The Sixth Lamentation

by William Brodrick

  Her father collected his coat and left the room, saying, ‘Lucy, I’m going home. You can tell me as much as you see fit when you feel like it. Or maybe Gran can tell me next Sunday.’

  He apologised profusely that evening for his petulance, by which time he’d got to grips with the anxiety that really troubled him. At the time of her announcement Lucy had recently dropped out of Cambridge, after winning a scholarship at King’s to read Economics. It had been more of a triumph for Freddie than for her — she had made it to the same college to read the same subject as he had done. It was just marvellous … even though Lucy’s interest lay in literature, not the science of wealth distribution. When Lucy left university at the end of her first year, her father entered a sort of mourning. So did Lucy; she wore black and dyed her hair. For a short while she attacked the structure of Capital by drawing Income Support. Her father spoke to his old college ― the place was open for the next academic year. But she found a job as a finance clerk for a small company that manufactured pine chairs. Pine chairs? Freddie cried. Yes, and a few tables. Oh my God, he said. Her mother bought a rocker. And then, at a party, Lucy met Darren, who had a lively interest in Lenin. He was the only person she knew who’d read the lambent phrases of Joseph Schumpeter. He introduced her to the vast, liberating plain of Other People’s Misery but he quarried his authority from Lucy’s lack of self-esteem. Age and force of manner overwhelmed her innate, cultured sophistication and she became a disciple. The large house called Home fell under the heavy sword of ideological scrutiny. She moved out. There was little Freddie could say. Her mother cried and cried.

  The most interesting aspect of this episode was that Agnes didn’t like Darren either. But she knew instinctively that it had to run its course. As a consequence, while Lucy knew Darren she kept visiting her grandmother; she rarely went home. That was the thing about Agnes, and in it lay a mystery: while she was inaccessible to ‘normal’ people the route was left open for ‘outsiders’; like the bag-lady she frequently met in the park; like Lucy, in a way

  Then, long after Darren had left the scene, Lucy turned up at Chiswick Mall, Agnes’ home, while her father was listening to the cricket (he’d lately discovered its secret joys, but only after the other two ‘had been bowled out’).

  ‘Dad, I’ve got a place to read English at King’s College.’

  ‘Cambridge?’ he said, alight.

  ‘No, London.’

  He smiled broadly At least it had the same name as his alma mater. Susan baked a cake. And Agnes, the person who had always been there, to whom there was never a homecoming, pretended nothing had happened.

  3

  In leaving the cut and thrust of chair sales and becoming an undergraduate, Lucy entered another sort of No Man’s Land that was not altogether unattractive. She had made no lasting friendships in the office and her new youthful companions at King’s were broadly interested in drinking and running through the preliminary stages of an emotional crisis that would probably flower in the second year. This was familiar, uninviting territory. And so, in her first year studying English, aged twenty-five, Lucy found herself between a life she had left behind and a future that was yet to find a shape.

  Lucy did retain, however, a small link with her past. It presented itself one morning when she was walking down High Holborn. Among the bobbing heads she caught sight of blonde hair and a stare of enquiry that turned rapidly into recognition. It was Cathy Glenton, a girl Lucy had known at Cambridge. She was one of the few people with whom Lucy had found any affinity. Their mutual attraction appeared to lie in sheer difference. Cathy was effortlessly brilliant and endowed with generalised talent, more like a machine that smoothly went to work on any activity she cared to assume. Between hot-air ballooning and acting in the drama club she discharged high marks in all her papers. She ate what she liked without putting on weight. She had it all, including a sublime boyfriend called Vincent. Even misfortune seemed toothless before Cathy’s exuberance. Shortly into her first year she had had an accident in a drunken bicycle race, striking a pot-hole on a narrow bridge over Hobson’s Brook, flying off her bike and landing on the railings, cutting her hands and face. She had been left with an almost insignificant scar, more of a twisting in the skin, situated upon her left cheek. For anyone else such an outcome would have teetered on the edge of psychological importance. But not for Cathy She couldn’t have cared less. When Lucy met her in High Holborn she noted the subtle presence of pink foundation, something Cathy had never used, and wondered why it should be needed now. After the preliminaries and the truncated histories, Lucy said, ‘Still ballooning?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Acting?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘How’s Vincent?’

  ‘Gone with the wind.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Just work. Nothing but bloody work. And Turkish baths for pleasure.’

  ‘Turkish baths?’

  ‘Every week,’ she laughed.

  Cathy had gone into advertising, thinking up clever ways to persuade people that they wanted what they didn’t really need. ‘I’m a sorcerer,’ she said. They exchanged numbers and thereafter each of them lurched for the phone every once in a while. They met, had a laugh and parted without planning another meeting, which somehow felt right. For different reasons they were both alone, crossing different fields.

  4

  Lucy stepped out into the cool night air and made her way to her flat in Acre Lane, trying yet again to move around the various bits of history which put together properly might give a coherent explanation for her family’s broken ways. There was the war; the camps; a swift marriage; and the mystery that was Agnes. How did they all fit together? Was there something else? God alone knew.

  Lucy’s persisting regret was that things could so easily have been different for everyone: Agnes needn’t have been lost to those around her; Grandpa Arthur needn’t have sacrificed himself so much; Freddie needn’t have felt rejected; Susan needn’t have been run down by someone else’s past; and Lucy could have had a childhood, at least for a while. They had all, to a greater or lesser extent, been unnecessarily damaged. Looking at the workings of the world and all therein, it seemed to Lucy that everything had been put together quite nicely at some point in the past, only now it didn’t work very well. And no one knew why But now that her gran was dying, explanations were of no consequence. If there was one, only Agnes knew it, and maybe it was better she take it with her.

  When she got to her flat, Lucy switched on the television and drew the curtains, shutting out the night. On impulse she rang her grandmother, just as the news was about to begin.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I am. Don’t worry’

  ‘Are you frightened?’ It was a personal question, the sort she’d never asked before.

  The answer came smoothly: ‘No. There’s not much more in this life to be scared about, is there?’

  ‘I suppose not. Goodnight, Gran.’

  ‘Goodnight, Lucy’

  Lucy watched the news with interest. She thought the monk handled the silly question about complicity rather well.

  Chapter Three

  Brother Sylvester, the Gatekeeper, escorted Detective Superintendent Robert Milby and Detective Inspector Madeleine Armstrong into the parlour at the main entrance of the Priory. At ninety-three years of age Sylvester’s memory was now best equipped to deal with his youth, the subsequent decades having become somewhat indistinct. His mind was often somewhere else, and most visitors were treated to forays into his past without the need for any particular enquiry.

  ‘You’ll be going back to Martlesham tonight, Detective Superintendent?’

  ‘No, no, I’ve got to go on to London. No rest for the wicked.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said Brother Sylvester. He leaned upon the open door, in contemplation of a distant glimmering. ‘The last time I was in London was with Baden-Powell…’

  ‘Brother, thank you.’ The Prior’s words w
ere firm, with an undertone of familiar entreaty. Brother Sylvester, a little startled, reluctantly withdrew

  The Prior, Anselm and Wilf were seated at a large table. Milby had changed a great deal since Anselm had last seen him. The days of flinging drug suppliers over the bonnets of their cars had ended and, through promotion, he had eased himself into a suit and a certain studied gravitas. As he sat down, Milby announced: ‘This is a matter for the Metropolitan Police, but conduct of the enquiry will be shared with us because the subject is in our area.’ He raised a large hand towards his colleague. ‘Detective Inspector Armstrong will be handling our involvement.’

  Anselm regarded her pensively Her manner suggested self-containment, separation. Short jet-black hair made her stand out sharply from her surroundings, like an etching. Long eyelashes, also black, moved slowly as she scanned a sheaf of notes that lay on the table.

  Milby said, ‘Madeleine, would you explain what’s come to light:

  She nodded at Father Andrew, as if he were the one who had invited her contribution. Her voice was even, controlled, with a slightly hard edge.

  ‘His name is Eduard Walter Schwermann. It seems he was a low-ranking SS officer based in Paris during the war. He’s incriminated in the deportation of thousands of Jews to the death camps.’

  Father Andrew sat with his hands joined, only the fingertips touching, a characteristic gesture known by Anselm to mean intense, troubled concentration.

  ‘He was captured in January 1945, disguised as a priest and with transit papers for England.’

  ‘A priest?’ repeated the Prior.

  ‘I’m afraid so. He was recognised on a train and subsequently arrested. At that point he appears to have informed the military police that he was travelling with someone else, a Frenchman named Victor Brionne. He too was arrested. Both men had false identities. Both were interviewed by a Captain Lawson. Both were released and their passage into this country went ahead.’

  The Prior frowned. ‘Why were they released?’

  ‘We haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll be talking to the interviewing officer in a few days’ time. He’s now a Labour Peer. Back then he was a captain in Military Intelligence.’

  ‘Who provided the false identities, the travel papers?’

  ‘We don’t know. But the fact that Schwermann was caught dressed as a priest might suggest an ecclesiastical connection.’

  ‘And then again,’ interjected the Prior logically, not defensively, ‘it might not. There may be a diplomatic link, though I can’t imagine why or how’ The Prior drew a hand across his tight lips.

  ‘Of course. The strange thing is’ — her manner altered suddenly, becoming warmer, less analytical — ‘that the false identities appear not to have been recorded. It is as though they were let into the country and the trail to finding them was quietly brushed away’

  ‘By Captain Lawson?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  A reflective pause ensued, until Anselm said, ‘So what happened for the next fifty years?’

  ‘Nothing, until Pascal Fougères, a young Frenchman and foreign correspondent for Le Monde, found a declassified memo in the United States setting out the information I’ve just given you. It turns out he has a personal interest, because Schwermann was responsible for the deportation of his great—uncle, Jacques Fougères. Apparently he’s a Resistance hero.’

  ‘So what did he do?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘He wrote an article — this is about a year and a half ago —alleging that two war criminals had found a safe haven in Britain. It caused a big splash on the Continent, but only a ripple over here. And then another peculiar thing happened. Fougères received an anonymous letter giving him the name under which Schwermann had escaped: Nightingale.’

  ‘The number of people who knew that can’t be very large,’ said Father Andrew pensively

  ‘No, but Fougères hasn’t pursued that angle. I have to say I find that puzzling. Anyway, what he did do was contact Jewish and former Resistance organisations in France. They quietly started putting together the case against Schwermann—’

  ‘And Brionne?’

  ‘No, not against him, which is even more puzzling. When they had the outline of a case they presented it to the Home Office. Somehow Schwermann found out before we could arrest him and the next thing we know he’s here, claiming sanctuary.’

  She glanced at Detective Superintendent Milby who added quickly, with a studious frown, ‘We find that a little odd, sanctuary.’

  ‘A right granted by Clement III. It has no legal force,’ Father Andrew said dismissively

  Anselm caught Wilf’s eye — he had been an historian in the world — and read astonishment at the hidden erudition of his Prior.

  ‘But what gave him that idea?’ asked DI Armstrong.

  ‘Father Anselm will enlighten you.

  Anselm recounted to the police officers what he had told his Prior the previous night just before Compline, when the Great Silence would fall on Larkwood and the chances of reproach were least likely to blossom. On the day of Schwermann’s arrival Anselm had been on the afternoon confessions. No one had come. When he’d left the confessional there had been only one other person in the nave, an old man sitting at the back, as still as a painted figure in a frieze. As Anselm had walked past he’d suddenly moved, grabbing Anselm’s habit, saying, ‘Father, what does a man do when the world has turned against him?’

  Anselm had paused, disconcerted by the tight grip on his clothing rather than the question posed. It was one of those ponderous enquiries, he’d thought, which is the lot of the monk to answer.

  ‘In the old days,’ he’d replied, pulling at the cloth, ‘you’d claim “sanctuary”, the protection of the Church, if the accusation was unjust.’

  ‘And would you be safe?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘Truly?’

  ‘I promise you.

  ‘Thank you,’ the old man had said, with a quiet calm that Anselm had later recognised as the threshold of decision. At the time he had simply walked away reflecting carelessly on the eccentricities of the faithful and the curious things that troubled them.

  ‘Therefore,’ Anselm said to Milby and DI Armstrong, ‘I fear he took words lightly spoken as an invitation.

  Father Andrew turned to Brother Wilfred and said, ‘Now is a good time to tell us what happened next.’

  Wilf was the sort of gentle, reflective man who could not talk to the police without feeling as if he had committed a crime. Nervously, he said, ‘I was talking to Brother Sylvester at reception about a news item I’d just heard to the effect that a local man accused of wartime atrocities had vanished from his home. Then in he walks and says, calmly as you like, he’s claiming sanctuary. I told him it had been abolished. I asked him to leave and he refused, so off I went to call the police.’

  ‘And then,’ said Father Andrew, musing, ‘the troops of Midian arrived at our gates with their panoply of cameras.’ He waited for a response, his silver eyebrows slightly raised.

  The Detective Superintendent said, ‘The Press. They’re always one step ahead.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Father Andrew dryly ‘What happens now?’

  ‘There will be an investigation, and then we’ll review the evidence,’ informed DI Armstrong.

  ‘That isn’t quite what I meant,’ said Father Andrew gently ‘I meant how do you propose to remove him?’

  DI Armstrong looked at her superior officer with, to Anselm’s judgment, a hardening of expression. Milby leaned across the table in a sort of sprawl. In a confiding way he said, ‘We’ve given that some thought. If at all possible, we think he should stay here, as a short-term measure at least, if only for his own protection.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent, this is a monastery, not a remand home for the elderly’ The words were strangely familiar to Anselm.

  ‘I appreciate that, but—’

  ‘And our first duty is to our common life.’

  ‘Of course— ‘An
d we have the peculiar sensation of having been deliberately compromised.’

  Springing unforeseen from pliable courtesy, the accusation stung the Detective Superintendent. From Anselm’s point of view there followed that delicious silence upon which he had often dined in the past. The embarrassment of the police is every defence barrister’s illicit pleasure and years of committed monastic life had done nothing to diminish his appetite. And, curiously, on this occasion it seemed the delight, ill—suppressed, was shared by DI Armstrong.

  Unconvincingly, but ready for a tussle, Milby said, ‘I’m not sure I follow you.

  Father Andrew smiled benignly He never engaged in useless arguments. In the absence of an admission where one was required he abruptly closed a conversation down. It was a powerful, unnerving tool. Returning to his former gentility, he said, ‘I’ll let you know our position a week from today’ He turned his attention to DI Armstrong — ‘I’m very grateful for all you have told us.’

  The meeting over, Anselm walked the police officers to the courtyard in front of Larkwood. The gravel crunched underfoot as the question came from the Detective Superintendent:

  ‘Haven’t we met before?’

  ‘Yes. I used to be at the Bar. I’m sure we had a few courtroom squabbles. I moved on.’

  He laughed and said, ‘Well, you did the right thing. Wish I’d become a monk: He slumped in the back of an unmarked car and slammed the door.

  DI Armstrong seemed to hesitate. She glanced around as if not wanting to leave and said, ‘This is a lovely place. Goodnight, Father.’

  Anselm returned to the parlour to join Father Andrew and Brother Wilfred. Brother Sylvester had shuffled into the room and was laying out a selection of leaflets on the sideboard. He said:

  ‘When Wilf told that chap sanctuary had been abolished, he said he’d done it before.’ He continued arranging neat piles of pink and green paper.