The Sixth Lamentation Part 25

2.

Anselm and Conroy got back to Larkwood late on Sat.u.r.day night. They spoke in s.n.a.t.c.hes on the way down, each of them preoccupied by a vision of what would soon befall the Brownlow family No wonder the prophets were such a miserable lot, said Conroy Glimpsing the fulfilment of history, even a tiny flowering of righteousness; was not a pleasant sight. It wasn't all slaked thirst, free corn, oil and new wine. And, unfortunately, getting the balance right between today's children and the wrongs of their parents was a task that went well beyond the remit of the Crown Court.

Anselm retired to his room on Sunday afternoon to write a report for Cardinal Vincenzi. The text he produced was brief to the point of insolence. He set down the facts: Brionne had been found; he might give evidence; its substance had not been revealed. The whole was extended modestly with a few connecting phrases. With a flourish of respectful obedience, Anselm signed his name.

Anselm went down to the Bursar's office, his report in hand. A fax machine and photocopier stood side by side. On an opposite wall was a grid of pigeonholes, one for each monk, a private depository for mail and handouts. Anselm faxed his letter directly to Cardinal Vincenzi in Rome and the Papal Nuncio in London. He had been instructed not to send a hard copy, so he placed the actual text in a folder addressed to Father Andrew - for eventual lodging in the Priory archives.

Turning to leave, Anselm checked his mail. There was one envelope. It must have been put there in the last hour or so for the pigeonhole had been empty after lunch. Opening it, Anselm withdrew the report from Father Chambray. An attached note from the author said he had gone to London en route to Paris that night. He urged Anselm to visit him the next time he was in France. That was a welcome gesture from a man on the boundary of things, a man who had once slammed a door in his face.

It was a flimsy text, a carbon copy on tracing paper. Anselm sat and read. It was all as Chambray had recounted. The last page, however, went rather further than their previous discussion.

Father Pleyon secured the pa.s.sage of Schwermann and Brionne to England through personal diplomatic connections in Paris and London. Contact was made with a new monastic foundation in Suffolk that had been established by a French motherhouse shortly before the war. Schwermann would stay with the monks for a month while alternative arrangements were made by the British authorities.

Anselm put the report back in the envelope and glanced at the fax machine, thinking of his own brief letter to Rome. Its readers would already know that Eduard Schwermann first came to Larkwood Priory in 1945.

3.

Reading other people's letters without permission was the sort of thing that Freddie considered abhorrent. It was one of the many admonitions he had stressed when Lucy was a child and he was laying out the benchmarks for upright living. Which of course turned out to be ironic because he would dearly have loved to learn about his daughter if she would but tell him, and she wouldn't, and that left peeping at her mail, which he never did, not even when Darren's distinctive letters had fallen upon the doormat and Lucy had left them open in her unlocked room. She had done that on purpose, knowing he would want to look, and knowing that he would not.

So it was genuinely an accident when her father picked up a letter to Lucy from her college tutor referring her to Myriam Anderson, the counsellor, and giving her permission to miss lectures and tutorials for several weeks. It had fallen on the floor, out of a coat pocket, while she was visiting her parents, and Lucy had left for Brixton none the wiser. He gave it back to her, with an apology, a day or so later at Chiswick Mall. They were standing in the hallway, just as Lucy was about to leave. She took it, flushing, and answered the trapped question he would not ask: 'I've not dropped out.'

Freddie studied her face for a long while. 'But why, Lucy? What's wrong?' She'd expected anger, more of the old dashed expectations spilling forth like dirty water. But that didn't happen. For once, he seemed lost, unsure of how to keep hold of the threads that linked him to his daughter. He raised his hands and Lucy felt the lightest of pulls towards him. She said, quickly, 'I had a friend who died.'

The telling seemed to leave him winded. He didn't even know about the friend, never mind the death. To her astonishment he came forward and put an arm around her, drawing her head into his neck. Lucy could not remember when that had last happened. She started crying, not for Pascal, not for Agnes, but for herself... and for her father.

'I'm terribly sorry,' he said.

'So am I.'

And they both knew that their words went far deeper than a reference to recent grief. They reached back, further than either of them could ever have intended or imagined, deep into the unlit past.

As Lucy pulled herself away, she met her father's open gaze with dismay: how would it ever be possible to tell him about the trial, about Agnes' notebook, and about his very self?

Lucy attended court the next morning and took her seat. She asked Max what he'd done the night before. Waiting on tables, he said. How awful, she replied. Pays the rent, he responded. Mr Lachaise polished his gla.s.ses reflectively, listening to their quick, simple exchange.

The barristers filed into court but, unusually, the jury were not summoned. Mr Justice Pollbrook came on to the bench. Mr Penshaw rose to his feet: 'My Lord, owing to a rather surprising development in this case, I fear it may be necessary to have a substantial adjournment so that-'

'How long, Mr Penshaw?'

'At least the rest of the day'

'You can have this morning.'

'My Lord, the development is significant, and I antic.i.p.ate the need to serve additional evidence upon my Learned Friend. He will need to consider it most carefully'

There was a pause. Mr Penshaw had spoken in Bar-code. The judge quickly scanned the lawyers below 'Very well. You can have until two-thirty tomorrow That's a day and a half. Mr Bartlett, any objections?'

'No, my Lord, I've always enjoyed little surprises.'

'Court rise.'

Lucy thought, faster than she could order her mind: it's Victor Brionne. He must have decided to speak out. Why else would he have come out of hiding? Why else would the Crown so enjoy expressing their concern for Mr Bartlett? He comes to strike down his former master.

Suffused with exultation, Lucy turned on Schwermann in the dock, but was stunned to see his relief and the slight trembling of repressed emotion: the look of one who has heard the soft approach of his saviour.

Chapter Thirty-Six.

1.

Lucy returned to court unable to forget the look of hope that had smoothed the anxious face of Eduard Schwermann. But now, sitting in the dock, he looked to the public gallery with growing agitation, directly towards the empty seat of Max Nightingale.

Mr Lachaise was uncharacteristically wearied, like the front-runner who unexpectedly limps to one side, unable to continue with the race. Another man, roughly the same age as Mr Lachaise, caught Lucy's attention, being a new observer among what had become a familiar throng. He stood out not through that difference but through the imprint of tension. His short silvered hair, neatly cut and parted, suggested the boy as much as the man. She suspected that he was here with Victor Brionne, who was about to give evidence on behalf of the Prosecution.

When Counsel were all a.s.sembled, the judge came on to the bench in the absence of the jury 'My Lord,' said Mr Penshaw, rising to his feet, 'the adjournment has been of considerable a.s.sistance. If I may briefly explain-'

'Please do.'

'An individual came forward from whom it was thought a contemporaneous account of events involving Mr Schwermann might be forthcoming. A statement was taken by the police which your Lordship has no doubt seen.

'I have.'

'There is nothing deposed therein which adds anything of significance to the Prosecution case. I do not propose to call the witness.'

The judge languidly raised an eyebrow 'Has Mr Bartlett seen the statement?'

'He has.'

'Good.'

'My Lord,' said Mr Penshaw 'That completes the evidence for the Crown.'

'Mr Bartlett, are you ready to proceed?'

'I am.'

'Call the jury please,' said Mr Justice Pollbrook, turning a fresh page in his notebook.

Desperate and confused, Lucy grasped for an understanding of what had happened. How could the Prosecution case come to an end without evidence from Victor Brionne? What had he said to the police that was of so little value? As she threw the questions like flints around her mind the jury returned to their seats, the Crown closed their case and all eyes locked on to Schwermann who, at any moment, would make his way from the dock to the witness stand. Mr Bartlett made a few ponderous notes with his pencil. He sipped water. A collective apprehension rapidly spread throughout the court. The judge patiently waited and then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, Mr Bartlett suddenly rose, saying: 'My Lord, notwithstanding the usual practice of calling the Defendant first, in this particular case I call Victor Brionne.'

'What?' said Lucy, aghast.

Mr Lachaise leaned towards her and said in a low, strong voice, 'Do not worry.' With an affection tainted by anger she thought: it's always the powerless who are most generous with their comfort.

Victor Brionne walked through the great doors. The appearance of the man who had haunted so many lives mocked expectation. He was wholly ordinary - shortish, with a wide, laboured gait; owlish eyes, his skin dark and deeply lined - the sort of man you'd meet in the market. He took the oath. His eyes avoided the dock, and he turned only once towards the handsome man three or four seats away from Mr Lachaise. Then he faced the jury.

Mr Bartlett constructed Brionne's Evidence-in-Chief like a master stonemason. Both hands held each question and every expected answer was pressed slowly into position. He halted work frequently, allowing facts to settle.

'Mr Brionne, you worked with Eduard Schwermann between 1941 and 1944?'

'Yes.'

'You are French by birth?'

'Yes.'

'You joined the Paris Prefecture of Police in June 1941, at the age of twenty-three?'

'Yes, I did.'

'You were, however, not an ordinary policeman, in the sense that you were based at the offices of the Gestapo.'

'That's right.'

'I shall spare the jury an argument as to your status. Your place of work made you a collaborator?'

There was no reply Brionne's lower jaw was gently shaking.

'I asked if you were a collaborator. Please answer.

Very quietly, Brionne replied, 'Yes.'

'Louder, please.'

'Yes. I was a collaborator.' The words seemed to burn his mouth.

'Please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury how you came to work with Mr Schwermann. '

'I spoke good German. I was transferred to an SS department within weeks because they required a translator.'

'And was that the extent of your "collaboration"?' queried Mr Bartlett, slightly stressing the last word.

'It was enough.'

'Mr Brionne, I am now going to ask you some questions about an organisation known as The Round Table. We understand Mr Schwermann was credited with uncovering the smuggling operation. Did he ever tell you how he did it?'

'Not exactly, no,' Brionne wavered. 'All he said was that a member of the group had told him everything.'

'Did he say who this person was?'

'No.'

'Did you enquire?'

'I didn't, no.

Mr Bartlett's voice was growing imperceptibly louder, imposing a sort of moral force on to his questions. 'Having discovered, or perhaps I should say, having been presented with this information, what did Mr Schwermann do?'

'He made a report to his superior officer.'

'And the inevitable arrests followed?'

'Yes, they did.'

'Do you recollect the morning of the day the arrests took place?'

'I do.'

'Were you alone?'

'No. I was with Mr Schwermann.' 'Please describe his demeanour.'

'He was anxious, smoking cigarette after cigarette. '

Mr Bartlett contrived mild surprise. 'Let us be absolutely clear. Is this the day The Round Table was shattered?'

'It was.'

'A day for which he would later receive the praise of Eichmann?'

'Yes, that's right.'

'It should have been a time of excited apprehension for him, should it not?'

'Yes, I suppose so.

'Have you any idea, then, as to why he was so anxious?'

'No.'