2
‘Good afternoon,’ said Lucy
Pascal Fougères nodded an acknowledgement with such a direct gaze that Lucy could have sworn he’d said something. He held out his hand with a smile. Lucy took it, suddenly self-conscious. While only twenty-eight, he seemed older. Relaxed in his body, as the French say his energy spilled over in the swiftness of small gestures.
‘Take a seat,’ he said, pointing to a chair.
After watching the documentary on The Round Table, Lucy brooded upon the strange exoneration of Victor Brionne. A suspicion had grown that the Frenchman’s artless ignorance was more of a subtle contrivance … which would be warmly received by Victor Brionne had he seen the programme. With growing conviction, like one who has found a footprint, Lucy checked the various newspaper cuttings retained by her grandmother. On too many occasions to be described as coincidence she perceived a clear agenda: the emasculation of Victor Brionne’s past as a collaborator. With that understanding came the further critical insight that prompted Lucy to contact the producer of the programme. Her details were passed on to Pascal Fougères who promptly returned her call. They arranged to meet in Sibyl’s Cave, a pub by the river at Putney Bridge, after Lucy had finished a morning tutorial.
Upon arrival Lucy instantly recognised Fougères sitting at the far end of a terrace, absorbed in a novel. He wore a striped shirt, the collar wide open without a tie, and a rather shapeless jacket that had once probably been green. One hand covered his mouth while his eyes squinted at the fluttering page.
‘I’ve never been here before,’ said Lucy
‘It’s not just a pub,’ he said, closing the book. His black hair fell forward, quite long, and extravagantly thick. Lucy suspected he cut it himself.
‘Through there,’ he continued, pointing towards the lounge, you can join any table you like and get involved in whatever debate is going on. No politics or religion, they’re the only rules.’
At Pascal’s suggestion they ordered lunch and came back to their table while it was being prepared. Lucy glanced across the river towards Hammersmith, towards Chiswick Mall, towards someone slipping away on the heavy pull of a late tide.
‘Mine are peculiar circumstances,’ she said. ‘Unfortunately I can’t tell you about my background because I’m protecting someone. Let’s just say I have an interest in the fate of Eduard Schwermann. I know all about your great-uncle Jacques, Victor, Father Rochet, Madame Klein, The Round Table … Mr Snyman … all of it, not from the papers, not from books … but I can’t say any more, because of a promise.’
Pascal’s whole body tensed with interest. He looked at Lucy afresh, as if trying to recognise her.
‘From what I have read,’ continued Lucy, ‘I suspect that through words of encouragement you are hoping Victor Brionne will come forward to be a witness at the trial.’
A light wind tousled Pascal’s thick hair, pushing it over his eyes. ‘No one is better placed to condemn Schwermann.’
Lucy grimaced at the admission. ‘The reason I’ve asked to see you is to give you a warning. I know that if Brionne responds, for whatever reason — to make amends for his past, to offer consolation to your family, whatever — nothing he says can be relied upon.
Pascal’s brow contracted fleetingly, smoothed away by a deeper, contrary conviction. Lucy went further: ‘Brionne will not say a word against Schwermann.’
‘I know someone who thinks otherwise.’
‘And I know someone else.’ Calmly she watched his confidence falter. ‘That is all I can say,’ said Lucy with finality. ‘Except for this: if Victor Brionne contacts you, persuade him to meet me, if only for a few minutes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because afterwards he will tell the truth about everything that happened.’
A waitress brought their lunch. Lucy picked up her knife and looked at Fougères expectantly ‘Well, will you help me, to help you, to help the rest?’
He glanced down at the knife in her hand, eyebrows raised:
‘Is that a threat?’
3
Anselm could not take his eyes off the dull glint on the blade.
One edge flashed as the shadow holding it stepped forward on to the landing. Chambray threw a swift, raking stare over
Anselm’s habit.
‘What the hell do you want? I’m trying to eat. ‘
There was something in the brash confrontation that persuaded Anselm this was a performance, possibly concealing hidden warmth. More confident of his ground, Anselm ventured, ‘I wondered if we might have a brief talk—’
‘What about?’ Chambray fired back. He did not budge. There was no invitation to come in. His chest rose and fell angrily
Anselm faltered. He’d been very wrong. This was not the harmless banter of an old soul in need of a playful ribbing. He pressed on, ‘I understand you were once at Notre-Dame des—’
‘I’ve already told the other lot. I’m not saying anything, to no one.
Anselm seized on the distinction: ‘I’m not really from the other lot, he said alluringly
‘Then where are you from?’ challenged Chambray, waving the blade impatiently and still not moving.
‘My name is Father Anselm Duffy. I’m a Gilbertine monk, like you, from Larkwood Priory. It’s a rather …’
Before Anselm could trot out some guidebook particulars, Chambray lumbered back through the doorway and turned around. With one hand on the door he flung it shut with a single savage movement. The unseen cover scraped off the brass eyepiece. Slower breathing hovered on the other side, not receding, while the two monks looked towards each other. After a long moment, Anselm retraced his steps to the evening light.
4
Pascal ate a plate of sausages and mustard while Lucy searched for the scallops that had given the salad its name. When they had all but finished, Pascal said, ‘I’m going to talk openly … Perhaps I’m being rash, but I trust you.
‘Why?’ asked Lucy, more inquisitive than gratified.
‘Because you mentioned Mr Snyman. No one could know that name who did not have a link to the inner world of my family’
‘You are right.’
‘And you can’t tell me what it is?’ he asked, mystified.
‘One day … soon, in fact.’ Lucy thought of her grandmother and the swift, merciless approach of death. ‘But not now’ She glanced instinctively over the river towards Hammersmith once more.
Pascal said, ‘You’re so sure about Victor that I don’t know what to think. You see, I’ve got two good reasons as to why you are wrong.
‘And they are?’ invited Lucy
‘First, Mr Snyman was a close friend of both Jacques and Victor—’
‘I know’
‘He’s still alive; I grew up with him and he has no doubt that Victor would condemn Schwermann if he was given half a chance. Victor’s problem, of course, is that he was a collaborator. He can’t speak out without being accused himself— which is why I am trying to reassure him.’
Lucy thought: he really has no idea at all that it was Victor Brionne who betrayed The Round Table. She said, ‘And what’s the second reason?’
‘I have a feeling it was Victor who wrote to me, giving me the name Nightingale.’
Jolted, Lucy asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because the only other explanation is that it came from the individual or organisation that helped him escape in the first place. I don’t see any reason why they should undermine what they did.’
‘They could have regrets. ‘
‘Possibly But the letter was written to me, Jacques’ own blood, and that suggests a personal motive.’
‘But you wrote the article saying Brionne and Schwermann had found refuge in Britain. You were the obvious person to contact. ‘
‘Again, possibly you’re right.’ Pascal pouted doubt. ‘It’s far more likely that Victor arranged to have it posted from France to cover his tracks.’