The visitor stayed for Vespers and afterwards Anselm walked him to his car.
‘I’ve a long drive ahead.’
‘I won’t ask where to,’ replied Anselm. At that moment his eye latched on to the distinctive red lettering of The Tablet, a Catholic weekly lying by the back window Anselm always read it cover to cover, after which he feigned intimate knowledge of world and religious affairs. As the visitor slammed the car door, Anselm, unable to restrain his curiosity, stepped closer —he’d noticed the small white address label. He just caught Mr Robert B … and then the vehicle crunched away across the gravel.
Anselm waved farewell. It had been one of those encounters, all too short, that could only end with pages left unturned. In the withdrawn life of a monk it wasn’t every day that Anselm met someone like Mr Robert B. The vehicle moved slowly and Anselm noted the stickers on the rear screen: ‘National Trust’, ‘Whitley Bay Jazz Festival’, ‘Cullercoats RNLI’ — each a snapshot of a life’s enthusiasms.
Walking back to the Priory, Anselm thought he wouldn’t say anything to DI Armstrong just yet. Her research would confirm what he’d been told. The death of Victor Berkeley would become public knowledge and he could write to Rome and let them know that the old collaborator had been struck by bricks from heaven.
And while he was smiling to himself, the one peculiarity of his conversation with Robert B struck him. At no point had they mentioned the identifying feature of the dead renegade: his false name, the name by which he must have been known.
Chapter Twenty-Two
1
The idea of going to Larkwood Priory came to Lucy late at night after she had been grilled by Cathy about ‘the Frenchman’ — an expression that, for Lucy included Victor Brionne. The next morning Lucy forsook a lecture on the Romantic era and rang Pascal.
‘I’ve had an idea. It’s a one-off, but it might yield something.’
‘Go on.’
‘Wherever Brionne might be, he is bound to know that Schwermann has claimed sanctuary at Larkwood Priory There’s a chance he, too, might contact the monks. Either he’s looking for somewhere to hide, or he may want to speak out but doesn’t want to go to the police … there are all sorts of possibilities.’
The line hummed lightly Pascal said, ‘It’s worth a shot.’
‘I’ll pick you up in the Duchess, a Morris Minor built and bought before we were born.’
A monk called Father Anselm led them to an unkempt herb garden and a table beneath an ancient wellingtonia tree, talking of his schooldays in Paris. At the first natural break Pascal said, ‘Father, let me say I for one haven’t swallowed the story that the Priory has any sympathy for “Schwermann’s predicament” — I think that was the phrase. I used to be a journalist so I recognise the musings of a hack when I see them.’
‘I’m very grateful for that,’ said Father Anselm, not, it seemed, entirely at ease. ‘It would appear we live in a time when any swipe at the Church sounds credible, which is probably the Church’s fault as much as anyone else’s.’
‘Maybe, but one of the first things I learned as a journalist was that if you set anything down in print, however bizarre, it looks plausible.’
The monk said, ‘Unfortunately some stories about the Church are both bizarre and true.’
Turning to the subject of their visit, Pascal said, ‘Father, Eduard Schwermann is one of those alarming people who diligently went to work within a system of killing as if it was a Peugeot factory. After that, someone hid him.’
The monk seemed unsurprised at something that had always struck Lucy as astonishing.
Pascal continued, ‘There will be a trial, but it doesn’t follow that justice will be done. Turning over the past is a bit like waking Leviathan. Anything can happen, and sometimes it’s the innocent that get devoured.’
‘I’ve seen the devastation many times.’
‘To stop that happening we need someone who knew him and saw him at work.’
‘Who?’ The question seemed artificial.
‘A man called Victor Brionne. That’s why we’re here. I know it’s unlikely but if he makes contact with the Priory for any reason, will you urge him to come forward? I’m not asking him to go to the police, just to talk with me and my colleague in private.’ Pascal nodded his head towards Lucy
The monk leaned forward, his expression a miniature of regret and slight confusion. ‘I used to be a lawyer,’ he said, as if disclosing a forgiven sin, ‘so I know how important a witness like Victor Brionne could be in a case such as this. And, as it happens, someone did come here to talk about him, a man whose mother had known him. But he came only to say that Brionne had died in an accident. The man kept his anonymity because he didn’t want to get involved.’
‘How did he die?’
‘He was hit by a falling chimney stack.’ The monk seemed to find his own reply transparently unsatisfactory.
Pascal frowned. ‘A falling chimney stack? Didn’t that strike you as convenient?’
‘I had no reason to doubt him.’
Lucy sensed growing discomfort.
Pascal said, sharply, ‘Did he know the name, the name he hid behind?’
The monk paled.
‘Did the person mention the name?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘So there’s no way of confirming what you were told? Death produces more paper than anything else.’
Lucy glanced from Pascal to the monk, who now seemed slightly adrift from the conversation. He looked up, as though to speak, when his mouth froze. Lucy turned in the direction of his gaze and saw an elderly monk walking across the grass with a young man about the same age as herself.
‘Brother Sylvester,’ said Father Anselm weakly
‘I knew I’d find you hiding here,’ said the old monk, waving over his companion. ‘This is Max Nightingale. Used to be in the Scouts, you know’
2
Brother Sylvester’s distinctive contribution to community life inspired two extreme reactions: protective affection and a desire to kill. The ground in between was narrow and easily traversed. Watching Sylvester potter back to the reception, halting here and there to rub and smell herbs along the way Anselm stepped swiftly from the first to the second.
As Porter, it was one of Sylvester’s tasks to answer the telephone and take messages. The considered view of all was that about half got through. Therefore, Anselm had no idea Max Nightingale was coming, and Sylvester had now airily brought him into contact with the man who had exposed his grandfather.
Pascal rose stiffly saying, ‘Thank you for your time, Father. We’d better be going. If the nameless visitor calls again, I’d ask him some more questions.’ He walked quickly after Brother Sylvester, followed by Miss Embleton.
‘Is that Pascal Fougères?’ asked Max.
‘Yes,’ replied Anselm resignedly
Max took a step, halted and then called out, ‘Hold on … just a second … tell me about Agnes … and a child …’
The young woman who’d said hardly anything throughout their short meeting turned abruptly showing an involuntary flash of pain. She hurried past Fougères and out through the gate.
‘I showed my grandfather a cutting last week,’ said Max, watching them part. ‘It was about him, Pascal Fougères. My grandfather hadn’t realised he was involved in the group that had exposed him …’ He blinked rapidly, half squinting, ‘The next thing I know he’s walking back and forth … mumbling… and out spills that name … as though he could see her there, in the room … I barely heard him after that … but he said “child” as if he’d seen flesh and blood.’
They were alone, now, in a scented garden.
Max said, ‘I asked him today what he meant and all he’d say was that Victor Brionne knew the answer.’