The Sixth Lamentation (22 page)

The
Prior had come to say that DI Armstrong had dropped by and, since it related to
Schwermann, would he deal with it. Anselm closed his book and went to the
parlour entrance. She was walking to and fro, preoccupied. After greetings were
exchanged, she said, ‘Father, there’s a couple of things I’d like to mention.
First, we’re going to interview Schwermann, I expect over several days. If the
community doesn’t mind, we’d prefer to bring all the kit and do it here rather
than take him to a station. Here’s a list of dates. We might not need them all.
It depends on what he says.

‘Of
course, I’ll raise it with the Prior,’ said Anselm, taking the sheet of paper.

DI
Armstrong hesitated. In Anselm’s experience, the point mentioned last in a
series was always the most important, and, if of a sensitive character, usually
introduced with reticence. ‘Would you like a short stroll in the grounds?’ he
asked. ‘It’s quite reviving to look at someone else’s work.’

They
passed through an iron gate still swinging on one hinge since heaven knew when
and entered the majestic wilderness of a wet, half-kept garden.

‘So
when are you going to take him off our hands?’ invited Anselm, pointing the
question at the source of presumed discomfort.

‘That’s
the second thing. It’s why I’m really here, as you’ve probably guessed. I could
have sent the interview dates by letter.’

‘Yes,’
said Anselm knowingly, not having thought of it.

‘Can I
speak in absolute confidence?’

‘Yes.’

‘Schwermann
is here to stay I know you were told it was only for the short term but nothing
is being planned to move him. I also know you were told it was unlikely any
charges would be laid but that was and is nonsense. Once the interviews are
over a decision will be taken, but the idea that he’ll just go home is
fanciful.’

‘So if
and when he’s charged,’ said Anselm, ‘the media will have another field day at
our expense.

‘I
expect so, which brings me to what I really wanted to say’

They
walked in silence towards a bench by an open sloping shed. Finches and sparrows
skipped across the grass, their small heads jerking left and right, alert to
every movement of the wind.

Sitting
down, DI Armstrong said heavily ‘I can’t prove this, but I suspect the Priory
has been set up for a fall and I don’t know why’

‘How?’

‘Let me
put the whole thing in a wider context. If there is a trial, there will be a
colossal embarrassment factor for the government. Schwermann was interviewed in
1945 by a young British Intelligence officer, Captain Austin Lawson. As you
know, he went on to a life in politics and is now a Labour Peer. There is
something alarming and mystifying about the record of interrogation. Hardly
anything was written down. In fact, it contains no more than was repeated in
the memo found by Pascal Fougères — I get the feeling Lawson only filled out a
report because he had to.’

‘Maybe
he didn’t know what Schwermann had done.’

‘That’s
possible. Not very much was known in the aftermath of the war, and Lawson was
young, twenty-four, so he could have been a bit naïve. But I seriously doubt
it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because
he deliberately left out vital information … like the false names of
Schwermann and Brionne, where they got them from … and there’s no record of
an interview with Brionne at all, although he must have spoken to him. It’s as
though Lawson knew something and let them go. He wouldn’t have made the
decision, but it would have been upon his recommendation.’

‘Is he
a Catholic?’ asked Anselm suddenly

‘As it
happens, he is. How did you know?’

‘His
first name … it’s short for Augustine … just a guess.

‘Why
ask?’ said DI Armstrong. The voice contained stealth, patience, the tip of a
claw

‘Nothing,’
said Anselm, shrinking, clasping at levity. ‘Idle, irrelevant curiosity. A
particularly Catholic sin. Sorry.’

DI
Armstrong seemed to wrestle with an unwelcome confusion. She cast an eye of
longing around the peaceful enclosure. Checking herself, she said, ‘The problem
for the Home Office is that they have no control. We do the investigation and
if there’s enough evidence there’s a trial. They couldn’t stop it if they
wanted to. So there’s a risk the whole mess will be brought out into the open.
And Schwermann wasn’t the only one. There were others.’

‘.Why
do you think that Larkwood is being set up for a fall?’

‘Milby
has to brief the Chief Constable every couple of weeks, and together they have
meetings with the Home Office because of the sensitivity of the case. Of course
the politicians can’t bring influence to bear, blah, blah, but I’m sure they’re
the ones who make “suggestions” about what is best for national security,
public relations and so on. And without wishing to smear my boss too much, he’s
rather susceptible to fixing things if there’s no other way’

‘Drug
squad realism?’

‘Yes,
he’s never quite left the back alleys. Anyway, right from the outset he was
encouraged, shall we say, to let Schwermann know we were on to him. Milby’s got
a few tame journalists — you know what it’s like, favours for favours — so he
tipped one of them off, a local hack. Then for some reason Schwermann came
here. Once we were informed, Milby let one of the nationals know’

‘What
on earth for?’

‘It’s
not his agenda. It must be the Home Office, and it seems to me they’ve done
what they can to make it look as though Schwermann enjoys the support of the
Church. It’s as though they have something on you that could be relevant to the
trial, but for political reasons they’re keeping it under wraps.’

DI
Armstrong paused. A fraction too long, thought Anselm, and he saw the ploy He
thought: she senses the Church may be involved but doesn’t know how, and she’s
hoping I’ll offer the answer. This was the true reason for her visit: she had
her own question and she’d slipped it in while making a disclosure, trying to
get a monk to open up when he was probably most vulnerable. Anselm approved
enormously of the technique and would have liked to crown it with success. But
he would have to dissemble, for he now understood completely why the government
were preparing to compromise Larkwood.

Schwermann
was bound to disclose during the trial that a French monastery had protected
him after the war and that British Intelligence had interviewed him and
released him, and that this would never have happened unless he’d been believed
to be innocent. And it was this very argument the government would adopt, with
a twist, should a conviction nonetheless ensue. The Home Secretary would say
those dealing with the matter at the time had been influenced, in great part,
by the moral authority of the Church, who, as it happens, had protected
Schwermann once more when his accusers named his crimes.

DI
Armstrong had finished what she had to say; but her finishing was expectant.
She looked at Anselm and he began his dissembling, impressed and saddened by
his own adroit paring of the truth.

‘It
sounds as though the government would like a companion if, in the end, there’s
a public outcry, and who better than the Church. They would be the real target
of interest. ‘

‘That’s
what I thought,’ said DI Armstrong as if closing a line of enquiry. Anselm
sickened a little because her satisfaction presumed his honesty, and because he
was now going to exploit her trust of him.

‘How
strong is the case?’ he asked lightly by way of preamble.

‘Difficult
to say I’ve interviewed the former Captain Lawson and he says he can’t remember
a thing, which I don’t believe. Most of the witnesses are elderly and
susceptible. The bulk of the case rests on documents and the interpretation of
what they mean … so it’s pretty finely balanced. If we could find Brionne,
assuming he’s still alive, then we might have some direct evidence, but he’s
vanished.’

Anselm
said, ‘When you came here, you asked if you could speak with absolute
confidence.’

‘Yes?’

‘Can I
now do the same?’

DI
Armstrong scrutinised Anselm’s face. ‘.Yes …’

‘First,
don’t ask me any questions, because I am bound not to answer them. Second, I
promise that what I now ask can only serve the interests of justice, in its
widest sense.’

DI
Armstrong frowned, but nodded.

‘I know
Victor Brionne’s new name. This is what I ask. If I give you the name, and you
find him, will you tell me where he is before you do anything and allow me to
talk to him first? After that he is all yours.

DI
Armstrong stood and moved away Anselm followed her gaze towards the bare window
arches of the old nave. Tangled streamers of vermilion creeper drifted lazily
where fragments of glass had once conspired to trap the sun for praise. The
swish of the leaves was like a faint pulse, or distant water on a beach of
stones. Turning back to Anselm she said, ‘All right. What’s he called?’

‘Berkeley,
Victor Berkeley’

Anselm’s
bargain had come at a price he had not foreseen. She was taking not only him on
trust but also the world he represented, its history, its old stones, once
considered sacred without question.

Anselm walked DI Armstrong
to her car. He said, ‘Thank you for the warning. ‘

‘It’s
nothing.’

They
walked a little further and Anselm, suspicious, said, ‘One other thing. Have
you any idea how Father Andrew knew in advance of our first meeting that Milby
had slipped a word to the Press about Schwermann?’

She
stopped, smiling broadly, suddenly young and no longer a police officer, simply
herself: ‘Yes. I told him.’

Chapter Twenty-One

Anselm frequently observed
that the fears he entertained turned out, in the end, to be groundless; but he’d
never learned the trick of disregarding new ones at their inception. Like the
man in the Parable of the Sower, Anselm invariably found himself unable to
protect the seeds from the rocks. A case in point was Victor Brionne, the
mention of whose name had only ever caused him to stumble.

Yet
again someone had come to Larkwood with something to say; yet again Father
Andrew had summoned Anselm to deal with it; and yet again the person concerned
had been brushed by the past, only this time it was simple. Delightfully
simple.

‘He’s
in his mid—fifties, I’d say’ said the Prior. ‘Altogether engaging. I’ve put him
in the parlour.’

They
walked down the spiral stairs leading from Anselm’s room to the ground floor.
Shafts of sunlight cut through slender windows like a blade. The monks passed
through light and dark in silence, to the low patter of their steps.

‘He
wants to talk about Victor Brionne. I didn’t get his name.’

He had the poise of a
relaxed subject before a sculptor. His short hair was silvered throughout,
contrasting with vital and arresting eyes. He sat with one arm resting midway
upon a crossed leg.

‘Father,
for reasons that will become clear, I’d rather not introduce myself. I’m in a
delicate situation which forces me to sneak around on tiptoe. ‘

Returning
a smile, Anselm said, ‘I’m intrigued.’

‘What I
have to say is not particularly exhilarating, but it’s probably worth knowing.
You see, my mother knew Victor Brionne.’

Anselm’s
eyes widened. He focused afresh on the clean features, not unduly marked by
life’s capricious tricks, the black roll-neck pullover, the soft suede shoes.

‘They
were very good friends. From what she said I think he would have liked to marry
her, otherwise I can’t think why she would have kept his name in mind.’ He
laughed lightly easily ‘It’s one of our quirks, I suppose, that we all remember
the people we might have married.’

‘Yes, I
know what you mean,’ said Anselm.

‘But it
wasn’t to be. He became a casualty of the war after all, through sheer bad
luck. He was struck by a falling chimney stack weakened by the Blitz. I can’t
understand the divine arrangement of things whereby a man could survive a world
war and then be killed by bricks tumbling out of the sky.’

‘I
know,’ mused Anselm sombrely ‘I’ve never yet been able to reconcile providence
with experience. But I keep trying.’ He moved on, ‘Your mother met someone
else?’.

‘Yes,
but she never forgot Victor. She can’t have imagined what his past involved. It’s
strange to think that my father could have been Victor Brionne, a man who
worked alongside a Nazi war criminal. Even so, none of us really know our
parents.’

Anselm
warmed to the reflective modesty of his guest and said, ‘Except, perhaps, when
they’ve gone.

‘Yes,
and then it’s too late.’

They
smiled at one another as through opposite windows in parallel buildings.

The
visitor said, ‘I’ve told you this because I expect there must be plenty of
people who would like to find Victor, and, to speak plainly, neither I nor
anyone in my family particularly want to get involved. We live a peaceful life
far away from those times. My mother’s dead, so she can’t make a statement to
the police, and I wouldn’t relish tabloid attention on the little we know made
into a feast for the curious. Our link with the man was a very long time ago
and we’d like to leave it like that.’