Barry Maitland: Dark Mirror

‘Did you know her well, Ms Rayner?’

‘Gael, please. She’d been a member here for over a year now, and we often exchanged a few words when she came in, which was fairly frequently in recent months-I’d say two or three times a week. We had a sandwich together once, when we bumped into each other in a cafe nearby.’

‘She didn’t eat here?’

‘There are no facilities for food or drink in the library at present, although we are in the process of expanding-you’ll probably hear the builders before you go. But there are several coffee shops within a few blocks of here.’ She hesitated. ‘Is that relevant? It wasn’t food poisoning was it?’

Kathy said, ‘It seems to be a possibility, yes. I understand she was returning from lunch when she collapsed. Do you have any idea where she’d been?’

‘No, but I can give you a few names of places to try. Only she had been feeling a bit unwell lately, and she was a diabetic. I told the ambulance officer. I just assumed…’

‘They’re still doing tests. We haven’t been able to trace her next of kin yet. Can you help? Do you know of a partner, relatives?’

Gael thought. ‘Well, she was Scots-she had a rather attractive soft accent. She didn’t talk much to me about herself, just her work. I’m pretty sure she wasn’t married, but I think there was a boyfriend, though I don’t know how serious. I noticed a new ring one day, and she said it was a present. It looked expensive, but it wasn’t an engagement ring. Have you tried the university?’

Kathy nodded. ‘We have an address in Southwark.’

‘Really? I thought… She mentioned a traffic hold-up at Swiss Cottage one day, and I just assumed she lived up there. Let me check our records.’ She went to a computer and typed, then looked up. ‘No, you’re right. Stamford Street. Unless she moved recently and didn’t tell us.’

‘Did she have any particular friends here, people she might have spoken to?’

The librarian shook her head. ‘Not that I’m aware of. She just came here to do her work. She was writing a thesis on the Pre-Raphaelite painters and poets; Dante Gabriel Rossetti mainly, I gathered, and William Morris-she was particularly interested in him-and their wives and lovers.’

Kathy looked around, at the classical columns, the leather furniture, the other visitors. ‘Do you get many students here? It’s not an ordinary public library, is it?’

‘No, no, this is a private library, the largest independent lending library in the world. It was started by Thomas Carlyle, who got fed up with conditions at the library at the British Museum, and with not being able to borrow their books. Gladstone and Dickens and others agreed with him, and they established the London Library. You’ll find more students at the British Library, now that they’ve opened their reading rooms to undergraduates, and at the university libraries of course, but we get a few PhD students here wanting to access the specialised areas of our collection, although they have to pay our membership fee. People in need can apply for a grant of up to half of that from our Trust, but I don’t know if Marion did. Do you want me to check?’

‘Yes, that might be a good idea.’

‘You’re interested in her finances?’ Gael’s eyes grew sharp with interest.

‘Just curious. I get the impression she wasn’t hard up-for a student, I mean.’

‘Yes, I agree. She had very nice shoes. I couldn’t help noticing.’

She gave a rueful smile, and Kathy asked, ‘When she collapsed, what happened to her bag, do you remember?’

‘It fell on the floor I think. Yes, in fact her things spilled out. We gathered them up and gave them to the ambulance officer.’

‘Is it possible that anyone tampered with her phone?’

Gael shook her head. ‘I couldn’t say.’

‘Well, I’d better have a word with Mr Ogilvie.’

‘He’s waiting up in the Reading Room, where it happened. I’ll take you.’

They climbed the carpeted stairs to the next floor, and entered a double-height galleried space, its walls lined with books. Several dozen readers were working on long tables or consulting periodical racks and catalogue consoles. Gael took Kathy across the room towards a middle-aged man sitting in one of the armchairs with a heavy volume on his knees. He struggled to his feet as he saw them approach.

‘Nigel, this is Detective Inspector Kolla.’

They shook hands. The man was plump, with pink chubby hands and face, glossy black hair swept flat, a dark suit and tie. His eyes sparkled at her through large glasses. Like a mole, she thought. The librarian left them to get the information on membership grants, and Ogilvie led Kathy over to the spot where Marion had collapsed, describing, with some relish she thought, exactly what he’d witnessed.

‘So she was just returning from a lunch break?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Any idea where she took it?’

‘Well,’ the pink tip of his tongue flicked across his lower lip, ‘as a matter of fact I think I do, yes. Let me show you.’ He led the way to the large windows on one side of the room overlooking St James’s Square. Kathy stood at his side, seeing the gardens, the trees in bud and the equestrian statue.

‘I was stretching my legs, and came to the window and happened to notice her out there, in that seat to the left of the statue. See?’ He pointed. ‘She was reading, and there were paper wrappings at her side, as if she’d been eating a sandwich.’

‘Did you notice a drink?’

‘I think… yes, I’m fairly sure she had a soft-drink bottle.’ He nodded eagerly at Kathy, very pleased with himself. ‘She got to her feet and dropped her rubbish in that bin down there before coming back into the library. A few moments later she was writhing in agony on the floor.’

He’s enjoying this, Kathy thought. ‘Did you see anyone else in the square?’

Ogilvie pondered, shook his head. ‘No, I can’t say I did.’

‘Would you happen to know if she bought her lunch from around here?’

‘I’m afraid not. Is that significant? About her lunch?’

‘I’m just trying to get a picture of her last movements, Mr Ogilvie.’

‘Oh, come, Inspector! There may be something I’ve seen that could help you, if only I knew what you’re looking for. You must tell me.’

‘Anything you remember may be useful. Did you see her using her mobile phone yesterday?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Kathy got him to describe exactly what happened when Marion reached the Reading Room.

‘Who gathered up her belongings?’

‘Oh, I can’t remember.’

‘If you think of anything else just contact me on this number, will you? Thanks for your help.’

She gave him her card, and then as she turned away he gave an odd little skip and leapt after her to say in an intimate whisper, as if he didn’t want any of the other readers, who were trying to listen in to their conversation, to hear, ‘She was interested in poisons, you know.’

Kathy spun around. ‘What?’

‘Ah!’ He stepped back quickly, eyes bright, perhaps just a little alarmed by the look on Kathy’s face.

She looked past him at the others watching them, and drew him over to an empty table in the corner of the room. They both sat and she pulled out her notebook. ‘What about poisons?’

‘Oh,’ he said, back-pedalling now, ‘it was probably nothing. It’s just that one day I happened to notice her reading a book called Famous Victorian Poisoners, something like that. You see, I’m doing research on Lucrezia Borgia myself, for my company. We publish coffee-table books mostly.’ He wrinkled his nose and handed her his card. ‘Anyway, I made some sort of a joke with Marion and she said it was to do with her doctorate.’