The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  And of course, guidelines can’t cover everything, and there was no manual to deal with Edmund’s situation. So George was left with his gut reaction, and, lacking Owen Murphy’s compassion, he just didn’t like the fact Edmund had been given a fresh start. As far as George was concerned Edmund should have stayed in Boston. Should never have been allowed to walk away from a crisis. He considered that ignoble.

  ‘George’s father was in the Paras,’ said Father Tabley, as if to explain an obscure moral code. ‘Last man down stuff. Third Battalion. Never got over the withdrawal from Suez. That’s George’s background. So even on first meeting he was unsympathetic to Edmund … and as a kind of rebuff, to show him he couldn’t just choose his fights, he sent him to West Africa. Gave him a Peace Corps language manual and told him to learn Krio. He’d only been in England six months.’

  ‘But why did he come back? I understand that things didn’t go smoothly.’

  ‘Well, of course they didn’t,’ exclaimed the old man, huskily. ‘Edmund had never wanted to go out there in the first place, never mind teach himself a new language. Small wonder he didn’t settle down. It had been a pointed decision … a swipe at Owen Murphy’s way of doing things, and a swipe at me, too, because I’d been very close to Owen … we’d been students together … we’d seen the world change, seen it become a complicated place.’

  ‘And you’d vouched for Edmund,’ said Anselm in the melancholic hiatus.

  ‘Yes, I’d do it again.’

  Anselm and Father Tabley appraised each other with shared understanding. They’d both paid the price for backing a new beginning.

  ‘Have I helped?’ asked Father Tabley, uncertainly.

  ‘Yes.’

  Anselm rose and went to the window, as if to watch a mysterious stranger walk quickly away. Carrington had come to Larkwood with the express intention of sending Anselm down a path that would lead to this crisis – perhaps not this meeting, but certainly the request to represent Littlemore. But what was Carrington up to? The hapless man described by Kester was not the bureaucrat described by Father Tabley. And neither of those men compared with the visitor who’d asked for Anselm’s help, who’d assured him that Edmund Littlemore had done nothing wrong. Far from being a vexed administrator, he’d been poised and absolutely sure of himself. In turning to Anselm, Carrington had breached every guideline imaginable. And that only made sense if he backed Littlemore’s story.

  ‘I’m going to represent Edmund at trial,’ said Anselm turning round.

  ‘You?’ Kester was accusing. ‘But why?’

  Anselm couldn’t give all the reasons, so he gave the only one that might cause pause for thought: ‘Because I’ve been given the name of someone who might have attacked Harry Brandwell. And it isn’t Edmund Littlemore.’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Father Tabley, both hands on the edge of the table.

  ‘I can’t say. And the person who told me can’t say either.’

  ‘How unfortunate,’ muttered Kester.

  ‘That’s why they turned to me,’ said Anselm, ‘as I have turned to you. Because until now, I didn’t know what to do.’

  ‘But you have no choice,’ exclaimed Father Tabley, a surge of emotion congesting his lungs. ‘You must help Edmund … and Harry, too. He’s been forced to lie …’

  Father Tabley could no longer speak. He reached for his oxygen mask and Kester came swiftly to his side, helping adjust the strap while Anselm turned on the air. There was a soft hiss and then the old man closed his eyes like a babe in arms.

  Anselm walked with his guests to what he thought was their car but turned out to be Father Tabley’s classic Triumph motorbike and Watsonian sidecar … a wonder in waxed navy blue and polished chrome. He’d used it to weave around the backstreets of Newcastle making house visits. Now, like him, it was a relic, wheeled out to make an impression at a festival. When he’d been safely strapped into his seat, the bottle of oxygen between his legs, Kester closed the canopy and drew Anselm aside, speaking quietly and with purpose:

  ‘He’s a good man who refuses to believe anything bad about Skyler Littlemore’s neglected child. But he’s been fooled, just like you.’

  ‘I’m prepared to take the same risk, that’s all,’ replied Anselm.

  ‘He’s a saint, what’s your excuse?’ Anselm didn’t have one. Kester went on: ‘He believes everything you tell him, especially if you cry. He’s never questioned Littlemore’s story. He’s incapable. But you’re not.’

  Anselm looked at the old man, smiling through the windscreen. His trip hadn’t been in vain after all. He was nodding like Aged P in Great Expectations, deaf to Kester’s warnings, his mind on a toasted sausage when he got back to the warmth of his castle.

  ‘He’s picked you because no other lawyer would accept a client who refused to speak,’ said Kester, almost despairing. ‘By refusing to speak, you can’t question him and he doesn’t have to explain himself. If he still prays, he’ll be on his knees begging the God of surprises that you’ll take his case. Don’t give him a reason to think that God is on his side.’

  Anselm wanted to explain that Harry Brandwell’s case might be the tip of something far greater but Kester – like Dunstan – would have found the idea not simply incredible but confirmation that Littlemore was pandering to Anselm’s vanity. Instead, Anselm made a plea:

  ‘You once came running after me because you trusted me to do the right thing. Trust me now.’ He stepped closer. ‘I may need help at some point. Secret help. Can I call on you?’

  ‘That really depends.’

  ‘If I do, it’s because I’ve no other option.’

  Even before Anselm had written down the mobile number, Kester was astraddle the Triumph, adjusting his helmet. The engine fired and gravel churned, Father Tabley nodding and waving from his bubble of blissful ignorance.

  24

  Anselm followed the Prior outside. It was a balmy evening made delicious because it belonged to a time that would shortly be seen as carefree.

  ‘I’ve spoken to every member of the community,’ said the Prior. ‘Not many will grant you their support.’ He took a narrow path that skirted the Old Abbey ruin, remnants of a fourteenth-century Benedictine foundation that had been harvested for stone during the Reformation. As if paralysed by a vision of splendour the bemused masons had left the arched windows untouched. They were covered in ivy now, with creeper swaying where coloured glass had once captured the sun. When the two monks came to a bench, the Prior sat down. ‘You’ll be denounced – along with the community – but you mustn’t waver. See this through. You have my confidence.’ And then, after a pause: ‘There’s something you ought to know. Dunstan has cancer. They’ve given him a couple of years.’

  ‘God, no. Whereabouts?’

  ‘Generalised. There’s nothing to be done.’

  ‘When did he find out?’

  ‘Late last year. He said he couldn’t care less, but he’s not been the same since. He might be old but he’s not ready to die. It’s not easy for him. He’s reviewing his life and he doesn’t like much of what he sees.’

  No one else in the community had been told. This was Dunstan’s wish. He didn’t want any special treatment or pity: he preferred the honesty of being tolerated from a distance.

  ‘I’m only telling you because it helps explain why he’s taken this Littlemore case so personally. Littlemore arrived shortly after the diagnosis. And now he’s latched onto him and all he thinks he represents.’

  ‘The betrayal of trust?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why should that bother him so much?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him so disturbed.’

  After the vote had been taken in Chapter to offer John Joe Collins a job, Dunstan had taken the Prior to one side, warning him that a mistake had been made, asking if he could be involved in any future deliberations. The Prior had agreed. Strange, really, that he’d been right to question the homeless man’s intentions. At the time, he�
�d had nothing to go on, just instinct and ill will.

  ‘Dunstan will never forgive me,’ said Anselm.

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Anselm had never got to know Dunstan. Tolerance had nothing to do with it: he’d disliked him, simply and cleanly, viewing his natural death with an element of quiet anticipation. It was ugly but it was true.

  ‘Dunstan wants you to conduct this trial,’ said the Prior. ‘He didn’t say so, of course, but I know him well enough to recognise when he’s performing.’

  ‘You’re not serious. He wants me to go into court and lose, just so he can say he got it right?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘God, he’s twisted.’

  ‘No, there’s something else at work; something very human.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The awful longing of a disappointed man to make a difference somewhere in the world before he dies. It’s a powerful urge, but it can be blinding.’

  Though not always, the Prior seemed to add. The possibility swelled the silence that ensued between them. When it became taut, Anselm began to speak quietly, repeating the speech he’d made ad nauseam to an imaginary audience who simply couldn’t understand his decision.

  ‘Maybe Dunstan is right. Maybe Littlemore and Carrington have come up with a plan to pull off an acquittal … but having met Father Tabley I don’t believe that’s what’s happening here. Which means everything Littlemore said is true: they came to me because Harry Brandwell isn’t the only victim. There are others who need to be found … and this trial is the only way to reach them. I can’t risk failing them.’

  ‘Anything else?’ The Prior was numinous and knowing.

  ‘I don’t want to be like Dunstan, incapable of trust. Everything he said just pushed me away from who he’s become, towards who I want to be, when I look back on my life. He’s nudged me back into court.’

  ‘Anything else?’ The Prior had sensed something deeper still. ‘Go to the end of your concerns.’

  ‘I recognised what Littlemore described: the sense of guilt by association. It’s irrational, but I feel it, too. Like that generation of Germans carrying the weight of atrocities they didn’t know about and would never have committed or condoned. Like Littlemore, I wanted to turn away and pretend this awful business had nothing to do with me. But that’s no longer possible, because I’ve met Harry Brandwell. But I’ve also met Edmund Littlemore and George Carrington, and they seem to have found a way of dealing with the shame they feel. So I’m grateful they came to me, grateful they gave me the chance to be involved, to help make up for the past, to be different … to be on the side of the Silent Ones. That’s why I’m prepared to take the risk that Dunstan would never countenance … for the sake of Dunstan … and all the other fractious, difficult men I know who’d die rather than harm a child; all the good and inspiring men who feel they stand in the shadow of what others have done.’

  The Prior reflected on Anselm’s apologia, then he said, ‘When you next look Harry Brandwell in the face, you’ll have to call him a liar. That’s the cutting edge of the risk. Are you ready to take it?’

  ‘No. I hope to find another way. I left the Bar a long time ago. My methods will be different.’

  Anselm didn’t fully understand what he’d just said. All he knew was that an unconventional trial would require an unconventional approach. He’d have to improvise.

  ‘Prepare a statement for the press, will you?’ said the Prior. ‘The sooner the news breaks the better. You don’t want an uproar on the first day of the trial.’

  Anselm nodded, realising that no form of words would work, that he’d be drafting the terms of his own condemnation. And he looked at the tall windows robbed of glass, thinking of Dunstan under sentence of death, an old man robbed of his self-esteem. He, too, stood condemned, only there was no chance of reprieve. His story had been told. Almost.

  25

  Within the space of a week every loose end came together: it was an embarrassment of riches. First Stuart Greene called, saying he’d traced the fax number; then Mr Bangura rang with details about Lambertine mission stations in Sierra Leone, making, in the process, an accidental disclosure; and then there was a lunchtime meeting with the news editor of the Guardian which began with the offer of a job before the waiter had even come back with the wine list. The last development was all the more significant because it meant Robert would be freed from having to see Andrew Taylor – at least for the time being. He wouldn’t have to contain himself, saying thanks for the coffee.

  To celebrate, his mother organised a dinner at Raynes Park, aiming to kill two birds with one stone, because she’d already found a buyer for the house. In at least two respects (she’d said, sadly, though thrilled for Robert) it was the end of an era. Robert thought the chain of surprises had come to an end, but then, to top it all, he received a letter that very morning, the day of the meal, from the monk at Larkwood Priory.

  ‘Do you want to talk shop for the last time?’ said Robert to Crofty when Muriel had cornered his mother in the kitchen. The feast was over. At Robert’s insistence they’d had scottadito. ‘Burned fingers’. Everyone had made quick intakes of air, dropping the meaty bones on their plates. No one escaped without a flick of the wrist. Everyone had burned their fingertips. Robert’s dad had been there, watching. ‘I’ve got a new angle on the Littlemore case,’ explained Robert.

  Crofty had wounded Robert deeply. It wasn’t the offer of a job to Taylor as such or even the longstanding complicity. The cutting edge was the deceit that comes with any pretence. The dissembling. And Robert had viewed the man as if he was a second father. Hadn’t even called him Uncle Alan. He’d been closer and more important than any nod towards attachment by blood. He’d confided in him, and received confidences in return. Knowing, then, that Crofty had kept silent on such an important matter – feigned ignorance, dodged questions, stalled with answers – Robert could only look at him if they talked business. He needed to suppress his disillusionment with the bonhomie of colleagues who didn’t really care about each other; professionals whose shared concern was the story. And so Robert opened the French windows and ambled down the flagging that led to his dad’s shed. Crofty followed with a bottle of limoncello and two glasses. A train careered along the lines hidden by trees. When the clatter was over, Robert said:

  ‘The fax came from Carrington. He’s the account holder.’ They sat down on a couple of white plastic chairs, garden furniture to be thrown in with the sale. ‘And if Taylor is right – that whoever sent the fax also wrote the letter – then that means Carrington persuaded Littlemore to go to Larkwood and six months later he tipped me off. He set up Littlemore to be caught … because Carrington knows he’s guilty.’

  Crofty filled their glasses, holding them in one hand. ‘Which means that Littlemore must have made some sort of confession to his boss.’

  ‘Yep. After he ran from that station.’

  ‘But why admit anything?’

  The question brought Robert to the new angle on the story: ‘Because he had to explain why he wouldn’t cooperate with the police. At the same time, he was silencing Carrington. I’m pretty sure he didn’t make any old admission … he went to confession. That way Carrington couldn’t repeat anything. You know, the Seal. It’s absolute. So Littlemore told him what he’d done, knowing that afterwards his boss couldn’t say a word that might lead the police to even suspect him. It’s incredible …’

  ‘And that explains how Carrington knew about you,’ said Crofty, revolted by the full, sordid picture. ‘Littlemore must have told him you were there, at the station … that you’d gone after him.’

  ‘Yep. Thing is, he misread Carrington. Didn’t imagine that he’d use me to expose him … that he wouldn’t let him get away with a crime just because he’d been gagged and the victim was too scared to speak.’

  Carrington had evidently come up with a plan and it had worked brilliantly. As Ta
ylor had correctly guessed, by persuading Littlemore to hide in a monastery he’d undermined any later denial of guilt; at the same time he’d sent a sort of message to the boy: with Littlemore out of the way you’re free to speak without fear … which is exactly what happened. Robert drained his glass and told Crofty about Mr Bangura at the Sierra Leone High Commission.

  ‘He called with a list of places where Littlemore might have worked.’

  Crofty frowned. ‘I thought they refused to comment on whether he’d been granted a visa?’

  ‘They did. But Bangura doesn’t work in the visa section. He’s Public Information. Gives answers for a living. And he slipped up. Told me that Littlemore’s visa had been withdrawn while he was out there.’

  ‘Withdrawn? Why?’

  ‘A complaint was made.’

  ‘Regarding?’

  ‘He didn’t know, but it was short of a specific offence. My guess is that it’s got something to do with “a bad character can’t be hidden for long”. Thing is, they kicked him out of the country. This is the past he ran away from.’

  Crofty nodded, unscrewing the bottle top. ‘So he comes back to the UK?’

  ‘Yep. And nine months later he attacks the kid.’ Robert held out his glass. ‘Carrington can’t do anything about what he knows. So he sets him up to be convicted. To be honest, I misread him. I thought he was trying to protect Littlemore. I hadn’t appreciated the difficulty of his position, how much he knew and how little he could do; that his hands were tied. But he found a way, with a little help from the Guardian.’

  Crofty put the bottle on the ground and leaned back in his chair. ‘Why you, though?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Why write to you rather than the police? Why seek coverage in the press?’

  It was a tantalising question. Robert didn’t have an answer, and he didn’t much care. Littlemore had been caught, and that was all that mattered. He raised his glass: