The Sixth Lamentation (23 page)

‘That’s
most understandable.’

‘I
realise that keeping my name back must be unattractive,’ said the visitor, ‘.but
it’s as an excess of caution, not distrust. Should anyone ever knock on our
door, and that’s possible, I’d like to know in advance that the Priory played
no part in the finding, however accidental it might be.’

‘Yes, I
see what you mean,’ said Anselm, thinking of Brother Sylvester whose progress
towards sanctity had left the discretion of the serpent well behind.

‘As
long as you are obliged to house your guest, if I can put it like that—’

‘You
may; that’s exactly the situation—’

‘Then
this could be the place where those with a legitimate concern will come. So do
feel free to repeat what I’ve said, but I’d rather it was left unattributed.’

‘I
understand.’

In
certain circumstances Anselm had a fondness for death. It tended to resolve all
manner of complications for the living, especially in families, though few were
prepared to admit it. But this was an example of the principle’s wider
application. The death of Victor Brionne might have caused grief elsewhere but
it simplified things enormously.

The
visitor stayed for Vespers and afterwards Anselm walked him to his car.

‘I’ve a
long drive ahead.’

‘I won’t
ask where to,’ replied Anselm. At that moment his eye latched on to the
distinctive red lettering of
The Tablet,
a Catholic weekly lying by the
back window Anselm always read it cover to cover, after which he feigned
intimate knowledge of world and religious affairs. As the visitor slammed the
car door, Anselm, unable to restrain his curiosity, stepped closer —he’d
noticed the small white address label. He just caught Mr Robert B … and
then the vehicle crunched away across the gravel.

Anselm
waved farewell. It had been one of those encounters, all too short, that could
only end with pages left unturned. In the withdrawn life of a monk it wasn’t
every day that Anselm met someone like Mr Robert B. The vehicle moved slowly
and Anselm noted the stickers on the rear screen: ‘National Trust’, ‘Whitley
Bay Jazz Festival’, ‘Cullercoats RNLI’ — each a snapshot of a life’s
enthusiasms.

Walking
back to the Priory, Anselm thought he wouldn’t say anything to DI Armstrong just
yet. Her research would confirm what he’d been told. The death of Victor
Berkeley would become public knowledge and he could write to Rome and let them
know that the old collaborator had been struck by bricks from heaven.

And
while he was smiling to himself, the one peculiarity of his conversation with
Robert B struck him. At no point had they mentioned the identifying feature of
the dead renegade: his false name, the name by which he must have been known.

Chapter Twenty-Two

1

The idea of going to Larkwood
Priory came to Lucy late at night after she had been grilled by Cathy about ‘the
Frenchman’ — an expression that, for Lucy included Victor Brionne. The next
morning Lucy forsook a lecture on the Romantic era and rang Pascal.

‘I’ve
had an idea. It’s a one-off, but it might yield something.’

‘Go on.’

‘Wherever
Brionne might be, he is bound to know that Schwermann has claimed sanctuary at
Larkwood Priory There’s a chance he, too, might contact the monks. Either he’s
looking for somewhere to hide, or he may want to speak out but doesn’t want to
go to the police … there are all sorts of possibilities.’

The
line hummed lightly Pascal said, ‘It’s worth a shot.’

‘I’ll
pick you up in the Duchess, a Morris Minor built and bought before we were
born.’

A monk called Father
Anselm led them to an unkempt herb garden and a table beneath an ancient
wellingtonia tree, talking of his schooldays in Paris. At the first natural
break Pascal said, ‘Father, let me say I for one haven’t swallowed the story
that the Priory has any sympathy for “Schwermann’s predicament” — I think that
was the phrase. I used to be a journalist so I recognise the musings of a hack
when I see them.’

‘I’m
very grateful for that,’ said Father Anselm, not, it seemed, entirely at ease. ‘It
would appear we live in a time when any swipe at the Church sounds credible,
which is probably the Church’s fault as much as anyone else’s.’

‘Maybe,
but one of the first things I learned as a journalist was that if you set
anything down in print, however bizarre, it looks plausible.’

The
monk said, ‘Unfortunately some stories about the Church are both bizarre and
true.’

Turning
to the subject of their visit, Pascal said, ‘Father, Eduard Schwermann is one
of those alarming people who diligently went to work within a system of
killing as if it was a Peugeot factory. After that, someone hid him.’

The
monk seemed unsurprised at something that had always struck Lucy as
astonishing.

Pascal
continued, ‘There will be a trial, but it doesn’t follow that justice will be
done. Turning over the past is a bit like waking Leviathan. Anything can
happen, and sometimes it’s the innocent that get devoured.’

‘I’ve
seen the devastation many times.’

‘To
stop that happening we need someone who knew him and saw him at work.’

‘Who?’ The
question seemed artificial.

‘A man
called Victor Brionne. That’s why we’re here. I know it’s unlikely but if he
makes contact with the Priory for any reason, will you urge him to come
forward? I’m not asking him to go to the police, just to talk with me and my
colleague in private.’ Pascal nodded his head towards Lucy

The
monk leaned forward, his expression a miniature of regret and slight confusion.
‘I used to be a lawyer,’ he said, as if disclosing a forgiven sin, ‘so I know
how important a witness like Victor Brionne could be in a case such as this.
And, as it happens, someone did come here to talk about him, a man whose mother
had known him. But he came only to say that Brionne had died in an accident.
The man kept his anonymity because he didn’t want to get involved.’

‘How
did he die?’

‘He was
hit by a falling chimney stack.’ The monk seemed to find his own reply
transparently unsatisfactory.

Pascal
frowned. ‘A falling chimney stack? Didn’t that strike you as convenient?’

‘I had
no reason to doubt him.’

Lucy
sensed growing discomfort.

Pascal
said, sharply, ‘Did he know the name, the name he hid behind?’

The
monk paled.

‘Did
the person mention the name?’

‘I’m
afraid not.’

‘So
there’s no way of confirming what you were told? Death produces more paper than
anything else.’

Lucy
glanced from Pascal to the monk, who now seemed slightly adrift from the
conversation. He looked up, as though to speak, when his mouth froze. Lucy
turned in the direction of his gaze and saw an elderly monk walking across the
grass with a young man about the same age as herself.

‘Brother
Sylvester,’ said Father Anselm weakly

‘I knew
I’d find you hiding here,’ said the old monk, waving over his companion. ‘This
is Max Nightingale. Used to be in the Scouts, you know’

2

Brother Sylvester’s
distinctive contribution to community life inspired two extreme reactions:
protective affection and a desire to kill. The ground in between was narrow and
easily traversed. Watching Sylvester potter back to the reception, halting here
and there to rub and smell herbs along the way Anselm stepped swiftly from the
first to the second.

As
Porter, it was one of Sylvester’s tasks to answer the telephone and take
messages. The considered view of all was that about half got through.
Therefore, Anselm had no idea Max Nightingale was coming, and Sylvester had now
airily brought him into contact with the man who had exposed his grandfather.

Pascal rose
stiffly saying, ‘Thank you for your time, Father. We’d better be going. If the
nameless visitor calls again, I’d ask him some more questions.’ He walked
quickly after Brother Sylvester, followed by Miss Embleton.

‘Is
that Pascal Fougères?’ asked Max.

‘Yes,’
replied Anselm resignedly

Max
took a step, halted and then called out, ‘Hold on … just a second …
tell me about Agnes … and a child …’

The
young woman who’d said hardly anything throughout their short meeting turned
abruptly showing an involuntary flash of pain. She hurried past Fougères and
out through the gate.

‘I
showed my grandfather a cutting last week,’ said Max, watching them part. ‘It
was about him, Pascal Fougères. My grandfather hadn’t realised he was involved
in the group that had exposed him …’ He blinked rapidly, half squinting, ‘The
next thing I know he’s walking back and forth … mumbling… and out
spills that name … as though he could see her there, in the room … I
barely heard him after that … but he said “child” as if he’d seen flesh and
blood.’

They
were alone, now, in a scented garden.

Max
said, ‘I asked him today what he meant and all he’d say was that Victor Brionne
knew the answer.’

Anselm
felt a sudden affiliation with the young man. They were both relying on the
missing Frenchman to make sense of strained loyalties.

‘You
know, Father,’ said Max, ‘I think we are in much the same position. My
grandfather planted himself here, behind these walls, and I sometimes wonder if
he took refuge in my childhood … another secluded place where questions don’t
have to be answered.’ He looked blankly at traces of paint beneath his nails. ‘But
now I’ve grown up.

‘Unfortunately’
said Anselm, ‘that is never more apparent than when we ask the first forbidden
question. Maybe that’s when we really cease to be children.’ Thinking of the
young woman with the haunted eyes, Anselm went on, ‘I wonder who Agnes might
be?’

Max
said, ‘I get the feeling Pascal Fougères doesn’t know … but the girl does.’
He made to go, saying with a tinge of disinterest, ‘I just came to let you know
there’s no sign of Victor Brionne as yet. ‘

‘There’s
still time,’ said Anselm hopefully ‘Something will have found its way on to
paper.

After Max had gone Anselm
devoted half an hour to John Cassian’s Sixteenth Conference, On
Friendship.
Putting
down the text at the bell for Vespers, Anselm was struck by an answer, on the
face of things, unrelated to his reading, even before he’d formulated the
question. Did Agnes know Victor? Yes, she did; she most certainly did. And they
had both known Jacques — an interesting fact that had escaped the family education
of Pascal Fougères.

Anselm
shook his head, ruing the scheme of things that only allowed him to discover
great truths by accident.

3

They travelled in silence
for a mile or so. The roads were empty and the evening sun was beginning to dip
behind the darkening trees.

‘Who’s
Agnes?’ Pascal said.

A cold,
crawling sensation spread over Lucy’s scalp: it’s a fact, he’s never even heard
of her. Proudly vehemently, she said, ‘My grandmother.’

‘And
the child?’

‘Her
son.’

‘The
father?’ He’d guessed the answer: his own history, the redactor’s script, had
been torn in two.

Lucy
checked her mirror and pulled into a lay-by near a farm gate. The sun slipped
further down, a dying blaze. She said, ‘Jacques Fougères, your great-uncle:

‘What
happened to the boy?’

Lucy
couldn’t read his expression. Resentment and despair choked the words.

The
whole story would now tumble forth. Pascal wound down his window, pulling in a
slap of cold fresh air, and Lucy broke her promise to Agnes.

The late evening sky had
acquired a faint glamour, like the surface of the sea, deep but impenetrable.
Lucy drove into the advancing night, the obstacles that had lain between her
and Pascal floating all around — broken words on a rising wave, a swell made of
two rivers suddenly joined.

Chapter Twenty-Three

1

Pascal rang Lucy on her
mobile while she was having lunch with her parents. Her father sat at the head
of the table; her mother had just left the dining room for the kitchen. The
opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth, electrified and appalling, blared out from
Lucy’s pocket.

‘Destiny,
I presume?’ asked Freddie woodenly

Lucy
took the call.

‘I
think a little miracle happened when we were at Larkwood Priory.’

‘It
passed me by’