The Sixth Lamentation Part 27

'I know'

'Then why the h.e.l.l did you ... Oh Max.' She looked aside, away from her son, with a look of total understanding.

'Mrs Nightingale,' said Anselm. 'These papers demonstrate that your father prepared himself for this trial as soon as the war came to a close. He kept a record of one man's betrayal, a disclosure that was made to him. That man gave evidence yesterday in your father's defence. He must have done so under duress, to save himself. Nothing he said can be relied upon.

Mrs Nightingale stared at the carpet, her eyes brightening with resentment.

'There are other records,' said Anselm reluctantly She looked up. 'They list the names of adults and children sent to Auschwitz.'

'No,' she said, shortly 'No.' She used the word as if it were a racket, knocking back what she had heard, a slam past her opponent.

'It's true, Mum, I've seen them,' said Max.

'Shut up, you,' she snapped. 'Let me see.' She threw out her hand aggressively towards Anselm.

Anselm withdrew the three sheets of paper and handed them to Mrs Nightingale. She looked over each of them erratically scanning up and down, flipping from one to the other, incapable of measured scrutiny her face becoming moist. 'What do you want me to do?' she asked, for the first time transparently unprotected, her anger subsiding into dread.

'Absolutely nothing,' replied Anselm rea.s.suringly 'The police will handle everything.'

'The police?' she said with the specific, tragic astonishment that is the last defence of those who cannot face the obvious. She sat rigid on the edge of her seat. 'Have you any idea what this has meant for my family, for Max, for me?' Her voice rose eerily. 'How do you know what these mean anyway?' She flapped the papers in the air, like rags. 'Who the h.e.l.l are you to tell me what has to be done? We're the ones who have to live afterwards, not you ...' Standing up, she raised the flimsy sheets before her eyes, crumpling their edges in her grip. She shook the papers back and forth, as if they were the smooth, indifferent lapels of circ.u.mstance; she let her despair loose into her hands, a groan breaking out of her mouth.

Anselm, scared by the unravelling emotion, sprang forward to retrieve the doc.u.ments, now slightly torn. In an instant he saw the dainty bracelet and rings: old gifts, keepsakes of a lifetime, intimating the vast expanse of all she held dear, brought down in public ruin without warning, without having done anything to deserve the advent of shame. She stepped back, pulling her arms apart. In the tearing that followed they all stood still, each suddenly horrified. She walked hastily out of the room. Anselm looked at the few remaining shreds on the floor, hearing the swift striking of a match in another room.

Mrs Nightingale walked back into the room with the unsettling equanimity that might come after a righteous killing.

'I'm terribly sorry.' Her voice was light and fresh, as if from another woman. She sat down, smoothed her skirt and wept.

Anselm let himself out. As he walked away from the cottage he turned and saw the mother held in the arms of her son.

Anselm drove quickly back to Larkwood. He would have to see Father Andrew urgently, given what he had learned from the doc.u.ments, and what had just happened to them in the hands of someone who could not face what they contained. Sylvester reminded him the Prior was away for two days at a conference, but he'd mislaid the contact number. Anselm left him thumbing sc.r.a.ps of notepaper and sought out Gerald, the sub-Prior. Father Andrew was tracked down and he arranged to return to Larkwood the next night.

Anselm went to his room and tried to be still, knowing the trial was moving towards an ending but that he alone possessed all the keys to its resolution.

2.

The court reconvened on Friday afternoon. Lucy greeted Mr Lachaise, who again seemed deeply tired. Both of them commented on the absence of Max. The light conversation was a foil to manage the strain of waiting. For that afternoon, without doubt, Schwermann would give evidence. Lucy felt like one of those Spartan warriors on the eve of Thermopylae, ambling up and down, naked, waiting for the onslaught to begin. According to Thucydides they intimidated their enemy by leisurely combing their long hair. She had done the same thing that morning. She would watch Schwermann's performance looking her best. He would not leave her beaten and dishevelled.

When all the main players were in position, the jury were summoned. Mr Bartlett bade them good afternoon and said, 'My Lord, the following is a statement that has been agreed by the Crown. It has been furnished this morning by the legal representatives of Etienne Fougeres.'

Mr Bartlett read out the text: 'I confirm Agnes Aubret had a child by Jacques Fougeres. As far as we know, both Aubret and the child met their deaths in Auschwitz. My family are ignorant of the conduct ascribed by Victor Brionne to Eduard Schwermann.'

'A model of brevity, if I may say so,' said Mr Justice Pollbrook with approval.

'Indeed it is.'

'Mr Bartlett, have you checked the deportation records?'

'I have.'

'Is there any reference to Agnes Aubret?'

'Yes. For your Lordship's note, she was deported on the twenty-fourth of August 1942. The text can be found in File Q, page one hundred and seventy-nine.'

'I'd like to see the original, please.'

The master file was retrieved by Mr Penshaw, who opened it at the relevant place. It was handed to an usher who gave it to Mr Justice Pollbrook. He leafed through pages on either side and then said, 'The actual text to which I have been referred is a carbon copy. What happened to the original?'

'No one knows, my Lord,' said Mr Bartlett with polished regret. 'Perhaps it was damaged in an accident.'

Mr Justice Pollbrook studied the file again. He said, 'All the names of the victims have been ticked off, to confirm they were accounted for, but there is a blank s.p.a.ce at the bottom where the supervising officer's signature should be found. Why is that?'

'My Lord, I have no idea. What you have before you is the original file retrieved after the war. There is nothing else. The relevant text remains a contemporaneous doc.u.ment.'

'Thank you,' replied Mr Justice Pollbrook uneasily. Abruptly suspiciously, he said, 'Did you look for the child as well?'

'I did. There is no mention of him whatsoever.' Quietly his eye on the jury, Mr Bartlett added, 'It seems, my Lord, that the records confirm everything Victor Brionne recounted to the court. Aubret was deported. The child was not. '

The judge blinked slowly and, with an expression of profound disdain, said, 'I thought you might say that.'

Mr Bartlett bowed slightly with his head. He then said, 'My Lord, having had the benefit of a conference with my client this morning, and in the light of the doc.u.ment I have just read out, I do not propose to call Mr Schwermann to give any evidence in his own defence.'

A great sigh swept through the court. After its subsidence, Mr Bartlett continued, 'I am confident this jury already knows the direction in which their conscience must take them. The case for the Defence is closed.'

Lucy turned to Mr Lachaise who, throughout the trial, had become a quiet source of steadiness, especially when reason saw no room for hope. But for the first time he slumped forward, his gentle face pale and drained of emotion.

Mr Justice Pollbrook adjourned the case, allowing time for Counsel to prepare their speeches and him his Summing-Up. By the time the judge had finished his remarks to the jury Mr Lachaise had recovered his customary self-possession. He suggested they have a coffee and a biscuit. Sitting in a small cafe off Newgate Street Lucy said, 'Why isn't he going to defend himself?'

'It's far too dangerous,' said Mr Lachaise. 'If he was cross-examined, his present position, however precarious, could only be harmed. He is on a knife-edge, ill.u.s.trated by the rather good point made by Miss Matthews - he either separated a boy from his mother for no reason or he knew what was going on at Auschwitz but managed to save a single life. I hadn't thought of that before.' He looked exhausted again, but continued, 'Of course, the second alternative is not a defence. If true, it's a plea for sympathy against the enormity of what he must have done. With a jury, pity is a sticky sweet. It's often savoured over justice.'

Lucy asked, 'Are you a lawyer?'

'No, but I grew up alongside a wonderful man called Bremer - the family solicitor - and he pa.s.sed on to me the maxims of his craft. I have made them my own.

'Mr Lachaise,' said Lucy tentatively probing the inscrutable expression on his face. 'My grandmother was a member of The Round Table, and that explains me. But can I ask, why are you here?'

His large eyes glistened behind the heavy spectacles. Lucy could only fractionally recognise the meaning of his smile: it had something to do with misfortune. Mr Lachaise said: 'You may ask me any question under the sun, but not that one.' His voice dwindled to a whisper: 'I do not know the answer.

3.

Lucy left the court and went straight to Chiswick Mall. She found Agnes apparently sleeping. Her arms lay by her side upon white sheets; her face was still, the mouth slightly drawn at the sides; she seemed not to breathe. Lucy watched, her heart beginning to beat hard upon her chest. She touched her grandmother's wrist: it was cool, the skin shockingly close to the bone. Lucy spoke, as hope fled, 'Gran ...'

Agnes opened her eyes. Her face seemed to change, a minute animation suggesting pleasure. Lucy drew up a chair and sat down. Relief loosened her limbs and she wanted to sob. Holding her grandmother's hand she said, 'It's almost over.

Agnes blinked deliberately. Lucy knew - she sensed it from years of knowing her grandmother - that Agnes wanted to laugh. Yes, she would have said, it is almost over. Soon I'll be dead.

Wilma came through the door. It was the usual time for reading out loud, something Lucy had done years ago when she was much younger and they would sit together in the fading light. It was a pastime that had been resumed by Wilma and she sat down and opened a pamphlet of poems.

"'The Burning of the Leaves", by Laurence Binyon,' Wilma said.

Lucy turned away, unable to watch the intimacy that had once been hers being played out with someone else. She fixed a stare upon the wall, shutting off her ears to the sound. But Wilma's hushed voice gathered strength and pushed aside her defences: "'Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare, Time for the burning of days ended and done, Idle solace of things that have gone before: Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there; Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.

The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.

Agnes raised her right hand off the counterpane. At the signal Wilma stopped. She closed the pamphlet and left the room. The clean net curtains fluttered. Agnes gestured with her fingers for Lucy to come nearer. She did. The fingers said closer. Lucy bent down, almost touching the skin of her grandmother's face. Agnes barely moved but Lucy received the faintest touch of a kiss.

Chapter Thirty-Eight.

'Give me the whole mess in order,' said Father Andrew It was a cold wet night and a fire had been' lit in his study. The stubborn wood cracked and spat at the lick of the flames. Anselm and his Prior sat close to the grate on creaking chairs. Flashes of orange light danced upon their concentration.

'It began with resentment,' said Anselm. 'Perhaps it goes back earlier, to the sort of differences of background and opinion we have here at Larkwood. But it's simple enough: Pleyon had his nose put badly out of joint by Rochet on more than one occasion. Events conspired so that Pleyon got his chance to have the final swing back. If what I'm told is right, it seems Pleyon may have been an anti-Semite, and that spurred his attempt to pull down Rochet. He betrayed The Round Table to Victor Brionne, who then told Schwermann. '

Father Andrew listened, his bright eyes chasing the whirl of sparks. He said, 'How do you know Pleyon had any contact with Brionne?'

'I don't. It's just an a.s.sumption. There's no other explanation for the facts.'

'How did either or both of them know all the names?'

'I'm not sure. I've a suspicion Pleyon only knew of Rochet, and perhaps one or two others, but that Brionne already knew the rest from before the war.'

Father Andrew gazed into the fire and said playfully 'What a coincidence that they should meet, each with a reason of their own to bring down their former friends.'

'Tragedy often arises out of coincidence,' replied Anselm defensively trying to be wise.

'I suppose the pieces fit.'

'The a.s.sumptions are confirmed by what happened next.'

'Proceed.' The Prior seemed not to be taking Anselm altogether seriously.

'When the war ended the two runaways knew where to turn - Les Moineaux, and fortune had conveniently lodged Pleyon in the Prior's seat. He arranged their escape, planning to tell Rome a fairy tale about deceptive appearances to cover his own misdemeanour. But he died before he could really sink his teeth into the lies. As it happens, Chambray had already told Rome the full story - which includes the fact that Schwermann was pa.s.sed on to us' - Anselm glanced at his Prior: no emotion disturbed the attentive calm - 'and they did absolutely nothing.'

Father Andrew raised his hands to the flames and said, 'Tell me about the papers that were torn up by that poor woman.

Anselm described what he had seen - the list setting out the knights of The Round Table and the two deportation records, all signed by the man Anselm had urged to give evidence. He said, 'It seems Schwermann was a forward thinker. In the event that Germany lost the war he kept those doc.u.ments so he could blackmail Victor Brionne.'

'Compelling him to do precisely what?'

'To testify that Schwermann saved someone when he got the chance ... to give a handle for doubt ... for pity.'

The Prior reached for a poker and jabbed the embers. With a hiss flame rushed upon exposed wood. Shadows twisted and shivered. He said, 'And what do you say Rome were doing when they sent you off to find Victor Brionne?'

'When Schwermann came back to Larkwood it was like a signal, a threat - he could expose Rome as he had been exposed. That would mean everything Chambray had told them would come out into the open. It appears Rome glimpsed a solution based upon simple cause and effect - if Schwermann was reprieved, the face of the Church would be saved.'

'It has to be said,' observed Father Andrew, raking with the poker once more, 'Rome is often more concerned about her complexion than her conduct.'

'In this case, if you've seen both, it's pretty unattractive, said Anselm. Dismay at the calculating betrayal of his trust had settled into a judgment. 'They seem to have thought that if Brionne gave evidence there was a good chance he would absolve his former master, if only to protect himself. All they needed was someone to prompt him to come forward. So they used me' - he remembered standing in the cold, looking into 'Pilgrim's Rest' at the children with their beakers - 'and there's a grim irony in all this-'

'Which is?'

'I suspect Brionne was hiding not just for his own sake but also to spare his family There was no point in devastating them for the price of a lie. But I pushed him and now it's been told.'

The fire crackled quietly, sucking in the darkness of the room. Father Andrew said simply. 'You have been thinking hard.' The two monks sat joined in contemplation: Anselm rehearsing the future; the Prior ... what was he doing? Anselm sensed he was listening to the past.

Anselm said, 'I will have to go to the police.'

'Perhaps.'

'And it will all come out.'

'Perhaps.'

'And Larkwood, Les Moineaux, Rome; contempt will fall upon us all like rain.'

'Perhaps.' Father Andrew's chair sc.r.a.ped across the flags and he moved thoughtfully to the window overlooking the cloister, the heart of the monastery, concealed by the wet night. The firelight flickered on the gla.s.s. Father Andrew raised an arm and wrote a name slowly upon the condensation. It read: 'Agnes'. Hairline streams of water faltered down the pane from each letter. He said, 'Something tells me you should first go back to Victor Brionne.'

'Why?' asked Anselm.

'Because I am struck by the one thing you have not mentioned tonight: he believes Agnes to be dead, but you know she's alive.'

Chapter Thirty-Nine.