The Library Paradox (19 page)

‘I did gather that,’ I said. ‘But I thought there were actually other documents besides the notorious
bordereau
.’

‘Secret – probably fabricated,’ he said. ‘The man is innocent. He was selected as a culprit because of his race.’

‘If journalists were the judges, I would say you are certainly right,’ I said. ‘In the newspapers race is the sole reason ever mentioned. Apparently he was too rich to have any need for
financial gain. So they continually try to explain the treason by asserting that a Jewish person cannot be expected to have a sense of honour or love for his country.’

‘Read these,’ he said suddenly, pushing the file towards me. ‘They are excerpts from the letters Dreyfus has written to his wife since his arrest. She has had copies made and shown them to – to a few of his – defenders.’

I glanced down at the letters, but hesitated, burdened by a peculiar feeling of indiscretion at not only reading private letters, but reading them in front of another person.

‘Go on, read them,’ he said. ‘Dreyfus wrote these letters knowing that they would be read. In fact, they are read by government censors before they ever reach his wife.’

I took up the first one and began to read, then continued to the others, turning over the pages rapidly.

I put down the last letter. The sounds of laughter from the other room floated eerily through the closed door.

‘It seems impossible to continue to believe in his guilt after reading these,’ I said. Very quietly, the professor piled them all together and put them back into their folder. He did not speak, but a glistening in his eyes made me suddenly aware of an intensity of emotion which surprised me.

‘Did you not show them to Professor Ralston?’ I asked, perhaps (with hindsight) a little tactlessly.

‘I did. It was one of the biggest mistakes I ever made,’ he replied with cold hatred, pushing the folder back into the drawer and snapping it shut with a gesture that precluded further questions.

I took my departure with a meek exterior but a seething mind. There is more to Professor Taylor than meets the eye.

I spent a night of strange and dangerous dreams, many of whose images remained with me even after I had arisen. The flat was empty and quiet. I made a cup of tea and, sitting in front of it, I let its warm, fragrant vapour float comfortingly into my face for a moment, before drawing pencil and paper towards me and writing the following list.

I then rubbed out the fourth name, blushing at being the author of such a ridiculous idea. Yet it was all so strange. How did the professor come to possess copies of the intimate Dreyfus family letters he had shown me? Moving as they
were, yet why did they provoke him to such strong emotion? What was the cause – and what was the true intensity – of the flash of anger against Professor Ralston that I had clearly detected in his voice? I wrote his name back onto the list.

Yet if he were guilty, would he have come to call upon my services? It was really absurd. I rubbed out the name again.

Still, if Jonathan, all fired up by Emily’s account of my exploits, had joined with Professor Hudson to persuade Professor Taylor to consult me, it might have seemed suspicious to refuse. He may, indeed, have thought it was for the best; in spite of his politeness, I suspect him of lacking a sincere belief in my capacities, and I remembered how he had summarily rejected the idea of consulting Mr Sherlock Holmes. I wrote his name again.

Yes, but would he then be helping me in my researches, inviting guests, introducing me to Bernard Lazare, lending me the keys to the library and study? I took up the rubber.

But perhaps someone was aware that he had the keys – his wife, for example. In that case, he might logically consider that it would be safer not to hide the fact from me. And for that matter, had he shown me all that he had? Could he not, for example, also possess a copy of the key to Professor Ralston’s private rooms – and might he not have used it? And as to the guests and the rest, could he not be killing two birds with one stone by appearing to help me while in fact leading me actively up the garden path? I put down the rubber.

Well – Professor Taylor may be on my secret list, but he is not its foremost member. I set out of the house, determined to locate Britta and Rebecca Gad without delay.

I had plenty of time before my planned visit to Inspector Reynolds, who had answered my note with a confirmation brought in late yesterday evening. I employed this intervening time in trying to advance my search. I first visited Somerset House to look up other Rubinsteins and try to discover anything about Britta’s family. But I failed, for the opposite reason from last time; there were too many Rubinsteins for it to be feasible to trace them all. I then went to Mr Upp’s office and had the freckled urchin carry him a note containing a request for information on the subject of the present location of Britta Gad and her daughter. He contented himself with sending me back a brief answer to the effect that unfortunately he had no information on the question, but that had he himself been in the position of the widow of a man executed for murder, he would undoubtedly have changed names, a notion which discouraged me. After having wasted my entire morning in this manner, I wended my way on foot through a chill mist to the Victoria Embankment, and entered the premises of New Scotland Yard with damp shoes, soiled hems, and black thoughts.

My only consolation was in the thought that it might be possible to obtain help from the inspector not only in locating the two missing ladies, but perhaps even in obtaining permission to visit Baruch Gad in prison. Indeed, this kind of thing, which is practically inconceivable for ordinary mortals, is a mere matter of routine for the police.

I walked into the building and enquired for the inspector with a lady seated behind a counter, wearing a forbidding expression on her face. ‘I believe he is out on a case,’ she
said with asperity, but disappeared nevertheless into the inner reaches of the building.

The inspector himself returned with her to greet me, and he was neither out nor forbidding; he seemed quite pleased to see me.

‘Mrs Weatherburn, what a pleasure,’ he said. ‘You visit London very rarely, don’t you? Why, I can’t remember ever seeing you here before. Do let me show you around. We’re quite proud of our location; we’ve only been here five or six years, you know. “New Scotland Yard”, we insist on calling the place, although there’s no more Scotland Yard here than Buckingham Palace. I rather miss the old Scottish Kings’ courtyard and its legends, but we’re much better off here, of course. We’d become very cramped in Whitehall. Now we can work properly. Do come along to my office. I ought to be able to scare up a cup of tea. Now, tell me what you are doing here. Is this holiday or business?’

‘Business,’ I said firmly. The relationship between the police and private detectives is always, at best, ambiguous, so I thought I would do as well to take the bull by the horns straight away.

‘Is that right?’ he said cheerfully. ‘Getting under our feet again in some way, are you? Do I know the case?’

‘You probably know of it, at least,’ I said. ‘I am investigating the murder of Professor Gerard Ralston of King’s College.’

‘The Ralston murder! Why, I’ve heard about nothing else since I got here this morning. There’s to be a breakthrough
today, it seems. Are you behind that, then? I might have known.’

‘But I’m not,’ I said, amazed and alarmed. ‘This is news to me. Dear me, what can have happened all of a sudden? Do you know?’

‘Well, to start with, there was a fairly nasty newspaper article on the front page of the
Illustrated London News,
more or less accusing our services of incompetence. I’ve got it upstairs; I’ll show it to you. I’m not on the case myself and I’m not quite sure what’s going on with it, but according to what I’ve been hearing in the corridors, our people are ready to react.’

‘React? How?’

‘By making an arrest.’

‘An arrest! Who will be arrested? Do they know who to arrest?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t know the details. All I can tell you is that the newspaper article talked about logic, and logic is apparently the order of the day. How is your own investigation going?’

‘Not too well,’ I admitted, as we continued down hallways and up stairs, arriving finally in the inspector’s comfortable quarters. ‘Actually, I wanted to ask you how you think I might go about finding a person who might be anywhere.’

‘Locating lost persons; a difficult task. What exactly do you know about this person?’

‘It is two people really: a woman and her daughter. I know their names, or at least, I know the names they went
by ten years ago: Britta and Rebecca Gad. I haven’t been able to find any official record, or anything at all, in fact, after the marriage of Britta Rubinstein to her husband Menachem Gad in 1874 and the birth of their daughter in 1875.’

‘Menachem Gad? Now, that name rings a bell. What is it? An old criminal case, wasn’t it? The murder of a child. He hanged, didn’t he?’

‘He did. But – but I have honestly begun to wonder whether he was really guilty. There was apparently no real motive, except for some sickening rubbish about ritual murder.’

‘Motive, motive,’ he said. ‘There goes the amateur. It’s means that count, means and opportunity.’