my surprise that the books arranged in a neat pile next to it each contained many more slips of paper as bookmarks than I had put into them myself, and that a few new books had actually been added to the pile.
‘What has been happening here?’ I wondered, taking up the top one, and opening it to the first marked passage.
An elderly Italian monk-priest, Padre Tommaso, disappeared in Damascus, Syria, after having visited the Jewish quarter in the city. Twelve Jewish leaders were arrested and tortured. Four died from the mistreatment; most of the rest confessed to involvement in a ritual murder.
‘Someone has been doing my research for me,’ I said. ‘I suspect it must have been the young man who keeps the library. He seems very knowledgeable. Yet it was a strange thing to do.’
I turned to the flyleaf of the book, and saw a pasted-in
ex
libris
label inscribed with the name Gerard Ralston and the year 1886. Putting it down, I picked up the oneunderneath it:
The Jew
, by Sir Richard Burton. Inside, at the place marked by another neat paper slip, I found a virulent and more detailed summary of the story of poor Padre Tommaso. With rising revulsion, I forced myself to glance quickly at the marked pages of the other books, and my companions gathered around the table and followed my example. All the items on the professor’s list were references to accusations of ritual murder, and more than half the books bore the acquisition date of 1886, although others had been acquired earlier. Like those I had noticed earlier, many of the passages we read had been marked in pencil in the margin.
‘This is disgusting!’ said Emily, letting fall an account of the torture and disappearance of little Anderl von Rinn. ‘What is all this about draining the blood of a Christian child for baking in their unleavened bread? It says here that Jews do that – oh!’ she added, embarrassed, glancing at her friends.
I thought that they could not but be pained by the horrific nature of the accusations against their people. But if they were, they restrained themselves from showing it.
‘You shouldn’t bother with all this rubbish,’ said Amy simply, although a little loudly, slapping her book shut and dropping it on the table. ‘It’s ancient history, how can it help us? Even if Professor Ralston
were
interested in such things, which doesn’t surprise me given all that we know about him, it’s just some kind of research about the distant past, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I hesitated. ‘I would say you are right if itweren’t for the story of James Wilson. That is too recent to be of interest to a medieval historian.’
‘Yes, but the list makes it look as though he wanted to study all such cases. It would be normal for him to count that one in among the others,’ she observed, pointing to my notebook.
‘Perhaps,’ I said. I did not wish to argue about it. Yet I remembered the list the way Professor Ralston had written it, and the heavily underscored words
James Wilson
added in at the very bottom. Was ritual murder the subject of his research, and was James Wilson just another case among many? Or was James Wilson, rather, the stimulating influence behind Professor Ralston’s researches into ritual murder? Why had many of these books been purchased precisely in 1886? An idea began to form itself in my mind.
‘I’ve just learnt far more than I ever wanted to know about the different ways of obtaining and using fresh human blood,’ said Emily. ‘Do let’s start reconstructing the crime instead. At least the professor was shot; that seems like an improvement over what I’ve just read.’
‘Yes, let us do that,’ I said. ‘Only we had better leave all these books exactly the way we found them. We don’t want anybody knowing that we came here in the night-time.’ I piled them up neatly, and turning away from the loathsome heap with relief, I unlocked the door to the professor’s study.
‘Oh – the furniture
‘What has been happening here?’ I wondered, taking up the top one, and opening it to the first marked passage.
An elderly Italian monk-priest, Padre Tommaso, disappeared in Damascus, Syria, after having visited the Jewish quarter in the city. Twelve Jewish leaders were arrested and tortured. Four died from the mistreatment; most of the rest confessed to involvement in a ritual murder.
‘Someone has been doing my research for me,’ I said. ‘I suspect it must have been the young man who keeps the library. He seems very knowledgeable. Yet it was a strange thing to do.’
I turned to the flyleaf of the book, and saw a pasted-in
ex
libris
label inscribed with the name Gerard Ralston and the year 1886. Putting it down, I picked up the oneunderneath it:
The Jew
, by Sir Richard Burton. Inside, at the place marked by another neat paper slip, I found a virulent and more detailed summary of the story of poor Padre Tommaso. With rising revulsion, I forced myself to glance quickly at the marked pages of the other books, and my companions gathered around the table and followed my example. All the items on the professor’s list were references to accusations of ritual murder, and more than half the books bore the acquisition date of 1886, although others had been acquired earlier. Like those I had noticed earlier, many of the passages we read had been marked in pencil in the margin.
‘This is disgusting!’ said Emily, letting fall an account of the torture and disappearance of little Anderl von Rinn. ‘What is all this about draining the blood of a Christian child for baking in their unleavened bread? It says here that Jews do that – oh!’ she added, embarrassed, glancing at her friends.
I thought that they could not but be pained by the horrific nature of the accusations against their people. But if they were, they restrained themselves from showing it.
‘You shouldn’t bother with all this rubbish,’ said Amy simply, although a little loudly, slapping her book shut and dropping it on the table. ‘It’s ancient history, how can it help us? Even if Professor Ralston
were
interested in such things, which doesn’t surprise me given all that we know about him, it’s just some kind of research about the distant past, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t know,’ I hesitated. ‘I would say you are right if itweren’t for the story of James Wilson. That is too recent to be of interest to a medieval historian.’
‘Yes, but the list makes it look as though he wanted to study all such cases. It would be normal for him to count that one in among the others,’ she observed, pointing to my notebook.
‘Perhaps,’ I said. I did not wish to argue about it. Yet I remembered the list the way Professor Ralston had written it, and the heavily underscored words
James Wilson
added in at the very bottom. Was ritual murder the subject of his research, and was James Wilson just another case among many? Or was James Wilson, rather, the stimulating influence behind Professor Ralston’s researches into ritual murder? Why had many of these books been purchased precisely in 1886? An idea began to form itself in my mind.
‘I’ve just learnt far more than I ever wanted to know about the different ways of obtaining and using fresh human blood,’ said Emily. ‘Do let’s start reconstructing the crime instead. At least the professor was shot; that seems like an improvement over what I’ve just read.’
‘Yes, let us do that,’ I said. ‘Only we had better leave all these books exactly the way we found them. We don’t want anybody knowing that we came here in the night-time.’ I piled them up neatly, and turning away from the loathsome heap with relief, I unlocked the door to the professor’s study.
‘Oh – the furniture
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