The Library Paradox

by Catherine Shaw

  ‘That is very interesting,’ I said, looking at Professor Taylor. But he did not appear to have much to contribute.

  ‘He said nothing to me of this “latest development”,’ he grumbled, looking at me as though to gauge the extent of my ignorance of the topic to which he referred, which, alas, was complete. Newspapers find their way only sporadically into my hands, though Arthur reads them rather regularly, and my knowledge of current world news is no better than that of most young mothers with babies in the nursery.

  ‘Alfred Dreyfus,’ explained Professor Hudson, having obviously understood the state of affairs, ‘was a captain in the French Army, who was accused in November 1894 of spying for the Germans, after the discovery of a letter containing classified information found in a waste-paper basket in the German embassy. The letter in question was not signed, and the judgement was based on an absurd and controversial comparison of handwritings. He was court-martialled, and condemned to be publicly dishonoured and deported to perpetual solitary confinement in the Devil’s Island prison off the coast of French Guyana, where he remains to this day. He has never ceased for a moment to declare his innocence, and his family – together with a handful of lawyers, journalists and other associates – is working as energetically as possible to discover the true culprit and obtain a reopening of the case. They have made but little progress, unfortunately, until now. However, from what Ralston said to me the day before his death, something new appears to have turned up. Ralston had involved himself deeply in the public commentaries on the case from the start, and as far as it was in his power as a kind of intellectual journalist, he did what he could to sway public opinion against Captain Dreyfus. As a matter of fact, it would appear that Dreyfus was selected to be the culprit, on totally unsatisfactory evidence, simply because he was Jewish. His enemies and detractors in the French press have been generic anti-Semites for the most part, led by that rabid creature Drumont and his inflamed Parisian newspaper, La Libre Parole. Well, Ralston thought that attempting to sweep anti-Dreyfusism under the general blanket of anti-Semitism was a bad thing, sufficient to convince idiots but not anyone with an independent, thinking mind. The trouble was that the very nature of the Drumont articles clearly indicated that anti-Semitism alone was the fundamental basis of conviction. So Ralston devoted himself to publishing a series of articles specifically demonstrating Dreyfus’s guilt according to a “logical” examination of the evidence. He spent time in Paris and met and disputed publicly or in print with a number of the people connected with the events. He came to know most of these people personally, and I assume it was for this reason that he always seemed to be in possession of the very latest rumours on the case. What he learnt shortly before his death must have been something of this sort. From what he told me, I gathered that some secret document or other has turned up which some interpret as showing that the spying business is still going on even though Dreyfus has been mouldering on Devil’s Island for the last year. I dined sitting next to him on the 3rd, and he was simply steaming, rolling up his sleeves to begin the battle. Well, all I can say is that even if all this actually turns out to have some bearing on the case, in terms of motive, it still fails to shed any light whatsoever on the means.’

  ‘Could you make any guess as to the person who gave Professor Ralston the information?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know who gave it to him,’ he answered. ‘I wish I did, but he did not mention the name. However, I did get the impression quite strongly that he had not received it from a friend, but rather from someone who had communicated with him for the express purpose of proving him wrong, someone who was probably a strong believer in Dreyfus’s innocence. It could be that journalist, what was his name? A French Jew who stood up for Dreyfus throughout, and who exchanged a number of letters and polemical articles with Ralston after the condemnation. Ralston seemed to be permanently angry with him. I can’t remember his name. But he is very passionate about the case, and works continuously with the family on suing for a retrial. If anything new has turned up in Dreyfus’s favour, it seems likely that he would know about it, and not inconceivable that he might tell Ralston, just to thumb his nose.’

  ‘Ralston’s influence against the Jewish community was growing,’ said Professor Hudson. ‘That explains why it seems as though he might have had any number of enemies. It must, I suppose, be considered possible that some fanatic may have wished to put an end to him and his work, without being personally acquainted with him. The police obviously considered at first that the Orthodox Jew seen by Mr Sachs was a prime suspect of this nature. It would really be an almost unthinkable coincidence that someone else could be murdering Ralston exactly at the same moment as the curious but not entirely unbelievable visit by this unexpected personage. But to put it bluntly, the police are flummoxed by the time element. No one can understand how the man could have done it and got himself to the gate in so little time, or how someone else could have managed it without being seen.’

  There was a brief silence, during which I felt, perhaps exaggeratedly, that all three gentlemen were waiting for me to explain how the thing might have happened. But nothing came to my mind, except that further investigation would be needed. I hesitated. Arthur was on the point of leaving on a trip to France – I was supposed to be spending two weeks alone with the babies …

  ‘This needs further investigation!’ I said.

  ‘We are at our wits’ end, Mrs Weatherburn,’ said Professor Hudson, leaning forward anxiously. ‘The college is suffering.’

  I longed to accept the case immediately, dash to London, and set about learning about Professor Ralston, his private life, his nasty articles, his enemies, and their apparently rather good reasons for hating him.

  ‘Unfortunately, I am leaving tomorrow morning to spend two weeks in Paris,’ said Arthur, not looking particularly displeased. ‘I don’t see how you can get away, Vanessa.’

  I felt a minuscule pang of rebellion. Over the past few years, Arthur has ended up becoming used to my investigations, and has even, on occasion, actively lent me a helping hand. But he rightly considers murder something different and far more dangerous than the run-of-the-mill case, for one who has killed may well kill again, by choice the person who is on his track …

  How could I manage it? I listened to the sounds of happy thumping and laughing echoing dimly from upstairs. I am needed here, I know it. And even if I were to go, would I really be able to help? Might not a case of murder, based, perhaps, not on personal feelings but on causes of an international and political nature, be beyond my modest capacities?

  I am so taken with the babies that I sometimes fear that my horizons, never immense, have now shrunk definitively to within the four walls of their nursery, and I find myself envying Arthur, who although of course the most devoted of fathers, still allows himself the occasional jaunt to London or even to the Continent, upon important mathematical occasions, not to mention the many hours spent at his work in Trinity College.

  I write honestly the thoughts and doubts that went through my mind, but I do not pretend to deny that underneath them, I enjoyed a perfectly solid conviction that I should be setting out to London shortly, by hook or by crook. As I said before, I could no more refrain from investigating this murder than if it were being done in front of me. I looked at Arthur and he looked gravely back at me.

  ‘It will be difficult,’ I said politely to the visitors. ‘I must think about it. I will send you a telegram tomorrow morning.’

  They took their leave, courteously abstaining from insisting. Professor Taylor actually seemed a little relieved. I then proceeded to devote myself to domestic affairs with no further mention of the case. Arthur glanced at me suspiciously but did not say anything. Together with Sarah, we bathed and fed the twins and entertained them until it was time for them to settle like little droplets into their cribs to sleep. Then we sat down to our own evening meal. It was only then that I caught a significant glance from Arthur.

  ‘Vaness
a, dear, I really don’t see how …’ he began.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ I said, hastily changing the subject.

  I wonder if Dora and John would not enjoy spending a few days playing at being loving and doting aunt and uncle for a little while. After all, it might give them some practice for the future – might it not? I could send the twins down to them on the train tomorrow morning, with Sarah. With Sarah there, it should be manageable, and then, Sarah could teach Dora how to vary her husband’s diet with some of her unusual ways of preparing food, such as putting cheese and mushroom sauce over cauliflower, instead of a juicy roast of mutton. And perhaps, seeing that Dora’s face is so exactly like mine, the twins would not suffer too much from an absence of several days at least; certainly longer than any they have ever known. Could I do it?

  I shall do it! Tomorrow morning I shall send Dora a telegram, and another to Emily, to see if I may stay with her in London. And as soon as I have received answers, I shall send another to Professor Taylor. He is not expecting me to come, I think, but he shall be surprised!

  I will write down everything in this diary exactly as it occurs, and it shall be for you, Arthur, to read upon your return and discover the full record of my failures or successes. For even when you are away, there is nothing I do not wish to share with you, and nothing that we can share can ever be deeper than that which we share already. If I do not want you to know that my decision is already firmly taken at this very moment, it is because you look so tranquil and happy sitting across from me, scribbling formulae in the golden glow of the lamp. I do not want you to leave England fearing for me; I do not want your stay in France to be undermined by worry. Go peacefully, and we shall see what we shall see.

  London, Thursday, March 12th, 1896

  I was awakened this morning by Arthur’s gentle kiss on my forehead; he had risen in the early darkness, and dressed in total silence. We did not exchange a single word; his clasp and his lips told me everything; I knew his thoughts and he knew mine. There is so much that it is really better not to put into words.

  Yet even with his tacit seal of acceptance of whatever I should decide, I spent a long moment of doubt and anxiety, as I sat in the train to London, all telegrams having been expedited and answered during the morning. I have often noted that forced inactivity engenders this state within me, and have never yet truly managed to discover an effective antidote. I found I could not fix my mind on the poor professor’s murder, for I really do not have anything to go on. Instead, my mind was filled with the image of my last sight of Cecily and Cedric, as they stood framed in the doorway of the train, clinging to Sarah’s skirts with their little fists, and watching me, their eyes wide with doubt and suspicion and the corners of their little mouths beginning to descend sorrowfully.

  When they awoke this morning, and I went to fetch them out of their little beds and gathered their tender bodies in my arms, still all warm and soft from a night of sleep, with flushed cheeks and heavy eyes, I could not help asking myself if I was not making a mistake; if the right place for me at that moment was not, quite simply, exactly where I was. And I had a sudden and most displeasing vision of myself, thrusting the children into the care of others and gallivanting off to London. I love them so much, yet there is something in me which longs to emerge, if only occasionally, from the tender cocoon of motherhood, and confront the brutal realities of life. I suppose it must be quite normal, yet I find myself racked with doubts.

  The arrival of Sarah bearing warm milk and buns relieved me of some of the weight of these thoughts. The babies opened their mouths like little birds in a nest, and while I sat upon the carpet holding them, Sarah, who had already been out to send off my telegrams, had begun preparing for the trip, under the assumption of replies in the positive, and filling a capacious bag with tiny morsels of clothing, and sundry indispensable cloths and scraps. Having finished her breakfast, Cecily, whose eighteen-month-old little mind is already very sharp, stood up, collected a favourite sheep in one hand and her pillow in the other, and prepared to follow Sarah on the trip she was obviously about to take, lining up behind her and imitating her movements with accuracy. Cedric, equally fascinated by the packing procedure, attempted to contribute by taking things out of the bag as fast as Sarah put them in, and throwing them upon the floor, until she lifted the bag onto the table, and forestalled the noise about to emerge from his widely protesting mouth by popping a biscuit into it. And when finally the bag was filled and closed and the children washed and dressed, Dora’s eager response to my telegram had arrived, and it was already time to leave for the station. With no time to feel regrets …

  How excited the babies were by this unusual excursion, by the noise and bustle of the station, the train’s long whistle as it approached, and the footboard connecting the platform to the carriage, into which they were energetically hoisted by a passing porter in a uniform with bright buttons. The effect of it all was that they were in a state of effervescent delight until the very moment when calm returned, the whistle blew once again and the porter arrived to close the door, which separated them from their mother. Only then did the beginnings of dismay appear upon their little features, but there was no time to react, for the door clunked shut upon them, and I was left alone, feeling guilty and sorrowful, and infinitely grateful for knowing that after myself, nobody in the world could care for them better than Sarah.

  I could not accustom myself to the separation, the first of more than a few hours since their birth. I boarded my own train, to London, and sat in it nostalgically recalling all the months during which I carried them within me, full of hope and astonishment and dawning suspicion, reliving the hours of pain and ecstasy which brought them forth, and remembering Arthur’s face when the nurse finally opened the door to allow him entry to the bedroom, and confronted him proudly, carrying two little snugly wrapped bundles, one in each arm.

  These things are the pearls hidden at the heart of the outwardly dull-seeming oyster.

  And yet, there have been moments – many of them – when I have felt imprisoned by the walls of domesticity, and yearned for something more. Since I gave up teaching to be a respectable matron, it has happened to me, on occasion, to be submerged with ennui. More than once, since then, I have been saved from this state by people who, referred to me by other people in a quietly expanding chain, have brought me strange little problems to solve: a man who read his wife’s diary and found himself cold with fear at what he saw there; a lady who slipped out of her own life, leaving no trace behind; a woman who lost her emerald, and never recovered it – for when I realised who had taken it and followed her onto the boat on which she meant to depart forever, she saw me approaching, understood instantly and, slipping it out of her pocket, flung it impetuously into the flashing waves.

  But murder is something that I have not encountered since the strange case of Mr Granger’s death before my marriage. My mind roved into the past, remembering the facts of that case, and then, four years earlier, those other murders through which I first met Arthur. Eight years! It is hard to believe. My mind wandered on to Emily and the telegram I had just received from her. She was just a child of thirteen back then. I remember her so well, already grave and intelligent far beyond her years, a penetrating intellect and an innate, unswerving sense of justice. I have not seen her much since my marriage, and not at all since last summer, when she shocked her mother by announcing her intention to continue her studies at the University of London.

  Cambridge, of course, does not allow women to obtain doctorates, even if they do achieve Wrangler status at the Tripos. One of the best young women students of mathematics in Cambridge ever, Grace Chisholm, who had completed her undergraduate course of study at Girton three years earlier than Emily, was obliged to leave for Germany in order to obtain a doctorate. I had thought that Emily would follow in her footsteps, but she has other ideas. Having discovered that women may earn a doctorate at the University of London by enrolling at Queen’s College, sh
e has decided to follow this path. Indeed, she has realised that although this college itself is actually destined for the training of highly educated governesses, enterprising young women may manage to follow courses or receive tutoring from professors at King’s or at Cambridge, and thus proceed to the highest levels of study. Certainly few girls have accomplished this feat as yet, but Charlotte Scott of Girton did it more than ten years ago, and is now teaching in America!

  Emily’s mother was more shocked by the idea of her daughter’s renting a flat in London than of her travelling all the distance to Germany and living unsupervised in a foreign land. Like any other matron, Mrs Burke-Jones feels that London is a Gehenna, and that her daughter may be led to perdition there. However, Emily held firm, and her mother ended by consenting to give her a modest allowance, on the condition that she share her flat with an older lady by way of a chaperone. The allowance perhaps strains her means a little, but clearly she finds it preferable to tolerating the humiliation of having Emily go out to work. Emily’s results at Girton were quite brilliant, and even her mother feels that it would be a great waste to force her to stop her studies now and vegetate here in Cambridge, a place which, while being a shining light of erudition, is such a lamentable backwater as to progress and social issues, and particularly the rights and abilities of our sex. So Emily has set up house in London, and to all appearances she is very happy there. I am most eager to see her again; her welcoming reply to my telegram was sparing in words (youth is always short of money) but not in feelings. Tavistock Street – the words gave me a pleasant little shiver of anticipation. London again! Its streets, its bustle, its vigorous life, its frenetic activity, its easy freedom; a taste of it is like a taste of vibrant red wine.