The Sixth Lamentation fa-1

by William Brodrick

  ‘That he had risked his life to save life.’

  The Prior tilted his head as though straining to catch distant voices. His glittering eyes vanished behind long creases… but whatever he’d sensed was slipping out of reach.

  The bell rang for supper. Anselm said, ‘The strange thing is, how do Etienne Fougeres and his wife come to know about Agnes and her child?’

  They rose and entered the corridor. The busy sound of other feet heading down to the refectory echoed from a stairwell. The Prior replied, ‘Jacques’ family must have passed it on after his death’ — he followed his insight through — ‘and in due course Etienne told his wife… but they did not tell their son, Pascal… a secret known by a paid servant, a butler… now, why’s that?’

  Intuition failed them both and they went into the refectory.

  2

  The evening meal was the usual emetic blend of leftovers from the guesthouse. Anselm pushed something purple around his plate. There would be no knowing what it had been in its many previous lives. Afterwards, the community filed into the common room for recreation, where Anselm joined Wilf in his usual corner by the aspidistra that no one watered but yet miraculously never died. It was one of Wilf’s greatest attributes that he used events in his life as a prompt for research into things about which he knew nothing. After Schwermann’s arrival he had quietly buried himself in reading about the Occupation and its aftermath. He liked to share his findings and Anselm enjoyed his reported forays, marked as they were by the wonder of David Bellamy having found a new snail in the garden.

  ‘Wartime creates its own unique moral dilemmas,’ uttered Wilf with Delphic calm, inviting a request for more disclosure.

  ‘Why’s that?’ obliged Anselm.

  ‘Well,’ said Wilf, gratified and settling back, ‘there’s the strange case of Paul Touvier. A traditionalist Catholic but in the Vichy Milice. Pushed into it by his father and a priest. So he’s French, policing the French for the Germans. ‘

  ‘A collaborator,’ contributed Anselm obviously

  ‘Indeed. And his job was to combat the Resistance.’

  ‘Not a very devout thing to do.’

  ‘Bear with me, Father. For therein lies an interesting conundrum. The Resistance assassinated the Vichy minister of information in 1944. The Germans wanted reprisals. According to Touvier, they demanded the execution of a hundred Jews. He says he bargained them down to thirty, and ordered the deaths of seven, at Rillieux-la-Pape, as an appeasement to save the remaining twenty-three.’

  ‘Where’s the devotion in that?’

  ‘Well, there isn’t any of course. Only it set me thinking. Here is a man who will, in due course, be convicted in absentia of treason. I don’t know any more about him, and what he said was probably nonsense, but it occurred to me that it was only those who collaborated who were in a position to bargain with the Nazis if the opportunity arose. That is not, of course, a reason for collaborating. But it suggests an interesting abstract principle: in certain situations, only someone who’s lost himself can do the good deed, even though he can never make atonement for what he has done.’

  A shared pause of reflection ensued. Wilf picked up a newspaper, found the crossword and said: ‘Even so, I can’t for the life of me understand why Touvier was hidden in a monastery.’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Anselm.

  Wilf repeated his observation, frowning gravely at the first clue. ‘Fundamentalists, apparently Integristes. Not our cup of tea.’ A touch complicated, he added, because Touvier had been pardoned by Pompidou. Ten years later he went into hiding when it transpired he could still be prosecuted. He was eventually convicted of the Rillieux murders in 1994, the first Frenchman to go down for war-related crimes against humanity.

  ‘Hideously embarrassing for the Church when they caught him, of course,’ pursued Wilf, laying the paper on his lap, ‘if only because it dredged up the ecclesiastical compromises of the past.’ During the war, he said, the Church had been in a very difficult position. Petain and Vichy reintroduced support that had been previously withdrawn by a viciously anti-clerical state. An alliance grew that was far too cosy ‘It was all rather complicated.’

  Slightly uneasy, Anselm left Wilf to his crossword. As he got ready to clean the refectory floor he all but heard another voice, whispering, and he saw the luminous eyes of Cardinal Vincenzi:

  ‘It’s all rather complicated.’

  Chapter Thirty

  1

  The court rose for the day after Mr Bartlett had made his surprising announcement that followed the completion of Madame Beaussart’s evidence.

  ‘That seems a good place to stop, gentlemen,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook.

  Bile stung Lucy’s gut and she thought bitterly: You’re right. There’s no point in going on. It’s a mess; a bloody, senseless mess. Max Nightingale hurriedly brushed by, his mouth set tight. The man in the cardigan beside her stood to make way, his features relaxed as if by an expectation painfully fulfilled. Lucy left the court in a sort of panic, as though the air had swollen with a stench. She ran to St Paul’s tube station and shoved herself into the doorway of a heaving train. Elbows, staking their claim, stiffened. The carriage door slid shut, scraping across her back. I endure this, she thought, so that I can give my grandmother a summary of ‘the day’s play’. That’s what one barrister had called it.

  The opening of the trial had brought focus to Lucy’s life, lost since the death of Pascal. Struggling to attend lectures, she had confided in her tutor, a man who seemed to apprehend a fear she had not even mentioned: the prospect of dropping out of the course, a second failure from which she might not recover.

  He referred Lucy to a college counsellor called Myriam Anderson. Talking helped to a degree; but death, of all experiences, could only be accommodated through further suffering, and entangled with that prospect was the certain death of Agnes. These two events, one past, the other to come, lay like a frame on either side of the trial, giving it shape. Myriam had said:

  ‘It’s tempting to separate life’s problems into miniatures — that’s when the trouble starts. Your greatest asset is that you see the single canvas: Myriam watched Lucy closely before saying, ‘Don’t rule out another death.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Another death? an outcome to this trial that defeats your hope.’

  By the time Lucy reached Hammersmith, the long shadows of evening lay as still as paint, losing depth and shape as the light withdrew She pushed her key into Agnes’ front door lock and stepped inside, slipping on the wet tiles and crashing into the wall. Bloody Wilma.

  Agnes could no longer speak or walk. A nurse came twice a week. Susan paid a visit every other day As for Freddie, the monumental unease that had once kept him apart from Agnes seemed to be crumbling, not at the edges but deep down in its foundations. Lucy saw a pallor spread across his face whenever he came to Chiswick Mall: he simply could not bear to witness the slow, tortured decline that was received by Agnes with such shattering calm.

  Lucy crept down the dark corridor towards the thin band of orange light across the floor. She stood at the door, pushing it silently ajar. Agnes lay completely still. So still Lucy thought she had gone. Her heart raced. And then Agnes lifted one arm, like an ailing Caesar at the games. Lucy approached and sat by the bed.

  ‘The trial’s under way

  A nod.

  ‘We heard from Madame Beaussart today the journalist you met in Auschwitz, the one who dreamed about making jam and you dreamed about eating it. You wrote about her.’

  A nod.

  ‘She remembers almost everything.’

  Lucy could go no further.

  Agnes didn’t respond. Her face could not be read; only her eyes, and they were turned to one side. Had she already heard the news — about the first witness for the Crown abandoning the stand, exclaiming through her tears that she did remember Schwermann? Had she heard about Mr Bartlett’s surprise announcement to the court? These were things Lucy would n
ot say, not to Schwermann’s most secret victim, lying here unable to reply Agnes would discover them soon enough when Wilma declaimed from The Times report next morning.

  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 Fougeres 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.