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  Bartlett had said that Schwermann had occupied a minor clerical post in the SS; had never visited a concentration camp; and had never ‘witnessed any of the horrific sights so forcefully described by the courageous lady whose testimony we have just heard’. Schwermann admitted he knew the deportees were going to Auschwitz but he believed this was a staging post on the way to Palestine, part of a wider policy of forced emigration. And as for the smuggling ring, he accepted that he brought to the attention of his superiors information that had come into his possession, but he had no influence or insight into what would happen to them afterwards. While there was no burden on the Defendant to prove his innocence, in this particular case the Prosecution would be shown to flounder without particulars, clutching at circumstantial evidence.

  So that was the strategy: four big points, just as Roddy had predicted — three overt and one concealed. The first, a complete denial of ever having seen the machinery of a death camp. Second, a sincere belief that ‘evacuation’ meant just what it said. And third, the fate of the smuggling ring had been handed over to others. Technically, this meant Schwermann denied being part of a joint enterprise whose object or possible outcome was death or serious harm. Bartlett sensibly avoided stating his fourth argument because its inherently comic properties undermined its force: the ‘I was only obeying orders’ defence. But Anselm knew the jurors would be led along by frequent references to Schwermann’s youth, his lowly rank and the power of others. There would be no laughter and the point would be forcibly made. It might even coalesce into pity.

  Bartlett’s disclosure, however, was alarming in other respects: there was no reference to Les Moineaux and no mention of Schwermann having saved life rather than taken it away The riddle remained an unexplained secret. Anselm had just turned to the obituary pages in search of light entertainment when he heard a sober voice at his elbow

  ‘Father, if we hadn’t shared the cup of plenty I’d think you were hiding from me.’

  Anselm blenched.

  ‘I thought I’d give my legs a big stretch, before hitting Sao Paulo. And I have a few answers from the realm of Sticky Fingers.’

  2

  Lucy left the court half an hour before the end of the morning session in order to meet Father Anselm, the monk. She had been surprised to hear his voice on the telephone the night before. He was coming to London and had an important matter to discuss with her. He’d told her not to worry. They met outside St Paul’s Cathedral and sat on the steps. Apparently it was something he’d often done when he’d been at the Bar, taking a breather from a savaging at the Old Bailey ‘That court, ‘he said, ‘was the scene of some of my more spectacular failures.

  After a moment’s reflection the monk said, ‘Lucy, I have a letter from a man who knew Agnes Aubret. It was written during the war by Jacques Fougeres, the father of her child, and given to this man for safe-keeping, to be delivered to Agnes if she survived the war. He has asked me to deliver it to her. I believe you know the Agnes I seek.’

  ‘I do, she’s my grandmother.’ The rapid mix of nausea and wonder acted for the moment like a sedative. She spoke with a calculation she did not possess. ‘She has motor neurone disease. She can’t walk or talk but she understands everything. Her inner life is all she has left. Can I ask who gave you the letter?’

  ‘Mr Snyman. I’m sorry, the name means nothing to me.

  ‘He was a Jewish refugee, from country after country. He played the cello, with my grandmother at the piano. I’ve never heard her play but you can tell, once you know, by the look of her hands… the fingers are long and beautiful and they’re always reaching out for something.’ Completely without warning she started to cry, not tragic sobs, cracked cheeks and hissing valves, just free-flowing water upon smooth ivory skin; water that would not stop, that she did not want to stop, that she wanted to run for ever, down her face, her body, and into the sea. ‘She was a member of The Round Table. She saved children but lost her own. She survived Auschwitz and Ravensbruck and saved two other children; one, my aunt, who died without being told, and the other, my father, who still doesn’t know. Now she lies dying, unable to speak, unable to move; she’s lost everything, everything, except her breath. Tell me, if you know, because I don’t, why can’t she be given something, just this once, before she dies?’

  ‘I suspect this won’t surprise you,’ said the monk, ‘but there aren’t any satisfactory answers to questions like that. In. a funny way all we can do is listen. Can I give you some consolation?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘The best people I have ever met are the ones who’ve carried on listening.’

  Lucy thought of Agnes, often silent, always attentive in a way that was foreign to all those around her.

  ‘And another is this,’ said the monk. ‘If you keep listening, you still don’t get any answers but more often than not the questions slip out of reach and cease to be questions. The bad news is that it takes about ten years.

  ‘Thanks. And what about the ones that stay?’

  ‘We’ve a choice — either the whole shebang’s absurd… or it’s a mystery.’

  Again Lucy thought of Agnes, absurd to none, a mystery to anyone who knew her. Rummaging for a handkerchief, her eyes swollen and smarting, she said, ‘I’ll arrange a meeting for you with my grandmother, but it will have to be after the trial. She’s entirely focused on its outcome. A letter from Jacques, now, could overwhelm her.’

  The monk shuffled on the step. He said, ‘This weekend I hope to meet Victor Brionne:

  A suffocating exhilaration rose and pressed against Lucy’s chest as she spoke: ‘I must talk to him.’

  ‘That would be most unwise. If it became known that someone who had been observing the trial had spoken to a key witness, all hell would let loose… or, indeed, if I said anything to him on your behalf. You will have to let things run their course.

  Lucy could only laugh. The trial itself had now silenced whatever she could have said on Agnes’ behalf. The displacement of Agnes was complete. She said, still laughing hoarsely, ‘I had hoped to make sure Brionne told the truth about Schwermann.’

  The monk’s face darkened. ‘Perhaps he will.’

  ‘Take it from me,’ said Lucy miserably, ‘he won’t.’

  Strangely sad, and with compassion, the monk said, ‘If Victor Brionne gives evidence at the trial, I hope he doesn’t disappoint you.’

  Before Lucy could remonstrate he changed the subject.’ You must have found the death of Pascal an awful shock.’

  ‘I did. I still do.’ Lucy watched the busy pedestrians walking criss-cross on the pavement below They’d finish work tonight and go for a drink, unwind and complain about the boss or their mortgage; then they’d go home. ‘One of the reasons he met Max Nightingale was to say he had nothing against him. Frankly, I couldn’t see the point.’

  Father Anselm mused a little and said, ‘When I first became a monk, there was an old member of the community, a dreadful chap, always cross, murmuring a lot as we say in our way of life. When he was dying I went to see him and he said, “Anselm, all that matters are tiny reconciliations. Be reconciled whenever you get the chance.” At the time it struck me as rather sad, but later I wondered if he’d made a discovery bigger than himself.’

  Lucy thought Pascal would have agreed. Herself? Yes, but not yet, some other time. She said, ‘Have you any consolations for the grief-stricken?’

  ‘No. Terrible business. Nothing to recommend it whatsoever.’

  ‘We’re agreed.’

  They stood. ‘I have to go,’ said the monk, ‘I’ve another appointment. You’re always welcome to spend some time at Larkwood.’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe anything.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  With that he held out his hand, suddenly reserved. They shook, and then she watched him disappear among the suits and briefcases.

  3

  Anselm slipped down a side street to an Italian restaurant from which Roddy had
been banned in 1975. Salomon Lachaise was waiting for him. Anselm apologised for being late.

  ‘How’s the trial progressing?’

  ‘This morning we’ve had a specialist on Resistance operations in Paris telling us about The Round Table. She’s thirty-eight, authoritative in relation to the many documents of the period, but she wasn’t there. It is as I anticipated. There are so few left from that time. Now is the era of the expert.’

  Anselm poured them each a glass of wine from a carafe. Salomon Lachaise said, ‘She finished with an account of how Father Rochet and Jacques Fougeres died at Mauthausen. It wasn’t, as for so many others, through the weight of stones in the quarry, or by hanging, or by having the dogs set upon them. A guard beat Father Rochet with a lash. Fougeres intervened. At gunpoint they were forced onto the electric fencing. They walked arm in arm, watched by a silent, starving crowd.’

  The delightful ritual of shared eating suddenly lost its simplicity.

  ‘The Defendant brought about the end of The Round Table,’ said Salomon Lachaise, ‘although we are not told how he learned of its work. His subsequent diligence attracted a personal commendation from Eichmann; not, I think, an accolade I would send home to my mother.’

  ‘No,’ said Anselm.

  ‘The evidence is given with due ceremony,’ said Salomon Lachaise. ‘The scribes bend over their pages, writing down what is said as though nothing should be lost.’

  The waiter came with bread and then vanished, as if his job were done.

  ‘But at times I wonder if the evidence is just a palimpsest, and we’ll never find out what’s lying beneath the words.’

  A kind of resentment burned Anselm’s stomach. He didn’t want to play a part in the devastation of other people’s hope by being the one who forced Victor Brionne into court. Unable to bear that thought he said, by way of distraction, ‘Have you spoken to any of the other observers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There are two young people, a man and a woman, who go every day’ Anselm described them.

  ‘Yes, I know who you mean. They sometimes sit either side of me.’

  ‘You sit between two extremes. They’ve even met privately, on the day Pascal Fougeres was killed. The man is Max Nightingale, a grandson of the Defendant.’

  Salomon Lachaise stiffened and snapped his fingers. ‘I thought

  I recognised him. The lad was there in the woods, by the lake when you and I first met…’ He seemed caught off-guard by a kind of wonder.

  ‘The woman is the granddaughter of Agnes Embleton. She was a member of The Round Table. She’s dying. Why no statement was taken from her defeats me.

  ‘The names of the smuggling ring were read out this morning. That one was not among them.’

  ‘At that time she was called Aubret.’

  Before Salomon Lachaise could reply the raddled waiter reappeared, his eyes fixed on the passing world outside the window He delivered, in something approaching a song, what seemed like the entire contents of the menu. They listened with awe, like a claque. When he’d finished Salomon Lachaise said, ‘Thank you very much indeed, but I have to leave.’ Turning to Anselm he said, regretfully, ‘The court reconvenes in ten minutes.’

  ‘It’s my fault, I’m so sorry.

  ‘No, no. We will do this another time.’ He bowed slightly and left, running as if the building were on fire. Anselm surveyed the table, his appetite gone. He’d chosen this restaurant because it had been a favoured place in his days at the Bar when blessed by an accidental victory. He’d now brought to it a subtle type of failure. That was not something to celebrate. With due ceremony he ate the bread and drank the wine, and quietly slipped out.

  4

  Lucy sat in the public gallery, absorbed by Father Anselm’s words. They repeated themselves in a jumble, as though she were swiftly scanning radio stations, catching partial trans-. missions. A letter from Jacques Fougeres… Mr Snyman… Victor Brionne… Agnes… Pascal… death… reconciliation… and that the evidence to come might disappoint her. It was an unusual thing to say, reminiscent of what Myriam Anderson had said about another possible grieving, over the death of a final hope. Her reflection was disturbed by a quiet cough.

  ‘May I introduce myself? We sit here every day, and we don’t even know each other’s names. I am Salomon Lachaise.’

  The remark was addressed to both herself and Max Nightingale.

  ‘I thought you might like to join me for tea one afternoon.’

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  It struck Anselm as a rather peculiar request, though not unprecedented. A guest had arrived unannounced while he had been in London. He’d asked, in broken English, if Anselm, and only Anselm, would hear his confession. He’d said he’d say who he was afterwards. Brother Wilfred had left a note on Anselm’s door giving the time arranged — 8.15 p.m., forty-five minutes before Compline.

  Anselm sat in the dark of the confessional, slightly uneasy He didn’t notice when the faint grating noise began. It was dispersed by the vast, empty nave and seemed to come from all around, but quietly, without definition, and yet coming closer. The sound of feet moved swiftly over the polished tiles. The door to the confessional opened. A man swore, stumbling on to the kneeler by the grille. A fluid heaving of breath, curiously familiar, rose and fell. The French voice jolted Anselm out of Larkwood on to a landing without a light:

  ‘I haven’t been in a confession box for nigh on fifty years.

  ‘We never got rid of them.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Sorry. Rather silly of me.’

  ‘I’m not here to confess my sins.’

  ‘There aren’t any others you can confess.’

  ‘I’ve come to reveal the sins of my church, and yours. And if you can still raise your hands in absolution after I’m done, you’re a braver monk than me. I’d rather leave it to God himself.’

  ‘Father Chambray,’ exclaimed Anselm. ‘How on earth did you get here?’

  ‘It took a lot of planning, at my age and in my condition. I could not leave it any longer. I’ve been following the trial and nothing of what I know has come out. I’ll stay for a few days and then I’ll go home. First, I’ve got a question for you. On your life, tell me: have they told you what happened in forty-four?’

  ‘They?’

  ‘Rome.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is that why you came banging on my door?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Chambray stopped to think. He mumbled, ‘Just as I thought…’

  Anselm leaned towards the grille. ‘What are you here to say?’

  ‘They know, and they’ve kept it quiet, even as the trial has opened up what that bastard did. But I told them. Everything. In forty-five.’ Chambray pulled himself off the kneeler and slumped back on a chair. Anselm squinted at the grill. There was nothing but shadow, black as a pit. The breathing grew calmer.

  ‘Now I’ll tell you. Because you, too, have been duped.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Wait,’ he snapped, coughing. He paused, settling back. ‘They came in the middle of the night, towards the end of August 1944. We didn’t find out until the morning Chapter. The Prior, Father Pleyon, said we were going to hide them both until their escape from France was arranged. No explanations given.

  A Nazi and a collaborator. Imagine that. In a place that smuggled Jewish children away from their grasping hands.’

  A shadow seemed to move in the darkness towards the grille. Chambray closer, rasped, ‘To understand anything you have to look back

  … it’s the same here…’ The presence withdrew, leaving the harsh inflection of the last words.

  ‘It probably begins about 1930 with the election of a Prior, well before my time.’ He was tapping his fingers slowly against wood. ‘Priory lore had it down as a spat between Father Pleyon and a dark horse, Father Rochet. One an old aristocrat, the other a republican. Pleyon was known as “Le Comte” because he was a popular confessor with a few well-
known royalists, and Rochet was “Le Sans-culotte” because he was? always banging on about the Revolution, Rights of Man and all that. It was a Priory tradition to have nicknames.’

  Anselm, sensing a softening with the opening of memory, asked, ‘What was yours?’

  Chambray chuckled. “‘Le Parieur”, because I took bets on decisions made by the Prior.’

  The thinning laughter turned to rumbling breath, in and out, in time to the soft tapping of old fingers. He found his thread:

  ‘There were two candidates: Le Comte was the favourite, with a simple but clever chap called Morel as a rank outsider:

  Anselm knew the name. It lay engraved on a plaque on a Priory wall, commemorating an execution yet to come.

  ‘Things turned nasty. Rochet took against Le Comte, which surprised no one because he was from the other end of the pond. The shock was what he did. Everyone said you had to be careful with Rochet.’ The voice in the dark was confiding, educating. ‘He had some wild ideas, but there was always something in what he said. He saw connections in things most people missed. Read too much. So I’m told, anyway And looking back on his opposition to Le Comte, he had a crazy suspicion that could never have mattered. But then, ten years later, he was shown to have been right. At the time they just thought Rochet had gone one step too far.’

  ‘What did. he do?’