The Library Paradox (18 page)

‘Oh well,’ responded one of the women airily. ‘He wasn’t writing for a scholarly journal, after all, but for the newspapers. A man may be allowed to express his personal sentiments outside of his profession, I suppose.’

‘Well, whatever a person does, one can ask of him to use good taste.’

‘To require that, a man has got to
have
good taste, and I’ll admit that Ralston was lacking in that particular attribute.’

‘And he always would insist on using that fake method of logical argumentation that he invented,’ said a thin man with a prominent Adam’s apple, who had not been introduced to me, in an annoyed tone of voice. ‘The fellow took my course in Intermediate Logic – did all the homework, and quite well, too. But then he took to coming to my tutorial room during the hours when I was supposed to be available for the
real
students, and trying to get me to sanction his system for turning theorems in logic into
rhetorical forms. He always wanted to talk about proof; he was obsessed with being able to
prove
all sorts of things that are simply not provable – as bad as Descartes with the existence of God!’

This conversation was continued at some length, while the soup was cleared away and a truly remarkable stuffed fowl appeared in its place, accompanied by a succulent medley of tiny new potatoes and glazed baby carrots. I studied the menu with care, and thought of cauliflower and spinach. I really should make progress in cooking and not leave it all up to Sarah.

I thought I was listening to the conversation quite intently, but the word ‘murder’, striking suddenly on my ear, awakened me from a cuisine-oriented reverie.

‘Has anyone found out anything about what actually happened?’ someone was asking.

‘I am not aware that any real progress has been made,’ said Professor Taylor impassively, avoiding any glance in my direction. I wondered guiltily if his remark hid a veiled reproach.

‘Journalists, at any rate, do not know anything yet,’ said young Russell. ‘I know, because one came to interview me yesterday. He had caught on to Ralston’s using logic and wanted to discuss the thing with a real logician.’

‘Why would a journalist interview a student?’ I whispered into Professor Taylor’s ear.

‘He’s quite an important person, you know,’ he replied in a murmur. ‘One of our great families, very much in view.’

‘I explained the basics of logic to him as best I could,’
Russell was continuing. ‘Not that he understood much. Still, he was less ignorant than most, and displayed a rudimentary capacity for reasoning. His article is to appear in tomorrow’s paper, but as far as I know, there won’t be any real information in it. He said that the public has got to be reminded, so that they won’t have forgotten the problem when the solution really does turn up.’

‘It was a load of rubbish, that logical bee in Ralston’s bonnet,’ said the same professor of logic who had spoken before. ‘But the worst of it is, that kind of language actually convinces some readers. I don’t know whether he did it consciously, but he played on the awed respect people feel whenever some scientific argument is brought out at them. Can’t argue with science, can you? Most annoying. I highly disapprove. I told him so, but he begged to disagree. Said using highly structured logical arguments was a help to the reader and a sign of respect. Humph.’

Dinner had been cleared away at this point, but the dessert had not yet appeared, leaving an oddly empty little moment. The conversation lapsed, and Professor Taylor hastened to revive it.

‘He was so different from his father,’ he said. ‘I wonder how the two of them managed not to clash, within the same profession. Such different methods. I don’t know if Ralston’s original interest in history came from his father – he certainly received an excellent education – but his methods certainly didn’t. Not like you, Hudson,’ he added, directing himself to that individual. ‘You’re bringing up your children properly, by all accounts. Not going to get any strange mutations
with a chip on their shoulder, I hope?’ He smiled benignly in the direction of the three youthful Hudsons, who burst out laughing at the allusion to Darwin’s recent and controversial theories. It is an interesting fact that although all people who consider themselves modern believe firmly in the process of evolution insofar as it describes fish or alligators, it still seems like nothing but a great joke in reference to our supposedly superior species.

‘I will not deny that I am most proud of them,’ said their father with a layer of quiet poise over his secret delight, ‘and furthermore, they all fortunately appear to be quite normal. But then, so did Ralston, perhaps, as a youth. Who knows when that rabid mania seized hold of him?’

‘It was a long time ago, that is certain,’ said Professor Taylor.

‘That’s true,’ chimed in another professor. ‘Frankly, he was constantly causing uncomfortable situations. I don’t know how many times I’ve sat at high table cringing in front of guests, or had students complaining bitterly about him in my tutorial room. And one always has to keep up appearances and pretend it is all normal. Why, he sat on young Bryant’s thesis defence not a year ago and tore him all to pieces, and the jury couldn’t honestly give him his degree after that, even though the rest of us thought the thesis work was perfectly all right.’

‘He prevented a student from obtaining his degree?’ I asked. My ears had perked up at the name ‘Bryant’, and in any case I was always on the
qui vive
for news of anyone who had reason to hate or resent the deceased professor.

‘Temporarily, at least. Of course, he will redefend it this year, with a different jury. Still, it is most unpleasant. You know, a thesis defence is usually a formality. It is difficult, of course – the student must present his work excellently and be prepared for many questions and much criticism; however, the actual refusal of the degree is almost unheard of! One does not allow one’s student to defend his thesis if it is not absolutely complete. Bryant’s work was good enough, but he is an opinionated fellow, and Ralston took exception to some of his statements. Bryant didn’t sit down under it, and the result was an open quarrel. Most embarrassing. And we had offered Bryant a lectureship to begin directly after his defence, as well. He couldn’t take it up, obviously, without having gained his degree, and as his scholarship had run out, he was left with no means of support. It’s all the worse for him as he has to support his elderly mother. She is a widow, is she not?’ and he turned to Professor Taylor for confirmation.

‘I don’t know – er, I believe so,’ said the professor, looking very uncomfortable.

I remembered the thin young man working in the library, and wondered about his choice of a job. Was there some reason behind it? Or did he merely find it a convenient way to tide himself over until, perhaps, a new lectureship should come up?

‘It wasn’t the first time we had such problems with Ralston,’ said Professor Taylor. ‘He’s been difficult ever since he first came to King’s, before 1880. It must have been in 1878. He was a young graduate then, so he’d have
been about twenty-one or -two. He looked older than his age already. He had a most characteristic face, did he not? Lean-cheeked, a lone wolf. Indicative, perhaps, of the bitterness in his character. He finished his thesis in 1883, if I remember rightly. Yes, he can’t have been more than forty or so when he died.’

‘I never saw him,’ piped up young Hilda, a bouncing girl who could never have been described as lean-cheeked. ‘I never got to see the murder victim, it’s not fair! I would so have liked to. I do wonder what he was like!’

‘You little vampire,’ began her father, humorously, looking faintly embarrassed. But Mrs Taylor smiled at Hilda from across the table.

‘Why, if you want to know what he looked like, perhaps you can,’ she said. ‘He is in the group photograph taken on the day of the Honoris Causa ceremony, isn’t he?’ she asked her husband.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said with a slight shrug. ‘He might be there, I suppose. But who knows where that old photograph is now, anyway?’

‘Why, it must be in the Chinese cabinet, with the other photographs,’ she said, and rising, she crossed the room to a beautifully ornate cabinet, painted black with red figures, and opened a little door in it with a finely wrought key. She removed a handful of photographs from within and returned to the table, where she handed them to her husband one by one, smiling.

‘Look, dear, here is our wedding day,’ she said happily. ‘I have not looked at these pictures for years!’ The image made
the round of the table, and I must confess that there was a certain amount of laughter, as the professor’s high domed forehead and bush of white hair was compared with the curly head of a youth from another time. Other photographs of the family followed, a portrait of the children, now grown up, and a picture of a house in the countryside.

‘Here is the department picture,’ she said, handing him a rather larger photograph of a group.

He scrutinised it closely. Sitting next to him, I could see that though the picture itself was fairly large, there were a dozen people grouped within it, so that the faces were quite reduced in size.

‘There he is,’ he said, showing me the picture and pointing at one gentleman, dressed like the others in cap and gown, but somewhat shorter in stature than they.

I stared at the face intently, wondering what it could reveal to me. Yes, it was lean-cheeked, even hollow-cheeked, and the man in it could easily have been taken to be forty already, even though the picture was several years old. I wondered with a shudder if it did not date from the time when he had appeared in court … to condemn another man to death on cruel and specious grounds. Fixing his features in my mind, I passed the photograph down to the young people, who were eagerly awaiting a sight of the murder victim, more exciting to their youthful minds than wedding pictures of a couple who had reached a peaceful old age with no mishaps.

‘Did Ralston ever collaborate with his father?’ asked someone.

‘No, as far as I know,’ replied Professor Taylor thoughtfully. I noticed that most people addressed their questions to him, as though he were undisputedly the person best acquainted with the dead man.

‘Probably because his father couldn’t stand him,’ snickered the professor of logic.

‘Well, they didn’t have the same research speciality, of course. Ralston senior studies the history of Franco-Polish relations. He wrote a book on Henry III – theirs, of course, not ours. You remember – the one who was called upon to be King of Poland, and who had to sneak away and flee secretly in the middle of the night, and come galloping home to become King of France upon the death of his brother. He was the little favourite of his mother, Catherine de Medici. A well-known murderess in her own right, by the by; one wonders, rather, if she didn’t have a hand in the brother’s death. But do you know, I don’t think Gerard Ralston was brought up much at home. His mother died when he was still quite small, and the boy was sent to school, of course.’

Maybe that explains it, I thought, thinking with a pang of plump little Cedric being removed bodily from my loving arms to a distant boarding school. Of course, he is only one and a half, the precious darling, but I cannot imagine that he will be so very different at six. He is tender and dreamy and needs his mother very much, and I hope he will stay that way for a very long time.

The subject of Professor Ralston and his untimely death eventually exhausted itself without my finding myself particularly enlightened. Somewhat to my relief, the
remainder of the meal, accompanied by its three different kinds of wine, was devoted to conversation of a lighter sort. I felt a little like an overstuffed cushion, and was quite glad when the other guests began to depart, as I was looking forward to lying down and allowing the natural process of digestion to take its course. Yet something prevented me from politely taking my leave even after all the other guests had gone except for Professor Hudson’s family, who could not tear themselves away from the tremendously amusing banter they were engaging in with Emily. I felt that I very much wished to talk more with Professor Taylor.

‘I am delighted that Mr Lazare will be coming here,’ I said to him. ‘Do you think I will be able to talk with him privately? I would like to ask him a few things.’

‘What things?’ he said.

‘Well, for one, I want to know what he can tell me about that empty folder marked with his initials that we saw,’ I said. ‘And also, whether he thinks there was anything in that last letter of his, the one to which Professor Ralston was replying when he died, which might have a connection to the murder. What a pity I know so little about the Dreyfus affair. I would like to know more about it before hearing tomorrow’s lecture.’

‘Well, I can tell you more about it,’ he said suddenly. ‘In fact, I can do even better – I can show you some documents you are not likely ever to see anywhere else. Come this way,’ and he led me into a little study giving off the dining room. Sitting down at his desk, he began digging down in the drawers, and pulled out a file filled with papers.

‘Yet I wonder if I should show you these,’ he said. ‘They are not for everyone. How much do you actually know about the case?’

‘I do know the basic facts,’ I told him. ‘I read quite a number of contemporary newspaper articles on it that I found in Professor Ralston’s study. I know he was arrested for treason after his handwriting was identified on a letter apparently found in the German Embassy, written in French and offering a list of important military documents to the Germans. I also know that his trial took place behind closed doors, and that apart from the letter itself, other secret documents were produced, although nobody seems to know what they were. And I know that he was condemned to public degradation, having his military insignia torn off, and to life imprisonment on Devil’s Island off the coast of French Guyana, where he was taken about a year ago.’

‘But do you know that he never ceased for a single moment to declare his innocence? And that his family and friends have sworn to fight to the death to have the trial reopened? Do you know that he was condemned on the mere evidence of handwriting experts whose conclusions were all wildly contradictory?’