Graeme took a sip of coffee and turned back to Kathleen. “She found it hard to get moving this morning. Jet lag, I guess. Plus, I don’t think she’s really a morning person.”

“I hope she’s not going to be bored.”

“Bored? No! She enjoyed the museum on Saturday, I know she did. Plus, she’s really interested in art. And she thinks this is a great old building.”

“Well, that’s nice. But she’s seen the best of it already. There’s just a few rooms upstairs…it’s not the most thrilling tour.”

“Oh, Kathleen, I object! It is
most
thrilling.” He lifted a Danish and inspected it through narrowed eyes. “Did you buy this from that funny old bird on the pier?”

“Funny old bird?”

“She was dressed like Whistler’s mother. Or do I mean Rembrandt’s mother? Long dress and a funny sort of bonnet covering up her head so you couldn’t see a single hair, or her ears—I don’t know what it was in aid of, but she was selling home baking off a tray on the pier, and doing a roaring trade. They usually do those things in one of the church halls on a Saturday.”

“I didn’t see her. I got those from the bakery on Main Street, and I didn’t go by the pier at all.” Recalling the route she had taken, she asked him about W. P. MacTaggart & Sons.

He shook his head. “Sure you remembered the name right?”

“I think so.”

“On Kirk Street?”

“If that’s the street that runs along behind the Orchard Hotel.”

He nodded. “But there’s nothing like that there. Sure you weren’t on the other side of Main, running along to George Square? There’s the tobacconist, Peter Marr, which looks old-fashioned.”

“I know the tobacconist’s. It’s got an amazing display of pipes and exotic cigarettes and jars of peppermints in the window.”

“He might have cleared it out.”

“I wasn’t on that side of the street. I was coming back to the library. It was a couple of doors past the chandler’s shop, before you get to the dry cleaner’s.”

“You’ve got me,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve never noticed it. They must not get mail.”

Ashley was in the museum, standing and staring intently up at
Appleton Fair Day
. She scarcely looked around when they came in, as if, thought Kathleen, she was reading the picture and didn’t want to lose her place.

“Who is that, do you know? That man kind of lurking in the background there…you can hardly see him…it looks like he’s got something on his head…is it a turban?”

Although the figures in the foreground could be seen very clearly beneath the light that came from the two carefully angled lamps fixed to the wall above the picture, details in the background were more obscure. Kathleen fetched the heavy-duty flashlight from beneath the counter. “I’ve never really noticed that man before,” she remarked, before aiming the light at the dark, skulking figure. “Seems to be my day for seeing things for the first time.”

She heard Ashley gasp at the same moment recognition constricted her own lungs. She thought of the young man she’d seen on the street corner, gazing up at her bedroom window on the night of the earthquake. She’d seen him so briefly, and the painted face was so small, that she couldn’t say it for a certainty, but she felt the likeness was undeniable. Which meant, probably…her eyes swept back to the young Victorian woman who was the very image of Graeme’s wife Shona…that far from being a stranger here, the man she’d seen was the descendant of some longtime Appleton family.

“Graeme, do you know who that is?” Ashley sounded urgent. “I’m sure I’ve seen him—well, his relative—around here.”

“That’s not very likely.”

“Why?” Speaking together, they stopped and gave each other a suspicious, assessing glance.

Graeme gave a little laugh at the chorus, although he looked puzzled. “Well, because, if I’m right—and, mind, I’m just basing this on something I read, and some old photos—that’s a Wall. I don’t know which one, because he’s a young-looking man, and when this was painted Lachlan Wall must have been in his sixties. His younger brother James, if he was still alive at that point, lived in Jamaica or someplace like that, and his son, Alexander, was just a wee boy.”

“Alexander Wall, the architect?”

“That’s right.”

“So it might be one of his descendants.”

“There aren’t any. Not alive today.”

“Where did you see him?” Ashley demanded.

Kathleen looked up, turning the flashlight beam on the man in the turban again. “He wasn’t wearing a turban when I saw him, but he was sort of exotic-looking. That’s why I noticed him. He was…outside the library.”

“He didn’t come in?”

“No. You know him?”

It was Ashley’s turn to look away. “No. I saw him, too. Thought he was dead sexy. I was hoping you could give me his phone number.”

Kathleen switched off the light. “Shall we move on?”

She led them back through the library, into the grand foyer, pointing out design features, but cutting it short when she began to suspect Ashley had already heard all this from Graeme. “You probably already saw the Ladies’ Reading Room?”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t mind looking at it again. That frieze-thing above the fireplace is gorgeous.”

“Yes, isn’t it! It’s by Frances Macdonald.”

“Was she local?”

“No, she was a Glasgow artist; part of Charles Rennie Mackintosh’s group—his wife’s sister, in fact. Both women were very fine artists. The Hunterian in Glasgow has more of her work, if you’re interested.”

“I am. I’ll look out for it when I go there.”

Kathleen led her visitors past the old counter that barred the way into the back, explaining that in the old days what was now the reference room would have been closed stacks. Behind the old counter she unlocked a door—a modern addition—to reveal a metal spiral staircase.

Mindful of Graeme’s eagerness, and of the fact that she was wearing a skirt, Kathleen nodded at him. “Why don’t you go first, and wait for us to follow.” He sprang forward, not needing further encouragement, and she explained to Ashley, with a glance at the steps shivering beneath his moving weight, “They are perfectly safe, these stairs, but they do kind of judder, so I worry about putting them under too much strain. It’s probably better to go up one by one.”

“Do they go all the way up into the dome?”

“Oh, no. There’s no way into the dome—it’s purely decorative.” From the look on her face, she guessed Graeme had told her otherwise. She gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry…it’s really not very exciting. I don’t know why Graeme thinks this is such a big deal, but it won’t take long.” Now that the stairs had stopped quivering, she seized hold of the railing. “Unless you want to go first? No? Well, just give me a couple of seconds before you follow.”

The short spiral of steps ended in a long, empty room. There was a big bay window on one side which looked out into the high-ceilinged foyer. Thanks to the glass panels set in and above the doors to the Ladies’ Reading Room and the main library, it was possible, from here, to keep an eye on whatever was happening, with only the reference room and the museum out of sight.

“This was the old librarian’s office,” Kathleen explained. “In the old days he could come and go between his little eyrie upstairs and the counter below and never miss a trick.”

“But it’s not used for anything now?”

“Health and safety regulations,” she said, waving her hand at the staircase. “No good for storage, with staff having to haul boxes up and down those, ditto clambering up here every time you want a tea break. We couldn’t provide disabled access, and I think Mr. Dean—he was the previous librarian—had a problem with his hip.”

“I think it would be cool to have your office up here,” said Ashley, gazing through the window at the stained glass above the front entrance. “It’s kind of like…a control room in a big ship or something.”

With an odd little jolt Kathleen recalled her dream of three nights before, when the library had been a ship at sea. With an effort, she collected her thoughts and directed her guests’ attention to the other interesting feature of the room, on the wall behind them. A full-sized apple tree, cast or molded in plaster, stretched from the bottom of the wall to the top, with a few branches and leaves trailing across the ceiling.

“Weird,” said Ashley, sounding startled. “I didn’t even notice there was anything there!”

“No, the light isn’t very good; it tends to blend in with the wall, especially as it’s all covered in the same, cream-colored paint,” Kathleen said.

“It’s kind of like that tree above the door of that pub, you know, the Orchard? Funny they didn’t paint it in different colors.”

Kathleen nodded her agreement; she’d had exactly the same thought when she’d been given her first tour of the building.

“Not much point,” said Graeme. “The way it’s placed, you can’t even see it from the foyer below. I know, because I’ve tried from practically every angle. Yet if they’d just placed it a little farther over, more in the center of the room, I bet you could see it from the foyer, especially if it had bright green leaves and red apples. But this way…well, it’s for the librarian’s use only.”

“Is it by some famous artist?” Ashley moved closer to peer at the bumpy texture of the bark and the smooth projecting globes that were apples.

“I doubt it. There doesn’t seem to be any record of who did it, which suggests it was probably the architect himself.”

“Weird,” said Ashley again, turning away and dismissing it with a shrug.

“Well, are we ready to go?”

“There’s more to the upstairs than this,” Graeme objected.

“Yes, but you can’t get there from here.” She led the way, and one at a time they returned downstairs and across the reference room, then through the door marked
EMERGENCY USE ONLY
and up another, more solid, set of stairs to the old meeting room.

“I’m afraid you aren’t seeing this room at its best, because it’s been used for storage.”

“That’s the Wall collection, am I right?” Graeme gazed avidly at the glass-fronted bookcases.

“That’s right. Soon to be sold off, once there’s been a proper evaluation.”

“That’s not right.” He scowled. “Old Lachlan Wall donated his personal library—which included books his grandfather had collected—to the people of Appleton, for their education and enrichment.”

She suspected Graeme would not be the only local resident to object to selling off an entitlement they had never seen or previously cared about. “Times change. Some of these books may have been cutting-edge when they were donated, but very few people are interested in reading them now. Some may be collectors’ items, but others”—her eyes fell on a set of books beautifully bound in dark burgundy-colored leather, with gilt lettering on the spines announcing
The Collected Sermons
—“just take up space. I think most people would rather we had funds to buy more new books.”