The Library Paradox

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘Most embarrassing, this looking at other people’s letters,’ he murmured uncomfortably, taking them and squinting at the Frenchman’s rather difficult handwriting. ‘This letter must be about the Dreyfus affair,’ he added after a moment, brightening visibly. ‘It simply has to be the very one he mentioned to me.’ This thought, or the exciting nature of the documents, appeared to relieve him of some of his scruples. ‘By that journalist I told you about, whose name I couldn’t remember. Lazare – yes, that’s it, Bernard Lazare, a French journalist much in the public eye. It is certainly he, and he does seem to assert that a new document has appeared, which apparently indicates another person as the guilty party. Dear me, this is exciting – I simply must find out more about it! Do you know, I must show you my dossier on the Dreyfus case when you come to the house for dinner. It’s a shocking business, you cannot imagine. I’ve been in contact with the family; they’re grateful to anyone who will show a bit of support. They’d give their right arms to make some progress in finding the true culprit. Perhaps this will finally turn out to be a break in the case, though it’s all rather cryptic. What exactly is a “petit bleu”?’

  ‘It’s a handwritten telegram on a standard blue postal form,’ I told him. ‘But he doesn’t say from whom to whom. It sounds exciting to me, too, but apparently this letter didn’t have that effect on Professor Ralston. He appears to have decided to dismiss the whole thing out of hand.’

  ‘Well, that would be typical, I should say. Once he had got his opinion on something fixed, it was virtually impossible to make him change it. A pity. Such rigidity is not a professional advantage. Here, for instance,’ he added, taking up one of the papers he had been inspecting, ‘in this text, he absolutely insists on defending what is really now considered an outdated interpretation of some remarks by Torquemada …’

  I left him to his studies, and after taking a few moments to copy down the contents of the two letters in my notebook, I replaced them more or less where I had found them and turned my attention to the drawers of the overturned desk. They yielded nothing of interest, however. There were only four of them, and two of those contained writing implements and blank sheets. The other two contained only work related to his teaching: carefully organised folders contained outlines of lectures and courses, and also lists of undergraduates and doctoral students, accompanied by personal commentaries, generally of a sour nature, such as: ‘no insight, destined to fail’ or ‘unpleasantly obsequious although hard-working’. My eye caught a familiar name: ‘Edmund Bryant: persists in stubbornly developing wrong ideas.’ I felt a brief flash of sympathy for the pale-eyed youth.

  After this, I spent more than two hours looking through the drawers of the heavy oak cabinet containing so-called personal papers, although I must observe that anything less personal I have rarely witnessed. I peered through many years of pass books from the bank, vigilant for the appearance (or disappearance) of the unexpected lump sum, which could denote blackmail, or other activities of a doubtful nature. I have kept regularly to this habit ever since the day when such a discovery led me to the true reasons for the inexplicable behaviour of a certain man whose wife had come to me in distress, having incomprehensibly been offered a diamond bracelet in spite of living on straitened means. But there was nothing of the kind in Professor Ralston’s financial life. His monthly stipend appeared with clockwork regularity, and his expenses were relatively few. A larger sum spent in December 1894 was attributed by Professor Taylor to the aforementioned trip to France. Nor could I find anything in the least bit untoward in the neatly organised piles of bills.

  I read rapidly and indiscreetly through a fairly copious correspondence, but there were no personal letters in it at all; they were all more or less official. I discovered that the firm of lawyers representing Professor Ralston was one Gumbadge, Gumbadge & Upp, a fact that I stored away in my mind for future reference. I also found two previous letters from Bernard Lazare, dating from last year; one of them contained an impassioned argument for the innocence of Dreyfus, and the other a carefully developed essay criticising the social ills produced by anti-Semitism. Although Professor Ralston’s replies were not to hand, I was beginning to be able to form an idea of what they were probably like.

  In a separate drawer, I did come upon a small packet of handwritten letters, which I snatched up eagerly, but they were merely from Professor Ralston’s father, and contained little of interest. They were few and far between, sent from various places during his periods of travel; mostly from Poland, but occasionally from Romania, Bulgaria or Paris. Their tone was formally affectionate but not warm, and they contented themselves with some remarks concerning the author’s travels, some concerning his health, and kind queries as to his son’s welfare. Every now and then I came upon a slight variation, such as an answer to something the professor had asked, or an amusing anecdote or complaint. But there was absolutely nothing which seemed to have a bearing on the murder. I scanned the most recent letter, written one month ago in Warsaw, with particular attention, but it remained opaque, so I put all the letters together and, slipping them back into their drawer, I turned to the other cabinet.

  Professor Taylor had gone through much of it already, but although he was very eager to help me, it turned out to be perfectly impossible to make him understand the kind of thing I was seeking; the more so as I found it difficult to explain even to myself. Not only did he fail to understand, but he had an irresistible tendency to latch onto various things, which he found peculiar, such as the complete lack of critical analysis which apparently struck Professor Ralston, like a blindness, when confronting certain specific questions such as the effect on commerce of the exclusion of the Jews from the silk-making guild, a trade in which they had developed great expertise. He went into the peculiarity of these views at great length, criticising Ralston and distracting me from advancing in my task. However, he took no offence at the fact that I continued to rustle papers while he talked, and I kept one ear on what he was saying, and one eye on the contents of each drawer.

  ‘Look at this,’ I said suddenly, interrupting his stream of remarks, and lifting out a leather document holder from the bottom of one of the lowest drawers, I showed it to him. It was inscribed ‘B.L.’, and although by the worn shape of it, it had once contained a thick pile of documents, it appeared to contain nothing now.

  ‘He emptied this one out,’ observed the professor.

  I opened it. It was indeed empty, except for a single small sheet, which had got stuck under the metal clasp of the folder.

  ‘That’s odd,’ I remarked. ‘I found letters from Bernard Lazare in the other cabinet. What can this have been?’ I shook the folder to dislodge the little sheet, but it did not fall out. I did not want to detach it by force, for I was afraid that the police might have already noticed its existence, but the blank, back side of the paper was all that was visible. However, by peeling it back delicately and turning the folder around, I was able to read over the contents. Although unfamiliar to me and not very precise, they generated a spontaneous feeling of disgust and faint horror within me.

  ‘What an awful man Professor Ralston must have been,’ I said.

  The paper contained a handwritten list, which ran as follows.

  1144: William of Norwich (England). Jewish leaders executed

  1171: Blois, France. Thirty-one Jews killed

  1180–1200: Bury St Edmunds, Bristol, Winchester

  1199: 1235: Erfurt, Bischofsheim, Lauda, Fulda (Germany)

  1244: London: Jewish citizens heavily fined (?)

  1255: Little St Hugh (Chaucer). 100 hanged

  1462: Anderl von Rinn

  1475: Saint Simon of Trent

  1490: Torquemada, LaGuardia trial: 8 Jews burnt

  1840: Murder of Padre Tommaso of Damascus

  1853: The incident in Saratova, Russia

  1880–1890: large influx of Eastern European Jews to London

  1886: James Wilson

  For recently publi
shed Catholic analyses, see:

  Bishop Martin of Paderborn, 1872

  Roman Catholic journal Civiltà Cattolica, 1881

  The last dated entry in the list, mentioning James Wilson, had been pencilled in underneath the rest, and underlined heavily. The professor took the folder from me, and read the list with his glasses pushed to the tip of his nose.

  ‘This is Ralston’s handwriting,’ he said. ‘I am not sure exactly what information he has been collecting here. It looks rather sensationalistic and certainly anti-Jewish. I cannot say that I am entirely surprised. At any rate, this may well be quite old since he seems to have lost interest and emptied out the rest of the contents, presumably into the bin. This list obviously just got stuck here by mistake.’ And he shook the folder out, as I had done, without dislodging it.

  ‘I don’t know if there’s much to be made of it,’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps Bernard Lazare will know,’ I answered, copying it into my notebook. ‘After all, this seems to have been his folder. I really must manage to make his acquaintance somehow.’

  ‘Ah, that is an idea,’ he answered with alacrity. ‘You are right. It might be most enlightening. Do you know, I don’t see why I shouldn’t invite him to give us a lecture here at King’s. He’s becoming rather a well-known fellow; there’s a lot he could tell us that would be interesting. I shan’t ask him to talk directly about the Dreyfus affair, of course. We’ll pump him on all of that over dinner, if he’ll come.’

  I was pleased.

  ‘Can you write to him as soon as possible, or even telegraph?’ I said hopefully. ‘I am in a great hurry, you know. I don’t have much time.’

  ‘What is the rush?’ he said, surprised.

  A vision of babies toddling in the sunshine swam in front of me.

  ‘Oh, ah, well, the trail is growing cold, you know,’ I said hastily. ‘It is always best to act quickly.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he agreed, turning back to his explorations. And we completed the work of examining the contents of the drawers in silence.

  The shadows were lengthening rapidly, and dusk was upon us by the time we had finished. I had found absolutely nothing else that I could consider remarkable or significant, and dared not take the little that I had found away with me. The professor muffled himself up in his coat and hat, wound his scarf many times about his neck, locked up the door to the study and then the main door of the library. We walked together to the main gate leading onto the street.

  ‘It is late enough to lock this one up as well,’ he observed, glancing at his watch. ‘As head of the department, I have my own keys to the gate and library,’ he added, smiling. ‘I only borrowed Edmund’s to make sure he wouldn’t return unexpectedly. I shall return them to him tomorrow morning, but I expect you might temporarily want to have mine, and the key to Ralston’s study as well. Do take good care of them, and make sure to return them to me as soon as you do not need them any more.’ He handed them to me with a cheerful and carefree gesture that contrasted greatly with the doubtful mien he had worn when welcoming me at the station. I wondered what had transpired to ease his mind. I was just basking in the flattering assumption that observation of my methods might have increased his confidence in my success and removed his doubts when it suddenly flashed across my mind that he might – just possibly – have managed to locate and subtract some incriminating document from Ralston’s study without my noticing it. My eyes went automatically to his briefcase, and my mind leapt ahead, moving faster than the reasoning brain, asking and answering its own questions in the flash of an eye. Why would the professor have waited for me to be there in the study with him if he wanted to search for some paper? Well, Edmund might have found it suspicious if he went in all alone, whereas with me, who could always be explained as an officially retained detective, he had a valid reason. But why could he not have gone quietly alone at night? Too dangerous; he would need to count on several hours of searching and the policeman on the beat would surely notice the light. This sudden, friendly offer of the keys – did it mean that there was nothing more to search for in the tumbled study?

  Unaware of my thoughts, the professor was still smiling and holding the keys out towards me. I accepted them as gratefully as I could, reassuring myself that it was most unlikely that the tall and distinguished figure in front of me could be the murderer, and that after all, he was probably merely being helpful. ‘I am sure they will be useful,’ I told him. ‘I will come to see you if I need anything else. Please let me know if you succeed in getting Lazare to come down. In the meantime, you may be certain that I will be devoting myself entirely to the case.’ And I left him and continued in the direction of Tavistock Street, concentrating on keeping a firmly open mind.

  It was fully evening by the time I arrived at Emily’s little flat. I rang, the door was flung open, and she welcomed me eagerly with a shining face.

  ‘Vanessa!’ she squealed joyfully. ‘We’ve been waiting ever so long. Do, do come in at once.’

  After my marriage, Emily found herself quite unable to call me Mrs Weatherburn; she was too much used to the ‘Miss Duncan’ of her school days. But by the time of my wedding she was already a young lady, and a dear friend of mine to boot; her days as my pupil were long past, so I persuaded her to call me by my Christian name.

  I entered within, and admired her quarters, which though small were bright and comfortable, with a warm fire dancing in the grate and enough comfortable armchairs and pillows to make a number of people welcome. Indeed, Emily was not alone, for young Mr Sachs rose from a chair to greet me, accompanied by a slender, dark young lady.

  ‘This is Jonathan Sachs whom you’ve already met, and this is his sister Amy, who shares the flat with me,’ she explained. ‘You remember how pleased Mother was when I told her that I had found a lady to room with me.’

  I observed Amy Sachs intently. While certainly older than Emily, I found it hard to believe that she was thirty, as Emily had told Mrs Burke-Jones in order to reassure her as to the serious and elderly nature of her chaperone. She looked like a girl who, while not quite young any more, has preserved her youth by continuing to live it, and avoiding the barrier which, once passed, leads inevitably to matronhood.

  Emily, who knows me very well, divined my thoughts immediately. ‘Amy exaggerated her age a little bit when we talked to Mother,’ she said quickly. ‘But not all that much, really! Just a couple of years. I’m so glad I met Amy, for at first I didn’t know a soul here with whom Mother would have considered letting me share rooms. Luckily Jonathan, whom I knew from classes, told me that his sister was also seeking to move away from home and try the experiment of living independently in London. Amy is a writer,’ she added proudly, drawing her friend forward by the hand.

  ‘A hopeful writer,’ corrected the young lady modestly.

  ‘Oh, she has already published things! Haven’t you, Amy? She’s published some stories in magazines, and some poems. No novels yet, but they’re sure to come, aren’t they? Well, do come into the bedroom and put down your things.’

  ‘I hope you will do me the honours of your flat,’ I said, following her and most interested to see all the details of the unusual and independent living arrangements.

  ‘Oh, certainly. But there isn’t much to see. This is my bedroom and the other one is Amy’s. This little room over here will be yours. It’s too small to be useful for anything much; it’s not much more than a big closet, really. At least, that’s what we use it for. But we’ve moved in the sofa, as you see, and made it up as a bed for you. I do hope you will be all right.’

  ‘This is perfect,’ I said, contemplating with delight the narrow quarters where I was to spend my London nights, and putting my case down on the bed proprietarily.

  ‘Then let’s go back and have tea,’ she said, and we returned to the sitting room where she immediately put on the kettle.

  ‘I do hope you won’t find us too forward, Mrs Weatherburn,’ said Amy Sachs, suddenly and unexpectedly ado
pting a leadership role in the conversation. ‘You see, we are very excited about meeting a real detective. Emily has told us so much about you.’

  I writhed a little at these words. I have never, but never thought of myself as a ‘real detective’. An amateur, a pure amateur, with a little talent, perhaps, for feeling out the unusual, and for guessing people’s feelings and intentions.

  Unaware of my embarrassment, Amy continued to strike ahead.

  ‘While we were waiting here for you, the three of us came to a decision together; we want to help you solve the murder, if we can. We would like to be your council of war. I don’t know exactly what we could do, but we have had one or two ideas. Do you think we might be able to help you? Can you tell us anything about what you are trying to discover?’

  Although there was perhaps something shocking about it, I did not dislike her forthrightness; she spoke only what was uppermost in my own mind. I had been wondering if we should have to avoid the subject of the murder and make small talk throughout the evening, and finally, I found this preferable to that. After only the briefest of hesitations, I decided to ignore my embarrassment and a certain natural reluctance to share the progress (as yet near zero) of my investigation, and accept the proffered help for what it might be worth.

  ‘All right, let it be so,’ I said. ‘If you are willing to help me, then let me begin by asking you some questions. I need some information, and one never knows who may turn out helpful. However, if this is a war council, we must start off on an equal footing. I hope you will call me Vanessa.’

  ‘And Amy and Jonathan, then,’ she replied, continuing very naturally in her position as leader of her little committee. Emily poured out tea, and we all settled together in front of the fire. I felt a sense of warmth, comfort and friendship quite incongruous with the task I had come to London to perform. It was all I could do not to feel guilty.

  ‘I have two questions to start with,’ I began. ‘The first one is this: do any of you know anything about a certain French gentleman called Bernard Lazare, who, as far as I know, is a journalist?’