The Gardens of the Dead fa-2

by William Brodrick

  George did not reply.

  ‘Because if you told the court about David,’ said Anselm, ‘it would undermine your own evidence.’

  George still did not speak.

  And, of all people, it would fall on Elizabeth to argue that the word of George Bradshaw could not be trusted, because he’d made false allegations once before.’ Anselm paused. ‘It must have been a dreadful moment, George, when I pushed you out of that witness box. I’m far sorrier than I can express, all the more so because I gloried in not knowing what I’d done.’

  The sounds of feet and low voices were at the door.

  No one is more familiar with the varieties of forensic disappointment than a police officer. Sometimes she knows that a man has committed a crime but she can’t bring him to book, either because a witness won’t speak out (unlike Anji) or the assembled facts wouldn’t convince a jury of guilt (as in the case of John Bradshaw). And even if she rolls him through the court door, a wheel can still fall off (as happened with George Bradshaw). But, curiously the greatest disappointment of the lot is the one reserved for objectionable conduct that falls short of an offence.

  These sunless thoughts settled upon Anselm as he greeted Inspector Cartwright, noting that she did not smile or look at George, and that she kept her coat wrapped tight despite the rampant efficiency of an institutional heating system. They formed an apprehensive triangle. The main light had been switched on, but the bulb cast a weary glow, as though it were fearful of what might be revealed.

  ‘There is a simple legal problem,’ said Inspector Cartwright bluntly ‘Riley’s scheme doesn’t constitute a recognised criminal activity. He’s no different to someone using a telephone directory. He sells a number, that’s all. And in his hands, it’s neutral. If there was an arrangement between Riley and the girl, then it might be different. But there isn’t.’

  With the back of his hand, George brushed unseen dust off his sleeve. Anselm gazed again at a schoolboy’s motto: the law will be fulfilled by love.

  ‘Even if charges could be framed,’ continued Inspector Cartwright, ‘it would be a weak case, a case that we couldn’t reasonably pursue.’ She slowed her delivery, hating her role, her obligations. ‘George, this means that Riley is out of my reach, and yours. I’m sorry to say this, but it looks as if he always was, even before you and Elizabeth set out to catch him.’

  It struck Anselm that the last observation belonged to the category of things that need not be said, even though true.

  ‘Would you mind writing that down for me?’ asked George appreciatively as if he’d received complex travel directions. ‘I’ll need to remind myself in the days to come.

  With a frown of concentration, he tapped his blazer pockets, not quite sure where he’d left his notebook.

  Anselm had foreseen that the lateness of the hour might preclude a return to Larkwood. Accordingly after Inspector Cartwright had gone, George was left in place poring over a table, and Anselm was directed to a narrow storeroom with a camp bed that snapped shut when he sat in the middle. Surprisingly – and in the morning, he thought, indecently -Anselm fell asleep easily He began compline, but didn’t get beyond the first verse of the opening psalm. When daylight came, he knocked on George’s bedroom with all the worry and regret that he’d thought would keep him awake. The door was ajar and swung a little at his touch. Entering, Anselm found the bed unused and the jigsaw completed.

  David George Bradshaw had gone.

  PART FIVE

  of beginnings and ends

  1

  Anselm joined Father Andrew in the cloister. They sat on a low wall beneath one of the arches, looking onto the garth. At the insistence of an MCC benefactor the square had been laid with turf from Lord’s cricket ground – ‘Father, we’ll lay a sand-based, fast-draining outfield’ – but rank disobedience to the maintenance regime had permitted this corner of the English soul to be eaten by moss. The square was now a deep emerald sponge that held on to water.

  The Riley business was, they both concluded, a sorry affair. Their involvement left the bitter aftertaste of shared failure: as if they might have done something to prevent the outcome – the dereliction of a dead woman’s hopes. She had set out to alter the appearance and effect of the past. That her entire project should founder on a mistake of law was unfortunate. That the correct legal analysis should have come from her mouth in the first place was a tragedy.

  Learning of Elizabeth’s background ought to have surprised Anselm, but it did not (he said, letting his eyes rest on the crisp, frosted lawn). The manner of her living now made sense: a life in compartments, the zeal for prosecuting and, like an arch, her inventiveness. In retrospect, Anselm could see her quietly working out the knots of her history, as when she, who had lost her father, had drawn from him the loss of his mother. They’d discussed its manner and meaning, but she’d applied its lessons elsewhere. From the outset childhood grief had bound them together, though he’d never known it. Perhaps that’s why she turned to him – instinctively – when she saw ‘Riley’ typed on the front of the trial brief, when she read the name of David George Bradshaw on the witness list. She must have seen what Riley was hoping to do: that he might well succeed; that he could do so only if Elizabeth sacrificed the identity she had so carefully constructed. Professionally speaking, in that one trial, unseen by the public and her peers, Elizabeth had committed suicide: she should have withdrawn from the case; she should probably have gone further, and revealed what she knew of her client, ‘this wounded instrument’. There were lots of shoulds, but they were not enough when weighed against her need for self-preservation. Or – to be just – was it yet another murder that could never be laid at Riley’s door? As he had been from the beginning, Anselm was linked to Elizabeth by a kind of grieving that he didn’t fully understand. Her dying words to an answer machine seemed preposterous, now: ‘Leave it to Anselm.’

  ‘What was I supposed to do,’ asked Anselm, drawing breath, ‘sweep up the pieces? Explain to George the limitations of the law – as if he didn’t know already?’

  ‘No,’ said the Prior patiently ‘the message related to a project she knew had failed, otherwise she wouldn’t have called the police. They’re words of hope, urging Inspector Cartwright to remain confident, despite appearances.

  ‘The point remains,’ said Anselm, with mock testiness, ‘what is it that I’m meant to be doing?’

  ‘It sometimes helps to shift tenses,’ said the Prior, nudging his glasses. ‘What are you meant to have done?’

  ‘Find George,’ replied Anselm smartly for there he had succeeded, before he’d lost him again. (Before coming home, he’d checked Trespass Place, left messages at homeless shelters in London and written a letter for the kind attention of F Hillsden Esq.)

  ‘What else?’ asked the Prior routinely He seemed to be slipping away drawn by adjacent thoughts.

  ‘Visit Mrs Dixon.’

  Anselm pondered these twin duties while the Prior fiddled with the paperclip on his glasses. Slowly like water clearing in a stream, Anselm began to understand Elizabeth’s last wish. Answering the Prior’s questions had placed George and Mrs Dixon side by side. And, seen like that, their link grew strong.

  Mrs Dixon, with her drawn-out rogue vowels, hailed from the north of England. She’d lost her son. She’d remarried. She was utterly extrinsic to Elizabeth’s scheme of retribution.

  George had run from a good northern home, leaving behind a truth that wouldn’t go away But George’s father may well have died by now. The burden of loyalty on the mother would have been lifted. Perhaps she’d built a new life with another man. That woman could be Mrs Dixon

  … it had to be.

  Leave it to Anselm, he thought excitedly gratefully.

  Who better to bring George back to that place of first departure, than Anselm, whose question had reached so deep into the Bradshaw history? Elizabeth had prepared the means by which Anselm could reclaim his own regret.

  Leave it to Anselm.<
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  Why say this to Inspector Cartwright? Because Elizabeth foresaw that this tireless policewoman would be devastated -because she was a servant of the law that would once again disappoint an honourable man.

  Leave it to Anselm.

  ‘Can I visit Mrs Dixon?’ said Anselm keenly turning to the Prior.

  ‘Yes.’ He’d taken to examining the garth, as though the benefactor had demanded a written report with several appendices. ‘What were Elizabeth’s stipulations?’ he asked, rising.

  ‘To call uninvited and to listen rather than speak.’

  ‘Sound advice,’ replied the Prior. He smiled benignly and then shuffled through the cloister, hands thrust behind his belt.

  Anselm went to check for mail in the bursar’s office, expecting to find some fresh tobacco, obtained by stealth at the hands of Louis, who’d had business in the village. On the way Anselm fell to thinking about Nicholas Glendinning. There was no need for him to know what Sister Dorothy had disclosed. It all happened a long time ago. And since then Elizabeth had become someone totally different. The truth need not be told, he thought awkwardly.

  Brooding on this conundrum, Anselm reached into his pigeon-hole. There were two items. One was a manila envelope from Louis wrapped in tape. The other was a letter from an unknown hand, postmarked London. He opened it and read:

  Dear Father Anselm,

  Please bring George home as soon as possible.

  Yours sincerely

  Emily Bradshaw

  He folded up the paper and mumbled a prayer – giving God several options, like a multiple choice – that George would make his way to Mitcham, or that someone would read Larkwood’s address in his notebook, or that Mr Hillsden would strike lucky once more. All the same, Anselm felt uneasy when he should have been edging towards jubilation. It was the image of the Prior staring at the garth, thinking tangential thoughts.

  2

  Nancy had the day to tidy up the shop because Prosser was coming to barter with Riley at the close of play This room of bumper puzzles would be sold. The sound of cars bashing the hump near the bridge, the sight of the flints by the railway embankment, the clang of the bell over the door: all this would pass. Riley was with the estate agent, arranging the sale of the bungalow. The world she had known was coming to an end. They were going to the seaside.

  For most of Nancy’s life Brighton had been the object of her dreams. Even the word shone. It was the place of childhood memories of her mum and dad, of fish and chips wrapped in newspaper, of warnings about Uncle Bertie’s wayward habits. And now it was as though the pier had broken away and drifted out to sea, with her memories giving chase, like dwindling gulls. She covered her face, defeated: so much remained unresolved, undone and unspoken.

  The bell rang, and she turned.

  ‘I’ve come to say goodbye, Nancy.’

  Mr Bradshaw’s overcoat was stiff and creased with frost. His beard had thickened since she’d last seen him at the police station. There were no goggles and his eyes were pale and defenceless.

  ‘Not just yet, please,’ she entreated. ‘Warm yourself, one last time.’

  Mr Bradshaw sat in a small sewing chair while Nancy lit the gas fire. As the heat drugged the air, the windows streamed, and George said what he couldn’t have prepared (for, as Nancy well knew, he could do that sort of thing).

  ‘When I first came here,’ he said, rubbing his hands, ‘it wasn’t to deceive you. I just pretended to be someone else, but I’ve only told you the truth about myself. There’ve been no lies between us.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Mr Bradshaw inched his boots towards the fire and vapour rose off the caps. This is how I shall always think of you, thought Nancy: steaming as if you’d been hung out to dry.

  An old man once gave me a golden rule,’ continued Mr Bradshaw “‘Don’t be lukewarm, old friend,” he said. “That’s the only route to mercy or reward.” It’s the reason I came, Nancy I’d walked away from the trial, and this was my last chance to go back, to make up. I might have failed, but something happened that I hadn’t thought possible, and it has made losing worth the candle: I didn’t expect to become your friend.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Nancy again, warmly Emotion wouldn’t let her say much more. She glanced back at her life, at its many candles, and the burnt-out stubs. It was like one of those big stands with tiers in a church. Was this really the Golden Rule: to keep on lighting another wick, when the wax always melted? To keep on hoping, no matter what? She mastered herself by making a confession.

  ‘You left behind a plastic bag full of notebooks,’ announced Nancy ‘I’m afraid I read some of them.’ To show that she’d made good the wrong, she added swiftly ‘I also took the liberty of returning them to your wife.’

  At first Mr Bradshaw didn’t reply – he nodded at the first part and then shook his head at the second, which Nancy took as a sort of quits, since one cancelled out the other, like in the ledger at Lawton’s – but then he said, ‘I hope Emily reads them.’

  With a slap of each hand on a knee, Mr Bradshaw stood up, and said, ‘Well, I’d better be making tracks.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Nancy surprised by the worry in her voice.

  ‘I don’t know’

  ‘Have you ever been to Brighton?’ she blurted out.

  ‘No,’ said Mr Bradshaw, checking his buttons, ‘but I’ve heard of the pier.’

  ‘There’s two,’ stammered Nancy ‘The West Pier, which is falling into the sea, and the Palace.’ She wanted to share it with him, while it was still good, before it was altered. She raced like a guide in a tourist office, telling Mr Bradshaw what she’d told him many times before. He always listened as if it were new, as if it were fresh. ‘I went there every summer, with my mum and dad and Uncle Bertie. We stopped going after I got married. There was all sorts… magicians, jugglers… the helter-skelter… a clock tower… and right at the end a funfair with a ghost train. We’d walk around eating rock, wasting pennies in the one-armed bandits. But it was the sea I liked most, now grey now blue, stretching away lonely Long ago, I heard that the whole lot was slowly falling to bits… like me’ – she smiled, looking down at her legs, the strong veins behind the tights – ‘but it’s been completely renovated. Nowadays the deckchairs are free.’

  ‘Magnificent,’ whispered Mr Bradshaw, sitting down again.

  Boldly but decisively Nancy said, ‘Would you like a holiday by the seaside?’

  Mr Bradshaw’s agreement was far more emphatic than his surprise at the forwardness of the question. Nancy drew some directions that would take him along Limehouse Cut to the agreed meeting place. She wrote down the time he should be there, and she gave him her watch. Throughout he made a show of impatient nodding, as if the mastery of such details was child’s play After Mr Bradshaw had gone, Nancy tenderly thought: The great thing about someone who’s lost their memory is that they’re so used to forgetting answers that they don’t ask too many questions. And that was a help, because Mr Bradshaw hadn’t asked what Mr Riley might think of her invitation; or what Nancy proposed to do with the options that remained open to her; or how she, too, might take the route to mercy or reward. It would have taken Nancy a very long time indeed to explain.

  3

  Perhaps Nick’s father had dropped a hint along these lines: ‘He hasn’t come to terms with the passing of his mother. He could do with a treat… something to take him out of himself.’ Or maybe it was simple generosity of spirit. Either way the tubby executive at British Telecom – last seen sipping sherry at the funeral – had offered Nick a treat closed to the general public for donkeys’ years: a view from the top of the BT Tower. The executive was called Reginald Smyth.

  ‘One hundred and eighty-nine metres high,’ he said, reverently, on the thirty-fourth floor. ‘Sways twenty centimetres in a high wind.’

  Reginald was a plump and ponderous man with active eyes, and a commiserating manner. He’d lost all his hair save for white curls above each ear. Standing wi
th joined hands, he ushered in fact after fact as if they might soothe the bruised and broken. ‘As you can see, there are no walls, just windows and, of course, the floor rotates, obtaining a full circuit in twenty-two minutes…’

  Nick missed the details about tonnage, nylon tyres and speed. He was already gazing at the sprawling majesty of London. Sitting down, he picked out St John’s Wood, hazy under the threat of snow and, with an alarming shudder, the floor began to move.

  From this suburban pinnacle Nick looked upon recent events as if he were detached from their happening and significance. It was calming; it was a treat. He listened and watched while the world seemed to go round. Reginald, being a man with a sense of moment, kept a respectful distance.

  ‘We had a long-drawn-out argument,’ Charles had admitted, clinking more ice into more scotch. After the visit to Doctor Okoye, Elizabeth wanted to tell Nick about Riley and his place in her life.

  ‘I didn’t know about the heart condition,’ said Charles, handing Nick a glass. ‘Your mother only said that maybe it was time to retire, that the cut and thrust was all getting a bit much for her valves.’

  Husband and wife toyed with selling up and fixing the tap in Saint Martin’s Haven. Led by Elizabeth, they talked of all the things they agreed about, until Charles realised she was trying to seduce him. Snapping a thumb and finger, he said, ‘No.’ He was against any disclosure of the past, not because he was ashamed, but because he was frightened: for Nick.