‘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.’
‘So you were on first-name terms?’
‘Well, yes. This is a friendly place.’
‘Do you know anything about her circumstances? Partner, family, home?’
‘Oh no, nothing like that.’
Kathy nodded. She felt there was something here, something beneath the surface, but wasn’t sure what. ‘All right. Well, thanks again, Mr Ogilvie. And do get in touch if you think of anything else.’
Kathy rejoined Gael, who told her that Marion had never applied for any financial help. They walked together to the front door, and Gael pointed to a small bunch of white flowers standing in a tiny glass vase.
‘A little memorial,’ she said. ‘Marion brought these in the day before it happened, and knocked them over when she collapsed. Afterwards I retrieved a few of them and put them in water for her.’
‘I’m sorry, this must be the last thing you’d expect to happen in a place like this.’
‘Not recently certainly, but we have had our dramas. Leigh Hunt’s nephew shot himself here, you know.’
From the way she said it, Kathy assumed she should know who Leigh Hunt was. She looked more closely at the flowers. ‘They’re unusual, aren’t they? From her boyfriend?’
‘Not the faintest. She never said.’
Kathy walked out into the bright day, warming up now, and crossed the street into the central gardens. She checked the rubbish bin-empty-and went to the seat that Ogilvie had pointed out. From there she could be seen from many of the buildings surrounding the square. They would all have to be door-knocked. Lunchtime was approaching, and a few people were making their way into the garden clutching newspapers and packets of food, coatless today.
Kathy spoke to them, showing them Marion’s picture. One thought she’d seen the young woman there, but not that week. All this would have to be done more systematically, Kathy realised, and moved off to check the cafes that Gael had mentioned. On the way she noticed brass nameplates with the titles of venerable clubs as well as international companies-the East India Club, BP, Rio Tinto, the Naval and Military Club-which occupied the Georgian and Victorian mansions that lined the square and surrounding streets. She also paused at the small memorial set up in one corner of the square to Yvonne Fletcher, the policewoman who had been shot dead there in April 1984, during a demonstration outside the Libyan Embassy. It made her think again about Sundeep’s fear of a political motive.
