Barry Maitland: Dark Mirror

‘Did you ever meet Tina?’

‘Yes, she came a number of times with Marion, helping her with her work. And after Marion died she came back again. She said she wanted to tidy up some loose ends in Marion’s research. She was obviously distressed by what had happened. I should really have charged her for a temporary reference ticket, but I felt sorry for her and let her in on the strength of Marion’s membership. But we couldn’t let her borrow books.’

‘Right, so we don’t have a record of what she was looking at here. Can you remember if she came in last week at all, in the days before her death?’

‘Oh yes, she was certainly here, her and the other girl helping her.’

‘Emily Warrender?’

‘That’s right. I’m a great admirer of her mother’s work.’

‘Would you have any idea what they were doing?’

‘Well, they had unsupervised access to the stacks, so I wouldn’t know really. Let me think… Yes, I do remember Tina asking about one book in particular, because she couldn’t find it.’

‘Do you remember what it was?’

‘It was in History, or should have been. But I don’t think I can remember… hold on, I may still have my notes.’ She took a sheaf of papers from a filing tray and thumbed through them. ‘Yes, this is the one, I think. Its shelfmark was H. India -that’s H for history-and Social etc. We arrange our books differently here, you see, not by DDC.’ She deciphered her notes. ‘Apparently it was shelved under Harding, R., but I don’t seem to have a title. I’ll have noted it as misplaced. Do you want me to check?’

‘I think we know what it was, Gael-a book called After Midnight? It was a memoir.’

‘You’re right, I do remember now. They spent quite a lot of time looking for it.’

‘Do you have the borrowing record for that book?’

‘I can check.’ She called it up on her computer and said, ‘Only one borrower-Marion herself, last September. Nobody else.’

‘And she returned it?’

‘Yes, on the twenty-sixth of September.’

‘So what happened to it? Did someone steal it?’

‘Unlikely, I think. We assumed it must have been returned to the wrong place in the shelves.’

‘How could that happen?’

‘Well, either by mistake or on purpose.’

‘Why would anyone do it on purpose?’

‘To hide it. What better place to hide a book than in a library?’ She smiled. ‘You look surprised. Obviously you were a very law-abiding student.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I’m afraid it’s a not-uncommon practice in university libraries. If a book is in demand by students and on restricted access, the first one who gets to it places it on another shelf, where its location will be known only to them, although the computer will say it’s not on loan. Very frustrating for everyone else.’

‘But this book wasn’t in demand,’ Kathy said. ‘Only Marion was interested in it, apparently.’

‘True. Let’s see its publishing history.’ Another flurry of computer keys and she said, ‘Well, it was obviously a self-published memoir, a vanity publication, probably just for friends and relatives, with a very small print run. You might find a copy in the British Library, otherwise it’s probably vanished into obscurity. Is it important, do you think?’

‘I really don’t know, Gael. I might ask Emily. Tell me, is Marion’s tutor, Dr Anthony da Silva, a member of the library?’

‘Oh yes, I know him. He was here a lot when he was researching his wonderful book on Rossetti, but I haven’t seen him lately. Not for a while. Shall I check his borrowing record?’

‘Please.’

‘Here we are. No, nothing this year. His last loan was that new biography of Stanley Baldwin, last December.’

‘Thanks for your help.’

Kathy phoned the Warrenders’ house from the car. Emily was a little more settled, apparently, after a lie-down. They put her on.

‘Hi Emily,’ Kathy said. ‘Just a small thing. We’re tracing Tina’s movements before she died, as I told you, and I understand you both spent some time in the London Library last week, looking for a lost book. Do you remember that?’

‘Mm, yes, that’s right.’

‘Do you remember what it was?’

‘I think… some sort of memoir? I’m not sure. We never found it.’

‘Why was it important?’

There was a moment’s silence, then Emily replied, ‘Tina thought Marion had been looking at it. I think Tina thought there might have been something there about how Lizzie Siddal died. That’s what she was most interested in, some discovery of Marion’s that got her tutor really upset.’

‘She said that, did she?’

‘Yes, she did.’

Kathy phoned Brock, and told him what they had learned.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to interview Emily later to get that on record, but that’s good enough. Come on in and we’ll get to work.’

•

The room was drab and dispiriting, as if to tell those who were interviewed in it that anything they might come up with had certainly been heard between these grubby walls before.

‘Since we saw you last, Dr da Silva,’ Brock began, ‘we’ve had a chance to check some of the things you told us.’ He stopped and stared at the man across the table.

Da Silva tried to meet his eyes, but only succeeded in looking shifty. He was a changed man, Kathy thought, the arrogance gone along with the colour from his face. His clothes looked crumpled and soiled, as if he’d slept in them on someone’s sofa, and she wondered if his wife had thrown him out. He took a pair of glasses out of his pocket and put them on with an unsteady hand, as if for protection.

‘We’ve been trying to confirm your account of your movements on Tuesday the third of April, the day that Marion Summers was poisoned, but without success. None of your neighbours saw you that day, you made no calls through your house phone nor received any. There’s no evidence of you being at home that day at all.’

Da Silva’s solicitor began to object, but Brock simply nodded his head patiently and then went on, questioning the tutor again about the details of that day, what he’d had for lunch, what letters he might have written (none), and emails he might have sent from his home computer.

‘No, nothing like that. I told you, I was completely engrossed in the paper I was writing for a conference presentation that was overdue.’ His voice was different, like a nervous public speaker whose throat is stretched tight with tension.

They would require his computer, Brock said, and would carry out a search of his home, although from his tone he didn’t expect to find much. He moved on to the days following Marion’s death, and da Silva’s visit to her house.

‘I spoke to Keith Rafferty,’ Kathy said. ‘He denied that he’d supplied you with a key.’

Da Silva made a noise intended as a scoff but that came out as a choke. He took a sip from the plastic cup in front of him and said, ‘That’s no surprise.’

They turned to his relationship with Dr Ringland and access to his laboratory, laboriously working through every detail until eventually the solicitor said, ‘I think that’s really enough. As you can see, Dr da Silva is suffering greatly from the strain of these terrible events, of which he is entirely innocent. Unless you have something specific to ask him, I’m going to advise him to say no more.’

‘It’s true!’ da Silva blurted out, loud enough to make his solicitor glance at him in alarm. ‘You… you’re trying to make me out to be some kind of predator, preying on girls like Marion and Tina. But I’m innocent! I was proud of Marion, proud of her as a father might be proud of his daughter, proud of her development, of her intelligence and insight. Proud of her independence, too, of her refusal to accept my opinion on trust, difficult as that sometimes was.’