The Sixth Lamentation (17 page)

The
narrator, interviewing Fougères, asked about the Frenchman whose whereabouts
were still unknown. Pascal replied, ‘Victor was Jacques’ best friend and, as
with so many others, the war split them apart. He fled, I think, because he’d
been trapped by circumstances. He was just an ordinary policeman but ended up
at Avenue Foch.’ He smiled, as if cracking a joke: ‘I doubt whether it would
have been a good idea to trade arguments with the Resistance after the Germans
had gone.

As for
Schwermann, said the narrator with a level voice, he had found sanctuary in a
monastery.

Lucy
turned off the television. It was dark outside and the rain was still falling,
lightly but interminably She said, ‘You weren’t mentioned.’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t
realise Jacques had been the one who set up The Round Table.’

‘That’s
not how I remember it.

Lucy
reflected further about Pascal Fougères. ‘He’s got no idea what Victor Brionne
did to you and Jacques … and the others.’

‘No,’
replied Agnes, distracted. She smoothed a wrinkle in the fabric on the arm of
her chair. Her eyes narrowed as if trying to make out a figure in the dark,
half seen, familiar but receding from view

‘I
wonder who wrote that letter … giving the name?’

‘Yes, I
wonder …’ Agnes stared into the shadows, still calmly smoothing the
material.

Chapter Sixteen

1

Finding the whereabouts of
Father Louis Chambray (for he had never been laicised) was a relatively
straightforward matter. While a Gilbertine monk like Anselm, he belonged to a
different Province, a French strain, which had nonetheless been founded as a result
of Henry VIII’s delirious policy of closure that had removed the Gilbertines
from English life. Remnants of the Order had sought refuge in Burgundy —
mindful, perhaps, that its Dukes had once sold Joan of Arc to the English. Such
courtesies promote lasting trust, a commodity the Gilbertines required if they
were to survive. For whatever reason the characteristic double-houses (monks
and nuns in separate buildings but joined for services on Sundays and feast
days) thrived, notwithstanding the various anti-clerical movements that
followed the feast of revolution two hundred years later. The French Order
subsequently re-established an English presence at Larkwood Priory in the early
1 920s. After that there was little contact between the two Provinces, not
least because each house was self-governing. But historic familiarity and a
sort of religious
entente cordiale
helped Anselm’s purpose.

The
French Gilbertines’ motherhouse in Rome freely supplied Anselm with details
about Father Chambray, as they had evidently done on an earlier occasion to an
emissary from the Vatican. Chambray kept in contact with his Order once a year,
sending a
Bonne Année
card to a Prior General he had never known. He’d
gone, but that one slender tie remained.

‘Why’s
he so popular all of a sudden?’ asked the plump archivist, chewing one of his
fingernails.

‘Some
ancient history, that’s all,’ replied Anselm.

‘History
is never ancient,’ said the keeper of the books, blinking solemnly

‘Indeed,’
said Anselm dryly He wasn’t altogether fond of inversions. They tended to sound
good and mean very little. He thanked the young sage, placed the address in his
pocket and wandered back to San Giovanni’s. There was much to be done before
returning to England.

Before
directing his efforts to finding Victor Brionne, Anselm decided to follow the
escape trail from Paris to Notre-Dame des Moineaux. Tracing history had its own
poetic attraction, but geography and pride were the decisive factors: Chambray
now lived in the capital, and since Anselm had to pass that way to reach the
monastery he thought he might as well track down the one living survivor from
the time. All the more so, coming to the pride, because Anselm considered himself
particularly adept at handling individuals described as ‘uncooperative’. It had
been his hallmark at the Bar. Back at San Giovanni’s, Anselm rang Father Andrew
to explain matters and get the necessary permissions .

‘While
you’ve been away,’ said the Prior, ‘there’s been a run of stories in the Press
implying that we are sympathetic to Schwermann’s predicament. Worse, there are
heavy implications that the Church may have eased his passage out of France in
the first place. Just wild guesses.’

‘I’m
afraid those guesses may not be that wild, but appearances aren’t what they
seem.

A
troubled pause crept over the line. ‘Tell me everything when you get home.’ The
Prior’s voice changed tone. ‘Anselm, I want you to be careful. Remember, first
and last you’re a monk. Protect what you’ve become because it can easily fall
apart if you’re careless. In one sense you’ve left the world behind, so in all
you have to do you should sense you don’t quite belong. If you begin to feel
you do belong, you’re at risk. Remember what one of the desert fathers said.
The house caved in not because it was struck by rain but because it was built
on sand.’

Anselm packed his bags and
slipped out, praying that Conroy would not emerge from his lair. By early
evening he’d landed in Paris, taken the metro to Porte de la Chapelle and
walked to Saint-Denis. Upon an impulse, Anselm made a casual enquiry at the Basilica.
Yes, said a young priest, they knew Chambray well but he was in considerable
ill-health. He’d been coming to daily Mass for thirty years and had never been
to Communion once.

Anselm
made the final two-minute walk to the flat, climbed four floors of rough
concrete stairs and knocked firmly on the dull brown door. A small brass
eyepiece stared back remorselessly The lights on the landing were broken and
thin streaks of grey daylight lay adrift upon the walls. Anselm heard a rattle
from the other side, getting louder, as of air being pulled into thick lungs.
An unseen cover scraped off the eyepiece. Anselm swallowed hard in the long,
heaving interval that followed. The door opened slowly and smoothly

In the
gloom Anselm saw a shortish man, his wiry head pushed forward with a thick
moustache falling over his mouth. All other features were indistinct, but
Anselm was not really looking. His gaze had fixed upon the long knife.

2

‘Good afternoon,’ said
Lucy

Pascal
Fougères nodded an acknowledgement with such a direct gaze that Lucy could have
sworn he’d said something. He held out his hand with a smile. Lucy took it,
suddenly self-conscious. While only twenty-eight, he seemed older. Relaxed in
his body, as the French say his energy spilled over in the swiftness of small
gestures.

‘Take a
seat,’ he said, pointing to a chair.

After
watching the documentary on The Round Table, Lucy brooded upon the strange
exoneration of Victor Brionne. A suspicion had grown that the Frenchman’s
artless ignorance was more of a subtle contrivance … which would be warmly
received by Victor Brionne had he seen the programme. With growing conviction,
like one who has found a footprint, Lucy checked the various newspaper cuttings
retained by her grandmother. On too many occasions to be described as
coincidence she perceived a clear agenda: the emasculation of Victor Brionne’s
past as a collaborator. With that understanding came the further critical
insight that prompted Lucy to contact the producer of the programme. Her
details were passed on to Pascal Fougères who promptly returned her call. They
arranged to meet in Sibyl’s Cave, a pub by the river at Putney Bridge, after
Lucy had finished a morning tutorial.

Upon
arrival Lucy instantly recognised Fougères sitting at the far end of a terrace,
absorbed in a novel. He wore a striped shirt, the collar wide open without a
tie, and a rather shapeless jacket that had once probably been green. One hand
covered his mouth while his eyes squinted at the fluttering page.

‘I’ve
never been here before,’ said Lucy

‘It’s
not just a pub,’ he said, closing the book. His black hair fell forward, quite
long, and extravagantly thick. Lucy suspected he cut it himself.

‘Through
there,’ he continued, pointing towards the lounge, you can join any table you
like and get involved in whatever debate is going on. No politics or religion,
they’re the only rules.’

At
Pascal’s suggestion they ordered lunch and came back to their table while it
was being prepared. Lucy glanced across the river towards Hammersmith, towards
Chiswick Mall, towards someone slipping away on the heavy pull of a late tide.

‘Mine
are peculiar circumstances,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately I can’t tell you about my
background because I’m protecting someone. Let’s just say I have an interest in
the fate of Eduard Schwermann. I know all about your great-uncle Jacques,
Victor, Father Rochet, Madame Klein, The Round Table … Mr Snyman … all
of it, not from the papers, not from books … but I can’t say any more,
because of a promise.’

Pascal’s
whole body tensed with interest. He looked at Lucy afresh, as if trying to
recognise her.

‘From
what I have read,’ continued Lucy, ‘I suspect that through words of
encouragement you are hoping Victor Brionne will come forward to be a witness
at the trial.’

A light
wind tousled Pascal’s thick hair, pushing it over his eyes. ‘No one is better
placed to condemn Schwermann.’

Lucy
grimaced at the admission. ‘The reason I’ve asked to see you is to give you a
warning. I know that if Brionne responds, for whatever reason — to make amends
for his past, to offer consolation to your family, whatever — nothing he says
can be relied upon.

Pascal’s
brow contracted fleetingly, smoothed away by a deeper, contrary conviction.
Lucy went further: ‘Brionne will not say a word against Schwermann.’

‘I know
someone who thinks otherwise.’

‘And I
know someone else.’ Calmly she watched his confidence falter. ‘That is all I
can say,’ said Lucy with finality. ‘Except for this: if Victor Brionne contacts
you, persuade him to meet me, if only for a few minutes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because
afterwards he will tell the truth about everything that happened.’

A
waitress brought their lunch. Lucy picked up her knife and looked at Fougères
expectantly ‘Well, will you help me, to help you, to help the rest?’

He
glanced down at the knife in her hand, eyebrows raised:

‘Is
that a threat?’

3

Anselm could not take his
eyes off the dull glint on the blade.

One
edge flashed as the shadow holding it stepped forward on to the landing.
Chambray threw a swift, raking stare over

Anselm’s
habit.

‘What
the hell do you want? I’m trying to eat. ‘

There
was something in the brash confrontation that persuaded Anselm this was a
performance, possibly concealing hidden warmth. More confident of his ground,
Anselm ventured, ‘I wondered if we might have a brief talk—’

‘What
about?’ Chambray fired back. He did not budge. There was no invitation to come
in. His chest rose and fell angrily

Anselm
faltered. He’d been very wrong. This was not the harmless banter of an old soul
in need of a playful ribbing. He pressed on, ‘I understand you were once at
Notre-Dame des—’

‘I’ve
already told the other lot. I’m not saying anything, to no one.

Anselm
seized on the distinction: ‘I’m not really from the other lot, he said
alluringly

‘Then
where are you from?’ challenged Chambray, waving the blade impatiently and
still not moving.

‘My
name is Father Anselm Duffy. I’m a Gilbertine monk, like you, from Larkwood
Priory. It’s a rather …’

Before
Anselm could trot out some guidebook particulars, Chambray lumbered back
through the doorway and turned around. With one hand on the door he flung it
shut with a single savage movement. The unseen cover scraped off the brass
eyepiece. Slower breathing hovered on the other side, not receding, while the
two monks looked towards each other. After a long moment, Anselm retraced his
steps to the evening light.

4

Pascal ate a plate of
sausages and mustard while Lucy searched for the scallops that had given the salad
its name. When they had all but finished, Pascal said, ‘I’m going to talk
openly … Perhaps I’m being rash, but I trust you.

‘Why?’
asked Lucy, more inquisitive than gratified.

‘Because
you mentioned Mr Snyman. No one could know that name who did not have a link to
the inner world of my family’

‘You
are right.’

‘And
you can’t tell me what it is?’ he asked, mystified.

‘One
day … soon, in fact.’ Lucy thought of her grandmother and the swift,
merciless approach of death. ‘But not now’ She glanced instinctively over the
river towards Hammersmith once more.