Appalled by the plundering self—sacrifice, Anselm said, ‘After all you have suffered, you can restore to Agnes her son. You have raised him from the dead. I will speak to Robert.’ He walked over and kneeled by Brionne’s chair, Taking the wine bottle out of his hand he said, ‘Victor, who betrayed The Round Table?’
‘Oh Father,’ he said mournfully ‘do I have to say it out loud?’
3
At 4.17 p.m. the waiting was over. Everyone returned to court: Counsel, solicitors, observers, the Press and, of course, Eduard Schwermann. When all were comfortably seated, Mr Justice Pollbrook came swiftly on to the Bench. Lucy, sitting beside Mr Lachaise, watched the string of jurors file into their seats. They all looked guilty. The clerk stood up with his litany of questions. The foreman stood up, ready to deliver her nervous replies. After each answer was given, the clerk repeated the words verbatim, to remove all possible doubt. The foreman confirmed the repetition.
They had reached unanimous verdicts on all counts.
Chapter Forty-Three
1
The foreman was a young woman in her mid-thirties, wearing narrow glasses that insinuated bookish gravity. She wore black but her skin was paper-white. Upon hearing the first verdict, Lucy lost all memory of the previous questions and replies; they were swallowed up by her final, irrevocable judgment:
‘Not guilty.’
The tidy phrase was hardly spent before a most awful collective gasp arose from one side of the courtroom. The survivors and their relatives who had watched the whole process of the trial, mute but concentrated, broke out in an agony of protest. Lucy released a shuddering sound, horribly similar to a laugh. She turned to Mr Lachaise. He sat still, with a repose wholly alien to the moment. His hand reached out to Lucy’s. They were joined like father and daughter.
The other counts on the indictment were read out. Each received the same verdict: ‘Not guilty.’
Lucy sat in a trance out of time, hearing words but unable to link them coherently. She could not dispel the image of Agnes, lying absolutely still, defenceless, consumed by silence. Everyone stood as Mr Justice Pollbrook left the Bench. And then from all around came echoing shuffles and bangs as though the court was being dismantled by stagehands impatient for home. The clatter became erratic, less insistent, and then faded.
‘Excuse me, it’s time to go.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Lucy stirring. The court and public gallery were empty, except for herself and Mr Lachaise. She was still holding his hand.
‘It’s time to go. I have to lock up,’ said the usher, pointing like a curator towards the door.
Lucy stood. Mr Lachaise withdrew his pipe and thumbed the bowl reflectively.
‘You can’t use that in here,’ said the usher officiously.
‘Indeed not. It’s just an old habit to occupy the hands.’ With a warm glance he said, ‘Go now, Lucy. ‘
She had always liked his accent and the engaging depth of his voice, like churning wet gravel. As she pushed open the swing doors she heard him ask:
‘Would you be so kind as to do me a small favour …?’
Then they closed.
Standing in Newgate Street, the presence of Agnes all around, suffusing metal, stone and cloud, Lucy hailed a taxi. ‘Hammersmith,’ she said woozily
2
Anselm left Victor Brionne, knowing he would continue to drink but knowing there was little he could do to hold him back. Victor — he could call him nothing else — had urged Anselm to tell Agnes about Robert. It was a secret that could not be withheld from the little time she had remaining.
Anselm left shortly before 5 p.m. He dropped into a newsagent, drawn by the blaring of a radio from behind a curtain over the back room. He leafed through a paper, waiting for the news on the hour. The shock verdict delivered in the trial led a series of other items, culminating in the shock transfer of a football player. Two shocks, one at either end.
Anselm walked out, dazed, and looked around. It was a lovely dusty, sunny day and there were children playing in the street.
3
The front door was slightly ajar. Wilma must have popped out. Lucy walked purposefully through to Agnes’ room. She kissed her forehead. It was warm and smooth, scented by baby oil —one of Wilma’s gentle ministrations. Lucy took both of her grandmother’s hands and said, ‘Gran, they’ve set him free. It’s all over.’
For a while Agnes did not respond. Her eyelids blinked slowly. Then her head swung to one side, arching backwards. From her mouth, stretched open, came a thin squealing exhalation of air that Lucy thought would never end.
In one scalding flash Lucy saw the snapshots of a lifetime —the catastrophic loss of a child; the death camps; the rescue of Freddie and Elodie, crowned with failure; the cost of silence; a remorseless, stripping illness; exclusion from the trial; and finally when there was little left to take away the vindication of the man she could, but would not, condemn.
The front door snapped shut. Wilma was back.
Lucy, completely detached from her actions, not fully knowing what she was doing, opened the bedside cupboard, searching for the revolver wrapped in a duster. She placed it with the four rounds of ammunition in her rucksack. Agnes, still trapped in a silent howl, tried to clutch at Lucy her head flopping from side to side.
‘Don’t worry, Gran. I know what I’m doing. This is for Victor Brionne. I’m not going to get into any trouble,’ said Lucy calm and reassuring, like a nurse.
‘Would you mind explaining what is going on, madam?’ said Wilma from the wings.
Lucy ran out, sweeping up the keys for the Duchess.
4
The radio from the newsagent blasted out an old Elvis hit about a woman, impolitely called a hound dog, who cried incessantly Anselm set off for Manor House tube station, the singer’s name having reminded him of a confession he’d once heard. The unseen face behind the grille had leaned forward, saying darkly fearfully ‘Do you realise, Father … Elvis is an anagram for “Lives” … but also Evils” … the fiend is everywhere.’ Anselm had said ‘God is “dog” spelt backwards… the hound of heaven will protect you.’ And the man had gone away healed.
Upon an impulse, Anselm patted his right-hand pocket, perhaps because it was lighter than it had been. The iron keys to St Catherine’s. He’d left them on the armrest. Irritated, he began to retrace his steps. But there was no rush: Victor was going nowhere.
5
Lucy had written down Victor Brionne’s address as he gave it with wavering self-pity to the court. Holmleigh Road, Stamford Hill. The words had mesmerised her, for they signified a home and garden — providing a life free of care on the other side of escape. She parked a few doors down, her eye on the neatly painted window frames. Night settled upon her conscience. She opened her bag and unrolled the duster. She pushed open the chamber and fed in the cartridges. Her hands moved quickly professionally. She watched them, marvelling at their adroit purposefulness, their separation from her. She walked at a pace, before the light came back and she lost her nerve. Reaching the door, she struck it hard three times. It swung slowly back. Brionne appeared, slightly swaying on his feet.
‘Yes?’
‘I am the adopted granddaughter of Agnes Aubret. I want to talk to you.
He stared at her through maudlin tears. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Lucy Embleton.’
‘Come in, but ignore the mess. I’m just beginning a bad patch.’