The Sixth Lamentation (29 page)

Agnes
moved her head towards the bedside table and her alphabet card. She had a
simple method. After pointing out the letters of a word, she paused and rested
her hand. Then she spelled out the next word. It was the lightness of her
wrist, moving like a conductor, and that pause, still fingers upon her breast
between measures, that broke Lucy down.

P-A-S-C-A-L

A long
pause followed: this introduced the subject she wanted to talk about, like a
heading.

T-R-Y

Pause.

T-O

Pause.

C-A-L-M

Pause.

T-H-E

Pause.

F-I-R-E

Pause.

W-I-T-H-O-U-T

Pause.

P-U-T-T-I-N-G

Pause.

I-T

Pause.

O-U-T

Pause.

Lucy
nodded gratefully, reaching out to meet the anxiety, the entreaty deep within
her grandmother’s blue eyes. Sensing the question that was trapped in Agnes’
head she added, ‘The college are being enormously helpful. They’ve told me to
take a few weeks off. They’re sure I can catch up.’

Agnes
touched Lucy’s arm, and then continued:

I-F

Pause.

V-I-C-T-O-R

Pause.

A-P-P-E-A-R-S

Pause.

I

Pause.

M-U-S-T

Pause.

S-E-E

Pause.

H-I-M

Pause.

B-E-F-O-R-E

Pause.

I

Pause.

D-I-E

Lucy
stroked her grandmother’s shaking hand. Agnes couldn’t point for long. Anguish
pulled down the corners of her mouth.

‘Gran,
I think he’s gone for good.’

Agnes
shook her head.

H-E

Pause.

W-I-L-L

Pause.

T-U-R-N

Pause.

U-P

Lucy
lifted her grandmother’s hand again and smoothed the skin, as if to ease a deep
bruise, the wound that still believed an old friend might yet turn up to redeem
himself. So much of their relating had now been transferred to a meeting of
hands. It replaced the voluntary. silence that had once been a communion. Lucy
reached over and took the alphabet card. She had something to say that had
never been said:

I

Pause.

L-O-V-E

Pause.

Y-O-U

The
handle of the door turned and Wilma came in with the bowl of ice cubes, a
saucer and a teaspoon.

The vestibule floor was
dry and safe to walk upon when Lucy left. On the way out she walked past the
front room. It was no longer used. Agnes had left it for ever. The piano, the
television and the furniture stood waiting for joking removal men in white
overalls.

2

The morning after his
return from Paris, Anselm went to the library to write some letters, mindful of
Johnson’s observation that a man should keep his friendships in constant
repair. He had just sealed an envelope when Father Bernard, the cellarer, put
his head round the door. There was a telephone call for Anselm that had been
transferred by Sylvester to the kitchen. There was no point in trying to get
him to re-direct it. They both hurried down the stairs, habits flapping like
wide streamers on a kite that refused to get off the ground.

‘The
call was from Detective Superintendent Milby enquiring how the visit to the
Fougères family had transpired. Anselm explained, concluding with the ambiguous
remark, ‘I’m very glad I went.’ Milby then transferred the line to DI Armstrong’s
extension.

‘I
think we’ve found Victor Brionne,’ were her first words.

‘Good
God.’

‘Not
exactly, others were involved. The person who came to see you was almost
certainly Robert Brownlow He’s fifty-five and lives on the north—east coast in
a place called Cullercoats. His father, Victor Brownlow, lives in London —
Stamford Hill. The place looks shut up and has been for months according to the
postman. The son, however, pays rates on a property on Holy Island, “Pilgrim’s
Rest”. We’ve had local police drive around in civvies and it looks like that’s
where he’s gone to ground.’

‘I’ll
give you a ring as soon as I have spoken to him.’

‘You
may as well tell him to contact me. He can’t go on running, not at his age.’

‘I will.’

Anselm
fished out a pencil from his habit pocket and said, ‘I’ve another favour to
ask.’

‘I hope
you’re not going to surprise me again, Father.’

‘No,
this is different. Can I have Lucy Embleton’s telephone number? I’ve got a
letter for someone she knows.’

‘Father,
since I came to Larkwood Priory I’ve met nothing but mysteries.’

Anselm walked back to the
library deep in thought and collected his correspondence, before strolling into
the village to post them. On the way he glimpsed a flaming red Fiat Punto with
a foreign number plate turning towards Larkwood. It was oddly familiar, but
Anselm applied himself to another pressing distraction. Something was nagging
at the back of his mind and he could not entice it forward. But he was
absolutely certain of one thing: the name Brownlow was familiar, and it went
back to his schooldays.

3

Lucy broke her journey
home by calling unannounced upon Cathy Glenton. They’d only spoken to each
other once since Pascal’s death, when Lucy rang to tell her what had happened.
After that Lucy had slipped out of circulation. A couple of messages on her
answer machine from Cathy had not been returned. But on leaving Chiswick Mall,
Lucy suddenly felt the urge to see her old friend.

The
door opened narrowly and Cathy peeped over a lock-chain. Lucy saw the white
cotton bathrobe and the towel turban around her head. ‘Is it too late?’

‘Nope.’

They
shuffled into the kitchen. ‘So, what are you up to?’ asked Cathy, producing two
bottles of beer from the fridge.

‘Attending
a war crimes trial.’

‘Why?’

‘Long,
long story. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fine.
How’s your grandmother?’

‘Dying
slowly I don’t want to talk about that either:

‘Fine.’

Cathy
sat in the corner of the settee, her legs tucked beneath her. She stared into
the narrow green neck of the bottle and said, ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, for being
such a fool.’

‘What
do you mean?’ asked Lucy, kicking off her shoes. She sat against a wall.

‘About
you and Pascal.’

‘Oh,’
sighed Lucy with surprise, ‘forget it.’

‘When
you didn’t call back I thought you were angry with me.

‘No,
no,’ replied Lucy with feeling, apologetic. ‘I just wanted to be morose on my
own. Now I want to be morose with you.’

‘Fine.’

They
drank their beer. ‘It’s always the same,’ said Cathy after a while. ‘You get to
our age and every now and then you recover the enthusiasm of childhood, but you
just get another slap across the face.’

Lucy
glanced over to Cathy and said, ‘You once told me you never think about the
past. That’s rubbish, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

Suddenly,
without brutality, Lucy asked, ‘What happened with Vincent?’

‘I
screwed up. Monumentally.’

‘How?’

‘It’s
astounding, looking back. I mean, he was really different. No interest in a
career, money, all that stuff; did lots of charity work, quietly; said great
things I wanted to write down … and I ended it.’

‘Why?’

‘One
day he got really, really smashed. We had a row about nothing — a wet towel
left on the floor — but he called me an ugly bitch.’ She put her bottle
carefully on the floor. ‘The next day I started covering up the scar. He said
sorry, didn’t mean it, and so on … and then I realised what had happened: I’d
changed, just like that.’ She clicked a thumb and finger. ‘I hadn’t realised my
self-confidence was so fragile. We sort of made up, but I steadily edged him
away All rather self-indulgent, really I heard the siren call of existential
meltdown, thinking it might give me added depths. I suppose I wanted him to
chase after me. But he took me at my word. I should have hung on to him.’

‘Where
is he now?’

‘Married
to some other divinity.’

‘Cathy,
I’m sorry.’ Lucy felt strangely ashamed of her own appearance.

‘Don’t
be. The artwork’s only an interim measure. Inside I’m becoming a goddess that
soars over all flesh. There. Are you morose now?’

‘Yes.’

‘So am
I. Let’s play Snap.’

Chapter Thirty-One

1

Anselm got back from the
post office in time for lunch, which proved to be an unspeakable combination of
cold pasta and beetroot without any other benediction to hold them together.
Brother Jerome’s news bulletin was a helpful distraction, containing an
interesting item on the trial. Anselm determined to read the whole report once
he’d escaped from the refectory. Meanwhile, an agenda fell into place: he would
see Lucy Embleton and Salomon Lachaise the next day, before heading north to
confront Victor Brionne at the weekend — another cold prospect that now filled
him with dread. By Sunday night, after sending a fax to Cardinal Vincenzi, his
involvement in the whole affair would be over. After lunch Anselm spoke to the
Prior and received the necessary permissions. He then pinched the newspaper
from the library and made for his bench by the Priory ruins.

After
Bartlett had cross-examined Madame Beaussart, he’d surprised the court by
volunteering to disclose his client’s defence. As the judge had observed,
Schwermann was under no obligation to do so, but Bartlett had said he deemed it
right since ‘it could only assist the jury in this particularly difficult case’.
Not quite, thought Anselm. It was a ploy to get round the fact Schwermann had
not cooperated with the police. A ‘No Reply’ interview always looked
suspicious, even if it did pay homage to Goethe. So Bartlett was making
Schwermann look as helpful as possible to the jury. And he must have chosen his
moment, having got the answers he needed from the witness. Showing Madame
Beaussart the photograph was a risky shot, but Bartlett must have noticed the
prosecution didn’t formally prove
how
she knew Schwermann. In the
absence of that foundation Bartlett had crept upon her warily, his instinct
for the kill growing warm.

Bartlett
had said that Schwermann had occupied a minor clerical post in the SS; had
never visited a concentration camp; and had never ‘witnessed any of the
horrific sights so forcefully described by the courageous lady whose testimony
we have just heard’. Schwermann admitted he knew the deportees were going to
Auschwitz but he believed this was a staging post on the way to Palestine, part
of a wider policy of forced emigration. And as for the smuggling ring, he
accepted that he brought to the attention of his superiors information that had
come into his possession, but he had no influence or insight into what would
happen to them afterwards. While there was no burden on the Defendant to prove
his innocence, in this particular case the Prosecution would be shown to
flounder without particulars, clutching at circumstantial evidence.

So that
was the strategy: four big points, just as Roddy had predicted — three overt
and one concealed. The first, a complete denial of ever having seen the
machinery of a death camp. Second, a sincere belief that ‘evacuation’ meant
just what it said. And third, the fate of the smuggling ring had been handed
over to others. Technically, this meant Schwermann denied being part of a joint
enterprise whose object or possible outcome was death or serious harm. Bartlett
sensibly avoided stating his fourth argument because its inherently comic
properties undermined its force: the ‘I was only obeying orders’ defence. But
Anselm knew the jurors would be led along by frequent references to Schwermann’s
youth, his lowly rank and the power of others. There would be no laughter and
the point would be forcibly made. It might even coalesce into pity.

Bartlett’s
disclosure, however, was alarming in other respects: there was no reference to
Les Moineaux and no mention of Schwermann having saved life rather than taken
it away The riddle remained an unexplained secret. Anselm had just turned to
the obituary pages in search of light entertainment when he heard a sober voice
at his elbow