The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) (4 page)

‘I read about you in the
Sunday Times
,’ replied Anselm. ‘I thought we might tie up a few loose ends.’

After the second trial, concerning the alleged theft of £174,189.84 from a previous employer (by identical means), Anselm had never set foot in Mitch’s club again. He’d let their friendship whither without saying why. Professional etiquette had prevented him from speaking plainly, as friends must. He couldn’t say that he’d blushed at the improbability of his closing speech, when he’d twice blamed missing secretaries and the honourable dead (juries like to think the upright had merely concealed their corruption). He couldn’t say that he’d never accepted either of the rogue verdicts.

‘Where do you want to start?’ teased Mitch. ‘Where we left off?’

‘No. To put our parting in context, I need to go back to the beginning … to when I first came to the bar. Will you bear with me?’

Mitch gave a willing nod. He had the worn look of a man who lives by nights, not altogether caring what happens during the day. His hair was silvered, cropped close to the scalp. He was dressed in black: a rumpled T-shirt and faded jeans: the uniform of musicians and vendors of
Socialist Worker
, devoted acolytes of art and protest. His face was lined from too much frowning. All those high notes, fancied Anselm. Or maybe it was the worry. He was pale, too, from only working when the sun went down. Brown eyes flickered with curiosity. Anselm said:

‘When I first entered a courtroom, I thought that winning a case was all that mattered. If I lost, well, it was just hard luck; or maybe I just needed to learn a few clever moves … you know, the tricks of the trade. It took me years to realise that winning had nothing to do with finding the truth. More often than not I went home pretty sure the jury had got it right. But sometimes, especially during a winning streak – like with you – I was convinced they’d got it wrong. And these were golden moments, because I’d pulled off the impossible. I’d persuaded twelve decent people that in the exceptional circumstances of this most difficult case, two and two make five. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d followed the rules. But I’d ended up as part of the crime. I went home with a taste of ash in the mouth. This wasn’t why I’d come to the Bar. Not to win a game. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’

Mitch gave the matter careful consideration. Then he reached for his trumpet and played an Ellington refrain,
forte
: ‘I’m Beginning to See the Light’. He was a cautious man. Even now he wasn’t going to incriminate himself.

Anselm continued:

‘You, Mitch, belong to the ash. That’s why our friendship ended. But I’ve come back because I’ve selected you for a special role. On the scale of criminals I helped along the way, you are roughly in the middle. You’re an average player. And that makes you a fitting symbol for the rest … for all the people who walked free but should have been sent to Wormwood Scrubs.’

Mitch couldn’t think of a rejoinder so he just worked the valves. In a way, it was a gesture of appreciation; and sarcasm.

‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ said Anselm. ‘But first I need to ask a few questions, starting with the obvious. Why steal the money? You needed nothing.’

‘There Was Nobody Looking’. Mitch had blown another Ellington line,
pianissimo
this time.

Anselm persevered: ‘The police couldn’t trace a penny. Will you tell me where it all went?’

Mitch gave a shrug and played ‘Undecided’, a Dixieland standard, but Anselm cut the tune short: ‘Have you gone clean? I need to know for sure. No fooling around this time.’

Mitch thought about the question long enough to persuade Anselm that he was being serious, and then he began ‘Keepin’ Out of Mischief Now’.

It was one of Fats Waller’s funny promises. And an appropriate note to end on.

Broadly speaking, these guarded ‘replies’ had completely exceeded Anselm’s expectations. He’d foreseen a spat and some trading of insults. But instead, Mitch had cut to the chase with a candid confession making sure, however, that it could never be used to initiate a fresh prosecution. He’d been honest, retracting with the Gilbertine the lies he’d told the lawyer. As if acknowledging that the first half of this peculiar conference was over, Mitch put his trumpet down and said:

‘You mentioned a proposal.’

The sun had climbed high, moving shadows round the boat as if to rearrange the furniture of light and dark. Something important had changed. Nothing looked the same. Mitch swallowed a couple of aspirin and finished off the bottled water. He was smiling faintly. A kind of forgiveness had come to his pleasure wherry. And he was important now. He was a symbol.

‘Up until this morning I was a beekeeper,’ explained Anselm. ‘I also picked apples, washed bottles, and waxed floors. On occasion, I was released to help those who’d come unstuck with the law. This arrangement has come to an end. You are partly responsible.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You invited readers of the
Sunday Times
to contact me should they find themselves in a hopeless situation. That’s a large category of people and a surprising number took up the offer. My Prior thanks you. He’s also asked me to respond in the name of the community. For me, it’s a new beginning. And like everyone who starts a new venture, I want to clean up the past. I’d like you to help me.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes.’

‘As a symbol?’ Mitch was amused, failing to appreciate that Anselm wasn’t even remotely smiling.

‘At Larkwood we use lots of symbols and rituals to express things that can’t be put into words. We also use them to enact important changes in direction.’

‘You have something in mind?’

‘I do.’

‘And?’

‘I want you to help me solve a case, just one example of the need for justice. I’d like you to contribute something to the system you flouted. Because whether you like it or not – remorse and forgiveness aside – the law is our only means of restoring order to a disordered world.’

Mitch was no longer flippant. The creases in his pale face, the lines of worry or concentration, had deepened.

‘There’s an element of reparation, too,’ persisted Anselm. ‘Call it a fine, but I want you to meet any expenses. And since you twice before took me for a ride, I’d like you to provide the transport. We’ll use the boat as our office. That’s everything. If you think about it, I’m not asking much.’

‘And what’s in it for you?’

‘Like I said, you represent all the others, from the greatest to the least. All the liars, thieves and killers. Back then, I could only offer a route off the charge, not knowing whether it should stick or not. Now, with your help I want to uncover the truth regardless of what anyone says and whatever the cost or implications. Working with a former client who should have been convicted will be my one small act of reparation. It’s not much either, but it’s something. That’s what symbols are for.’

When the silence grew heavy, Mitch went to the kitchen and made more coffee. He was quiet and absorbed, mulling over Anselm’s outlandish proposal; reviewing their friendship, the sudden break, and now this surprising offer of reconciliation. Before each jury the greater part of Anselm’s speeches had dwelled upon good things, things known to be true: Mitch’s blameless past, a jazz club that raised thousands for charity, the history of glowing commendations from his bewildered employers. All that good faith had survived. It was still there. The only shadows – back then and now – had fallen from the two indictments. When Mitch came back to the table Anselm spoke again. There was a need for absolute candour:

‘I’ll be honest, Mitch, I’m hoping that once you become involved in the search for justice, once you’ve seen how we need rules to protect and save, you’ll answer for yourself without hiding behind a trumpet. I’m hoping you’ll tell me why you stole the money and what you did with it. I’m hoping you’ll hand yourself in and face the consequences.’

‘As a symbol for all the others?’

‘No. For your own good.’

The grooves along Mitch’s forehead buckled and Anselm wondered if there wasn’t an element of bitterness in those crooked shadows; a deep and abiding disillusionment. Mitch’s brown eyes rose inexorably, settling onto Anselm with a kind of livid pity. Or was it frustration? An exasperation with do-gooders who don’t understand their own rhetoric? He seemed to accept a challenge: there was tension in his voice, born of the longing to be proved right:

‘Maybe at the end of this expedition into joint atonement, you, too, will learn something about law and the complexity of life, and how rules don’t always protect or save.’

Anselm held Mitch’s gaze: there was fire in there, and resistance. The spat and the insults weren’t that far away after all. Anselm said, lightly:

‘I take it you accept my offer?’

Mitch’s anger subsided. He slumped back in his chair, regarding Anselm with an old familiarity. They’d spoken like this about bop and be-bop. They’d said hard things to one another; unforgivable things. And then Mitch had got charged. They’d spoken politely about the evidence, never once exchanging a cross word. Everything had gone smoothly. Smiling mischievously, he reached for his trumpet. Assenting to Anselm’s proposal – and looking forward to the rewards of conversion – he closed his eyes and belted out ‘Oh When the Saints’.

Anselm was jealous. He coveted the wherry and its place on the Lark. He’d always been drawn to rivers and the sea and their shared element, water. It was cleansing but dangerous, sure but unpredictable. At night, listening to ‘Sailing By’, he rode imagined waves, feeling the swell of the deep, wondering what tomorrow might hold. Humming the tune, he followed Mitch on deck to a bench on the prow. The morning glow had vanished off the fields. Cattle tugged at the grass. Fish snapped into the air.

‘I have a case already,’ said Anselm, watching ringlets spread and vanish. ‘There’s no evidence of any crime. Finding out what happened will require both grit and imagination.’

‘What do you expect from me?’ said Mitch, uncertainly. ‘I’m just a musician.’

‘And I’m just a monk. Perhaps you could improvise with the facts.’

They watched the cows slowly eating, sticking close together as if they might get lost.

‘But you’re not just a monk, are you?’ qualified Mitch, to distinguish the conductor from the player. ‘You’re a detective.’

This time Anselm was the one with a lined brow, shadows cut into skin that had once been smooth and free from cares. He almost felt the Lark lift with anticipation.

‘I’m not sure the term meets the demands of the moment,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘Think more a solver of puzzles. A troubled explorer in a wilderness of moral problems.’

Michael moved resolutely down the stairs of the guesthouse, past the dining room and out through the front door. A cold wind struck his face like a wave on a desolate beach. Orange-rimmed cloud, violet to black, smeared the vast expanse above the complaining sea. Michael didn’t linger. He had a job to do. He’d picked his target during the previous days’ dawdling, after confirming that the corner shop was still there, flanked by a pub and lighthouse. He’d checked the opening and closing times. He’d found out when the streets were deserted. The informer had told Michael to practise.

Look into the eyes of someone you love. Turn out the light with a flick of a switch.

Someone you love. There was no one to hand. But Michael had a loved memory of a loved place. A tiny shop two hundred yards from the shore. He’d first gone there with Jenny when she was a child … after he’d come back from Northern Ireland. A sign on the window had warned customers that the proprietor used the old imperial weights and measures. Pounds and ounces. A Union Jack had been drawn on the bottom as if it were the seal of Her Majesty. There’d been two counters inside, one for children, the other for adults. To the left, jars of sweets containing Liquorice Allsorts, sherbet lemons, wine gums and sticks of bright pink rock. To the right, carved pipes, pouches of tobacco, cigars, cigarettes and matches. In the middle, a kindly man with a wide smile, always wondering which way to go. Michael had smoked in those days. A pipe. To give age to his permanently young appearance. Jenny would drag him along the pavement, one step ahead, her mind on the large jars of many colours. Even in those days she’d held his hand very tight, as though fearful something bad might happen if she let go. They’d enter the shop, Jenny facing the tobacco, Michael facing the sweets. The kindly man, hair short, sleeves rolled up, all homely in his long brown apron, would hesitate, not knowing who’d speak first. He seemed to be teetering, his face alight with expectation.

‘A box of matches, please,’ Jenny would say.

Followed by Michael: ‘And two ounces of jelly babies.’

He’d expected crossfire … Jenny right to left, Michael left to right, but they’d tricked him. When he got used to the pattern, they’d swap it round, just to knock him off balance. Just when he was sure the child at the tobacco counter wanted matches for her father, she’d ask for bon bons, sending him the other way, like a goalkeeper wrong-footed in a penalty shoot-out.

‘Don’t let go, Daddy,’ she’d say, as they stepped into the street, failing to appreciate that she, now, was trapped by a choice between two directions: the security of her father’s touch or having a free hand to dip into the paper bag. Back then, the choices had been so much simpler. It hadn’t mattered if you got it wrong.

The shop was still there. The kindly man was now a kindly old man. He stood in the doorway watching life go by. There were trestles on either side of the entrance holding crates of fruit and vegetables. The windows were clean, the frames painted white. Inside – Michael had only glanced while scouting from the other side of the road – there was only one counter. The tobacco side had gone. It was all sweets now … but still in those big jars. The shelves along the sides and the back were crammed with them. Jenny would have loved it.

You have to be calm.

Michael rounded the corner. The sea lay behind him, restive, advancing, withdrawing, endlessly rolling forward and sweeping back. Ahead were the lighthouse and the pub. Dwarfed and open for business stood Number Nine St George’s Green. The locals had bought their fruit and veg for lunch. The kids were now at school. The streets were empty. The old man had just stepped back inside, limping slightly, an empty crate between his hands. He was still wearing a brown apron.