The Sixth Lamentation fa-1

by William Brodrick

  The gardens lay off Theobald’s Road, neatly circumscribed by mansions of the law, elegant screens of pale magenta brick with regular white-framed windows like rows of pictures. Lucy strolled along a narrow passage into Field Court, a tight enclosure adjacent to an ornate pair of wrought-iron gates, resting between two pillars. Surmounting each was a fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle. She paused to study the strange, seated guardians. They threatened to suddenly move, relinquishing stone; to slink, warm-breathed, off their pedestals and wreak wrath and mercy upon High Holborn. What did they protect? Nothing. Whom did they save? No one. When would the day of reckoning come? Never. What were they other than dismal protestations at the absence of angels?

  Lucy passed between them into the gardens. A lane of polished gravel unrolled between short trees, plump courtiers on afternoon parade. Benches, set well apart, secured leisure with privacy. Upon one of them sat Mr Lachaise, talking earnestly to Max Nightingale.

  They did not hear her approach. Lucy sidled to the edge of the path, in line with the bench, reducing the chance of being seen. She harboured a not altogether irrational suspicion that Mr Lachaise had met Max first on purpose. As she drew near, she heard his distinctive, appealing voice say:

  ‘Regardless of what you have said, do as I ask. Do nothing. Rest assured, there is no need.’

  Then, unfortunately she was seen. However, the conversation ran on in an entirely innocent fashion, which rather disappointed Lucy. She had liked the idea of consecutive meetings, up-turned collars and secret conversations. Mr Lachaise continued talking as he beckoned Lucy with his hand:

  ‘You might think your paintings are not especially good, but I’m confident my colleagues will come to another conclusion. As I have said, leave it all to me. The University will issue the invitation; after that it’s all very simple. Ah, Lucy do join us.

  Lucy shook Max’s hand. Seeing him outside the courtroom lit his absence from the trial as a sort of failure, as though he’d left her and Mr Lachaise on the front line. How peculiar, she reflected. He’s from the other side.

  ‘I’ve brought along some very Jewish provisions, said Mr Lachaise, opening a large plastic bag. ‘It’s always bitter or sweet… I’ll explain as we go along.’

  They ate sitting in a line, passing curious things from one to the other.

  ‘It’s rather like Waiting for Godot,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Except this time,’ announced Mr Lachaise, ‘he might come after all, just when he’s not expected.’

  2

  At 2.30 p.m. the gardens closed and, politely expelled, they strolled back to Field Court. Mr Lachaise left them standing at the gates between the two indifferent protectors.

  In the absence of their intermediary, Max shifted: not clumsily, but though a refined guilt. Lucy saw its trim, its shine, the self-loathing that came from an organic relation to evil. A giddy sense of authority unsettled her balance, like a rush of blood. She could leave him bound, if she wanted. A delicious splash of something wholly foreign touched her lips. Her tongue tasted malice. She recoiled from herself and said, ‘Max, to me you are Nightingale, not Schwermann. There’s a big difference.’

  ‘It’s just paper over cracks.’

  Lucy winced at the deliberate use of her words. ‘I should never have said that. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t say that to me, of all people.’

  ‘I mean it. We’re all cracked, covered in paper. I’m no different. There’s nothing wrong with being ordinary.’

  As they walked out of Field Court, away from the ornate garden protected by myths, Max said, ‘I won’t be coming to the rest of the trial.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I know he’s guilty.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve known all along,’ he said, ‘but I never suspected that he’d entrusted me with the proof of his guilt.’

  Lucy understood that elaboration would not come and that it lay in the past — given to Mr Lachaise while she stood contemplating the avenging, lifeless stones.

  ‘I’m glad you liked the picture,’ he said, backing away.

  ‘I love it,’ replied Lucy.

  A half-smile broke his face. Something had been achieved. Lucy held out her hand. ‘I’ll be off then,’ said Max as they shook. It was as much goodbye as a settlement of the past. Lucy watched him leave, threading his way against a stream. Symbolically self-consciously as in the final cut of a film, she waved at the back of his head as he vanished among a multitude.

  3

  Lucy arrived at the Old Bailey, just in time to catch the learned judge’s final remarks. There was standing room only.

  ‘It should be noted,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook evenly, ‘that for fifty years no student of the times knew that Jacques Fougeres had a child. This is now admitted by the family and perforce by the Crown. Why it should ever have been concealed in the first place escapes my imagination, but that need not trouble you. The important fact is that the detail came from Mr Brionne.’ He examined the jurors dispassionately ‘If you are satisfied that having told one significant truth the rest of his evidence can also be believed, then you are entitled to infer the boy in fact, survived solely because of the conduct of the Defendant. If that is your conclusion, then you are left with the anomaly upon which Mr Bartlett seeks to rely — that it would indeed be strange for the Defendant to have pledged himself to an enterprise that involved the death or serious harm of other children. However, ladies and gentlemen, let me say this.’ Mr Justice Pollbrook stared hard at the jury. ‘In my long experience, people can be very strange indeed. Look at your own families. How many of them leave you baffled at every turn? No, you must ask yourselves a different type of question altogether: if you are sure of what the Prosecution allege, you must find the Defendant guilty. If you are not sure, you acquit.’

  The judge then went through each count on the indictment, giving a series of questions designed to determine whether or not the Defendant was guilty — of the ‘if you decide A, then 13 must follow’ variety. When he had finished, the judge closed his red book and removed his glasses, saying, ‘Down whichever avenues your reflections may lead you, please remember this. The ground of suspicion belongs to the Defendant.’

  The jury then retired, bound by a promise to consider what justice was required according to the evidence. Mr Justice Pollbrook said at this stage he only wanted a verdict upon which they were all agreed.

  There was no mistaking it, thought Lucy as she left the court. Whatever the judge had said about the abstract requirements of the law, Schwermann’s innocence or guilt was going to turn on what the jury thought about the strange story of a child, believed by them all to be still alive, known by Lucy and Agnes to be dead.

  4

  As arranged, Anselm met DI Armstrong on the steps of St Paul’s.

  ‘Coffee?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘No, thanks. How can I help?’

  Anselm could not but note the perfunctory, professional courtesy.

  ‘I would like to speak to Victor Brionne.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘You said as much last time. “In the interests of justice, in its widest sense”, I think you said:

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That’s not what happened in the courtroom.’

  ‘I know’

  ‘Father, don’t you think your meddling has done enough damage? There’s a chance that rubbish from Victor Brionne could lead to an acquittal. Are you aware of that?’

  Anselm blazed with humiliation. ‘I promise, I had no idea what he was going to say.

  ‘Your promises are not entirely straightforward, I’m afraid.’

  ‘But this time I know what I’m doing. Before I was in the dark.’

  ‘As was I, and still am. I don’t want to be enlightened. Here’s the address and telephone number.’ She handed him a piece of paper. It had been written down in advance.

  ‘Thank you.


  ‘Father, I’m sorry to say this but I’m giving it to you not because I trust you, but because it’s a matter of public record. He’s in the telephone book.’

  Anselm put the note in his pocket, his head bent, unable to face his accuser. When he finally did so, DI Armstrong had already turned around. He stood, emptied, watching her walk down the steps away from him.

  5

  Anselm returned to St Catherine’s and rang Victor Brionne.

  ‘I think we ought to have another talk.’

  ‘Why? As a result of our last conversation, I came to the court. Now, after my performance, I have lost my son. I don’t think you and I have anything else to say to one another.’

  ‘I want to talk about Agnes Aubret.’

  ‘What’s the point? Your curiosity has too high a price.’

  ‘She’s alive.’

  ‘No, she’s not,’ he barked. ‘I should know.’

  ‘Victor, I know her granddaughter. Agnes survived. She is here in London. I will be seeing her within the next few days with a message from Mr Snyman.’

  The line went deathly quiet. Anselm could hear the intake of breath.

  ‘Snyman?’

  ‘Yes. Victor, listen to me. Agnes is seriously ill. She will soon die. Now is the time to let out what you’ve kept back for fifty years.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  1

  The jury reconvened at 9.30 a.m. on the Friday. Throughout the passing hours Lucy and Mr Lachaise sat on the bench as if awaiting the ministrations of a dentist. By way of distraction Lucy described the miniature glories of the Duchess who, at that moment, was probably holding her own court in Chiswick Mall. Lucy had parked the old girl there in anticipation of the verdict… a verdict Lucy would probably bring to Agnes that evening. No decision had been reached by lunchtime. Lucy walked the streets. She kept moving, tiring her limbs, until it was time to get back to the Old Bailey.

  At 2.30 p.m. the jury indicated through the usher that they had a question. Counsel, solicitors and the Defendant were called into court. Mr Justice Pollbrook came on to the bench. The jury were summoned. The foreman passed a note to the usher who gave it to the judge. He opened a sheet of paper, read it and handed it down to Counsel. The note was passed back to the judge who read it out loud:

  ‘We would like to hear some evidence from the person who took the child saved by the Defendant. Can this be arranged?’

  Turning to the jury, Mr Justice Pollbrook said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, you must not allow yourselves to be distracted by speculation upon evidence that might have been presented to you. Your task is simply this: to decide the case on the evidence you have heard and nothing else.’

  As everyone traipsed out Lucy turned to Mr Lachaise and said, ‘They’ve decided he saved a child and they think it matters.’

  ‘Like I said, pity is a sticky sweet,’ he replied. ‘I’ve tasted it myself.’

  2

  Anselm stood facing the home of Victor Brionne. Through the window he could only see books, from floor to ceiling on every wall. He knocked on the door. It opened. A rounded back split by braces receded. Anselm stepped in, along a dark corridor. A small square of greasy daylight hung suspended at the top of the stairs, behind a half-closed toilet door.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Victor Brionne, pointing.

  They sat in worn, charity shop chairs. A faded burgundy carpet lay in rucks, its pattern now barely distinguishable. Anselm’s eye caught the glint of glass, from a wine bottle, standing close to Victor’s chair like a furtive intruder. Anselm’s keys bit into his thigh. He fished them out and put them on the armrest.

  ‘If Agnes survived, it’s a miracle,’ Brionne said.

  ‘She survived.’

  Brionne ran a finger along one of the deep creases spreading beneath his large dark eyes. Quietly astonished, he said to himself, ‘If only I had known… all these years…’

  ‘What difference does it make?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘What difference?’ Brionne laughed, pulling out a cigarette from a crumpled packet. He struck a match. The flame hissed, lit his face and died. ‘I was there when Rochet asked us to be knights of a Round Table of forgotten chivalry, and they all said, “Yes, yes, bring us our bows of burning gold, our arrows of desire, our shields…”’ He stopped, trying to make out lost faces in the middle distance. ‘Except for me. I asked why.’ He turned to Anselm. ‘I could not see the poetry in self-destruction.’ Blue smoke swirled over his face.

  ‘I went to see Rochet after the first round-up. He said it was just the beginning. Soon, they’d all be swept away It would be a Babylon the like of which the world had never seen. There would be no weeping by any rivers, no Exodus. I don’t know what came over me. I said I’d join the police.’

  Anselm felt heat in a room with no fire.

  ‘They’d carried out the arrests, so where better place to go? We’d know in advance what the Germans were up to.’

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Anselm.

  Brionne seemed not to hear. ‘Why did I do it? I didn’t think about it at the time, but it was for Agnes: He drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘I had entertained what nineteenth-century novelists call “hopes”. They were dashed in nineteenth-century fashion when I learned she was carrying Jacques’ child. She told me a few months before I went to see Rochet. Somehow the two are linked: the end of my great expectations and me doing something that I knew would command her undying admiration, if ever she found out. There was a poetic symmetry in the self-sacrifice.’

  Brionne got up and walked out of the room. He came back with a small, foxed black and white photograph with creased corners. He handed it to Anselm.

  ‘That’s her. I took it in 1936.’

  She had long, straight hair, and had been caught in time as she threw the lot over her shoulder. In the shadow beneath, her mouth was slightly open, her eyes creased with… what was it? Self-consciousness, confidence, suppressed exhilaration… it was all of them and more, the gifts that come just before the parting of youth. Behind stood a young man, serious, his gaze fixed on Agnes… possessive, and wanting to be possessed.

  ‘That’s Jacques.’ Brionne held out his hand for the photograph. ‘So I joined up and got transferred to Avenue Foch, because of my German. At the time I thought it was the hand of God. Now? I’m not so sure. That was where I met Schwermann.’

  Brionne dragged the bottle a few inches across the carpet, into better reach, and poured wine into a stained mug.

  ‘He was ordinary to look at. The evil ran through his mind. He poisoned himself with pseudo-scientific pamphlets against the Jews. He underlined phrases and ticked margins: He drank, the cigarette locked between two fingers. ‘Anyway Rochet decided he would be my sole contact. My code name was “Bedivere”, and it was known only to him and the Prior of Les Moineaux and his council. If I needed to run, they’d protect me. So, there I was, at the heart of things. I hadn’t been there long when “Spring Wind” was planned, though nothing had been worked out for the children. I told Rochet.’ Brionne grimaced. ‘So many could have been saved if we hadn’t been betrayed.’

  ‘Who by?’ asked Anselm quietly.

  Brionne raised a hand, beseeching patience. ‘The strange thing was that Schwermann changed after The Round Table was broken. He abandoned his pamphlets. To this day I don’t know why, but I believe it had something to do with the arrest of Jacques in June 1942.’

  Anselm’s memory spun back to that lunch with Roddy when the old sot had pointed out how odd it was that Jacques had been arrested in the June but the smuggling ring hadn’t been broken until the July. He asked, ‘What happened?’

  ‘He’d been demonstrating after the Jews had been forced to wear a star — outside the building where I worked. He was picked up and Schwermann was told to give him a scare, so a French speaker wasn’t needed. Anyway Jacques spoke reasonable German, thank God. If Schwermann had needed me my cover would have been blown — which nearly happened when Rochet rolled in, demanding to see Jacques.
He was hauled off, slapped about a bit and thrown out. Ten minutes later Agnes turned up, asking for me… I couldn’t believe it, I thought the game was up. So there we are in the corridor — will I help, she asks, for old times’ sake? Then Schwermann appears out of nowhere. He’s staring at me, and her, and I can’t think why… he doesn’t speak French… he’s meant to be giving Jacques the once-over. So I try to say to her, with my eyes, “Not here, not now, I’ll do what I can.”‘ He gulped more wine. ‘She didn’t understand.’

  Brionne reached down beside his chair and pulled up the bottle, resting it upon the arm of his chair. The cigarette, unsmoked, had grown to a long finger of ash.

  ‘Schwermann went back to work, but afterwards he wanted to know about her. Who was she? Did she know Fougeres? No, just an old tart, I said. But I was worried. I found her a few days later and told her to keep away from Rochet and Jacques, for which she gave me a smack across the face.’ He filled the mug, spilling wine on to his wrist; the ash broke and fell.

  ‘Then, one morning, a month later, Schwermann told me he was going to lift a Frenchwoman in the eleventh arrondissement that afternoon and he wanted me to be there. On his desk was a file. After he’d gone, I looked. There was a report to Eichmann and an interrogation record — a handwritten draft and a typed copy — with all the names of the ring set down, spilled within minutes of being slapped about. He’d told them everything.’

  ‘Who had?’ blurted out Anselm. Brionne stared ahead, smoke pricking his nostrils and eyes, the desperation of the moment fresh upon him.

  ‘I took the handwritten draft, gambling it wouldn’t be missed. I didn’t have much time. I only had three travel passes, forged by Rochet’s contacts. I dated them and set off. Rochet himself was out. So I went to Anton Fougeres. He wouldn’t see me because I was a collabo. So I handed the paperwork to Snyman, who’d answered the door, along with the passes so they could use the trains. There was nothing else I could do. By nightfall The Round Table was shattered.’