‘How long would you say you actually had him in your vision?’
‘That’s hard to say. A very short time. A second, perhaps.’
‘So it is impossible for you to say what he was doing, one or two seconds before you appeared around the corner of the house. In assuming that he was walking towards the house, you are projecting the image of what you saw, namely a man facing you, into the previous few seconds.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Mr Mason, confused.
Sir Morris Hirsch began his cross-examination by asking about this same detail. He made Mr Mason visualise the scene in his memory and describe exactly what he remembered. He made a great deal of the fact that Mr Mason believed he had seen Jonathan actually taking a step, and that his shoulders were not twisted, as they would have been if he had been turning, but full-face forwards. Sir Morris experimented by taking a few steps, turning on his heel rapidly and walking in the other direction, while the magistrate counted seconds.
‘That is conclusive,’ said Sir Morris Hirsch smugly. The result did not appear to me to be so convincing, nor so great a victory. He tried a similar tack with Mr Chapman, but Mr Chapman said only that his view was obstructed by Mr Mason as they ran, and he was only barely conscious in his haste and worry that someone else was present and Mr Mason had called out to him. He described in detail the manner in which he and Jonathan had both rushed out of the house and turned around it in different directions, meeting at the back a few moments after, and how he had then left Jonathan and gone for the police, locating and bringing back a constable on the beat just around the corner, who had then had other officers summoned. He asserted firmly that there was not a soul in view, front, back or side of the house, and that in a perfectly flat square garden containing not even a shrub, it would have been impossible for anyone to hide.
‘Unless he was pressed against the wall on Mr Sachs’ side of the house, and they were accomplices,’ he said. It seemed unkind, but I think he said it more out of thoroughness than out of malice, particularly as he immediately added, ‘But if that were the case, the person would have had to leave the premises by the front gate, and he did not, because Mason said he was standing looking out of the front door while I ran for the police. When I returned with the officer, we told him the murderer might still be on the premises, and made a complete search once again. There was no one.’
The caretaker’s testimony proved beyond any shadow of a doubt that Mr Mason and Mr Chapman themselves could not have been personally involved with the shooting.
‘Before calling my next witness,’ said Mr Andrews, ‘I would like to remark that according to the testimonies we have already heard, the accused stands in the dock as a consequence of the purest logic. According to the circumstances we have heard described, no other solution is possible. And pure logical reasoning is sufficient to prove our case. However, I am as firm a believer in the importance of establishing a motive and comprehending the origin of the crime as any member of the legal profession. And that is the purpose of my next witness. I would like to call Mr Abel Burton to the stand.’
I recognised the man at once. It was no other than the prison guard who had sat in the centre section of the visiting cage at Dartmoor, listening to my interview with Baruch Gad.
After asking for his name, age and profession, Mr Andrews proceeded to the point.
‘You have heard conversations between the accused and a prisoner at your institution?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘How many such conversations have you heard?’
‘The prisoner came every visiting day, that is, once every three months, for the last several years.’
‘How many years?’
‘I do not remember precisely, but certainly at least five if not somewhat more.’
‘The prisoner has, in fact, been visiting the inmate at Dartmoor regularly for six years,’ Mr Andrews informed the magistrate, ‘from the time he reached the age of sixteen.’ Then, turning back to the guard, he asked, ‘What is the relation between the accused and the inmate of Dartmoor?’
‘I was informed by the governor that the inmate, Baruch Gad, is uncle to the accused,’ replied this gentleman, ‘his mother’s brother, to be precise, and that this relationship was the basis of his visiting rights.’
‘I object,’ said Jonathan’s solicitor, rising suddenly. ‘This is not direct evidence.’
‘It can be directly confirmed,’ said Mr Andrews quickly.
‘Let it stand, subject to confirmation,’ said the magistrate.
‘What were the main subjects of conversation between the prisoner Gad and the accused?’ asked Mr Andrews.
‘They talked about the family; the accused told his uncle about his parents, his sister, his studies and his friends. And they talked frequently about a black dog.’
‘A black dog?’ the magistrate observed in surprise. ‘What dog was that?’
‘What did they say about the black dog?’ asked Mr Andrews.
‘The prisoner Gad used to ask his nephew where the black dog was; this dog was apparently lost or had disappeared and he wanted him to find him. That went on during the first few years. Then one day, one or two years ago, the nephew came and told his uncle he had found the black dog.’
‘And what was the reaction of the prisoner Gad to this information?’ said Mr Andrews.
‘He was very excited. I never saw him react so strongly during the entire ten years I have known him. The prisoner is habitually a very quiet man, but that day he was beside himself.’
‘And during the following visits, the accused gave his uncle regular news of the black dog?’
‘Yes. He also spoke sometimes of the black dog’s owner.’
‘What did he say of the dog’s owner?’
‘As far as I can remember, in answer to his uncle’s pressing questions, he told him the owner was a university professor teaching history in London.’
Mr Andrews suddenly changed his demeanour. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice and adopted a tone of meaningful significance.
‘Did it ever occur to you that the black dog was not a dog, but a person?’
‘I object!’ said Sir Morris Hirsch, bounding to his feet. ‘This is a leading question.’
‘It is,’ admitted the magistrate. ‘Strike out the question and pose another.’
‘Did you ever wonder why the prisoner cared so much about a black dog?’ said Mr Andrews.
‘No,’ said the prison guard bluntly, with a slight shrug. ‘The answer to the other question would have been no as well. I thought that the prisoner may have been deeply attached to this dog before going to prison, and still cling to his memory. Prisoners often do. I did wonder why the dog had no name.’
‘And you never asked the prisoner about the black dog?’
‘No. We listeners are discreet. We are obliged to overhear conversations to counteract any plot to escape or other criminal actions. But we try to keep our presence unnoticed. Those are the rules. The purpose is not merely politeness. In theory, if we are sufficiently discreet, the prisoner and his visitor may come to forget our presence, and we may pick up something important.’
‘So,’ said Mr Andrews, highly disappointed by this answer, and turning to the tactic of sarcasm, ‘we are to understand that you never, for one moment, realised the obvious fact that the prisoner and the accused were fooling you, and using a simple, basic code to communicate fundamental information about an impending murder.’
‘I object!’ interjected Sir Morris Hirsch loudly, at the same time as the witness said, ‘No, I never thought that.’
‘But I claim it is the case,’ said Mr Andrews firmly. ‘I claim that the black dog referred to no other than Professor Gerard Ralston, the victim of murder. I claim that the prisoner Baruch Gad, whose nephew stands in the dock in front of us, planned the murder of Professor Gerard Ralston and had it executed by his nephew, the whole of the planning having taken place by the use of a simple code: referring to the pro
fessor as a black dog and a few other key words. In order to justify my statements, I will ask this witness to stand down and call Mr Charles Upp to the stand.’
Mr Upp appeared. His brow was shiny; the role he was about to be compelled to play obviously went against the grain.
Mr Andrews began by asking questions to establish the fact that Mr Upp had received, from the judge at the trial of Baruch Gad, a letter addressed to him by the condemned man. The letter, the same one I had seen and written down from memory in my notebook, was brought out and read. A gasp ran around the assembled personages. Mr Andrews then proceeded to elicit from Mr Upp the story of his decision to take the letter to the police. I was at first surprised to learn that he had done it after all, but soon understood that he had been impelled to this action by the news of Jonathan’s arrest, which had made it impossible for him to continue to doubt that the letter was relevant. He was then asked to explain the reference to the anonymous witness, and to identify him. His description of the Gad trial caused rustling and whispering in the court.
‘So Mr Jonathan Sachs became aware, a year or two ago, that the anonymous witness his uncle wished him to locate and identify, the very man who had testified against both of his uncles during their trial and had been instrumental in causing a conviction, was none other than the deceased Professor Ralston. Does it not seem clear that his uncle, in his bitterness and frustration at his own inability to act due to his incarceration, proceeded to push the young man to accomplish the second part of his vengeful project: murder, as he had already accomplished the first: identification?’ concluded the prosecutor triumphantly.
It certainly did not constitute a proof, but then, no proof was needed; in order to send Jonathan to trial, it was only necessary to establish sufficient evidence. Even motive is but a cherry on the cake. The magistrate’s face was serious. He enquired courteously but doubtfully if Sir Morris Hirsch wished to call any witnesses for the defence.
It seemed to me to be out of the question for Sir Morris Hirsch to call any witness; not Jonathan himself, nor any member of his family, nor any colleague of Professor Ralston. For under Mr Andrews’ cross-examination, it would be impossible to avoid bringing forth the facts of Professor Ralston’s raging anti-Semitism, and confirming Jonathan’s close attachment to his uncle, its victim, and his discovery of Ralston’s identity as the famous witness. All of this, it seemed to me, could only worsen the case against him. The situation appeared desperate. For the fiftieth time, I strained my attention towards the entrance to the courtroom, imagining that I heard some sound, some sign of the rabbi’s sudden arrival. Yet I jumped in surprise when the door behind the magistrate’s seat opened from without, and a note was delivered to him. Emily seized my hand.
‘Did you see that? What do you think it means? Has he come?’
‘It could be anything,’ I said. ‘It might not even have anything to do with the case. But it could be the rabbi – it could be that he has arrived and wishes to present evidence. Emily, if only it were so!’
Rising, the magistrate announced a ten-minute recess. Everyone relaxed momentarily as he rose and exited, calling Sir Morris Hirsch to join him. My heart leapt. Could it be? Were we, finally, about to understand?
Amy had seen me, and was making her way towards me, her face filled with anxious and bitter dismay.
‘Vanessa, it is going as badly as it possibly could. Is there nothing you can do?’ she said accusingly. I felt that I had failed her indeed. Yet all was not lost – if only …
‘We succeeded in seeing the rabbi yesterday,’ I told her quickly, ‘and I believe I managed to make him understand the situation. He did not tell me anything, but we hope that he will come here to testify. Perhaps it is his arrival which has caused this interruption.’
‘Do you think so?’ Her eyes lit up momentarily, then darkened again. ‘But will it be enough? What if he simply says that he talked with the professor for a while, then left, noticing nothing. It would probably be the truth – people like him are in the clouds. Oh, Vanessa, what we need is to understand who murdered that monster!’ She looked at me pleadingly, and I felt a little stab of guilt. Why, why was this problem proving so intractable? Why was I unable to solve it? Her gaze, fixed upon me, startled me. Suddenly and for no discernible reason, a little snatch of my dream came back to me; I remembered those two other pairs of eyes, from the two photographs, who persisted in confounding and identifying themselves. I tried to put the image aside.
‘Rubbish,’ I murmured to myself. ‘And yet …’
‘What did you say?’ said Emily politely.
The sensation of revelation, like a wave, was so incredibly strong in me that I felt as though I should faint. I leant backward in my seat and closed my eyes for a moment, remembering, visualising. Surely, surely dreams are the word of God.
‘The girl in the picture looks exactly like Gerard Ralston,’ I said. ‘I realise it now; they have the same face, the same eyes, the same fanatic look. They are too similar – she was or is related to him. Who can she be?’
‘What girl are you talking about?’ said Amy.
‘A girl in an old photograph we saw yesterday at the Purim festival in the rabbi’s house,’ I explained. ‘It was a picture of the rabbi himself, but much younger, and his children. One of them was a girl of about sixteen. It is she whose face reminds me of the photograph of Professor Ralston that I saw at Professor Taylor’s house.’
‘Vanessa, are you sure? Can it be possible?’ Emily was saying, pressing her hands to her forehead in order to concentrate. ‘So there is a connection between the rabbi and the professor.’ She paused for a moment, thinking as always in terms of numbers. ‘Listen, how old do you think that girl would be today?’
‘Let me try to be as precise as I can,’ I said, calculating quickly. ‘The trouble is that I have to guess all the ages. The woman who showed us the photograph yesterday is probably between forty and fifty. Let us say forty-five – and she was about three in the picture. So it would have been taken forty-two or -three years ago. That corresponds more or less with the father’s age, I think. He must be practically eighty now, and he looked in his mid-thirties in the picture. The girl in the picture looked about sixteen, so that would mean she would be nearing sixty now.’
‘Nearing sixty … and how old was Professor Ralston?’
‘He was forty. Emily – she could be his mother. She could. It is possible, indeed, it must be so! I remember now that Professor Taylor told me that his father married a girl from “over there”, where he travelled for his research, and all this time, I have been assuming that he married a Frenchwoman, because of Professor Ralston’s knowledge of French. But he studied both French and Polish history! He must have married a Polish girl! Emily, the rabbi was the professor’s grandfather. I feel as certain of it as though I had always known it! His daughter was Ralston’s mother. Rivka told me that she must have married a Gentile to have been rejected from her father’s family. And she died when her little boy was only five or six.’
‘Vanessa,’ said Amy slowly, ‘what you’re saying is perfectly impossible.’
‘Why?’
‘Because obviously, if the professor’s mother had been Jewish, he could not have hated the Jews so. In fact, he would have been a Jew himself. Judaism passes through the mother only.’
‘But perhaps she converted, and the child never knew that she was Jewish,’ said Emily. ‘She must have converted in order to marry the father, and they came to live in this country, and she died when the child was small. Perhaps she never told him a word about her origins.’
‘That seems likely,’ I agreed. ‘Perhaps she resolved to forget them just as her father resolved to forget her. And the rabbi only came to England himself a few years ago. If he knew that his daughter was long dead, or even if he didn’t know, I can well imagine that he would make no effort to contact her Christian family.’
‘It is still hard to believe,’ said Amy slowly. ‘Even if he didn’t know
it, still, of all people, why should the son of a Jewish woman become so rabidly anti-Semitic?’
‘I don’t know. I have wondered what made him become so,’ I said. ‘But listen: this may explain why the rabbi went to see the professor!’
‘He went because the chief rabbi of France asked him to intervene, didn’t he?’ said Emily.
‘Yes, I know that. But up to now I couldn’t understand what he could have hoped to actually tell the professor, which could have any hope of persuading him to stop his activities. But now I can imagine that when the other rabbi asked him to try and stop the professor from his anti-Semitic activities, our rabbi decided to talk to him about the fact that his mother was Jewish. If, as we imagine, Professor Ralston had no idea about that, it would be a powerful argument to change his attitude. Surely he would be obliged to feel differently after learning that – otherwise all that enmity would come down to hating himself!’
‘Jews know how to do that well enough,’ said Amy softly. I remembered thinking the same thing, while reading the novel she had given me. But Emily was speeding forward with her reasoning.
‘So let us accept the hypothesis that the rabbi went to tell Professor Ralston that his mother was Jewish. And perhaps the professor became so angry at the news that he took out his gun to attack the rabbi in a fit of rage, and there was a fight and the rabbi snatched the gun—’ She stopped suddenly as she noticed Amy glaring at her.
‘That explanation is unlikely,’ I said. ‘First of all, even if the rabbi lost his temper or resorted to self-defence, it is hard to believe he would have quietly walked away afterwards. And Professor Ralston was only forty, while the rabbi is twice that. How could he have had the strength to wrest the gun away? But above all, how could he have reached the street gate so soon after the shot? We cannot get away from that difficulty. It’s the thing that has convinced us of his innocence from the start.’
‘They’re coming in again,’ said Amy, turning towards the magistrate’s door. ‘Look, Vanessa, you were right! It is the rebbe! He’s coming in. I must return to my parents. Oh, what is he going to say?’ She hurried off, edging between the gallery seats, and I leant forward in my seat and fixed my attention on the rabbi. He stepped forward, heavily dressed in his black clothes, the wheel-shaped fur hat upon his head, his thick grey beard pouring over his chest. Although he was old and walked slowly, his step was firm and his look was clear and direct. The magistrate called the court to order once again, and Sir Morris Hirsch ushered the rabbi to the stand respectfully.
The Library Paradox Page 28