The Sixth Lamentation (31 page)

‘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?’

‘He
disclosed that Le Comte had connections with Action Française and the Camelots
du Roi,’ Father Chambray replied significantly

‘I see,’
breathed Anselm appropriately

‘Does
that mean anything to you?’ His voice sharpened.

‘Sorry,
no.

‘Lord…’ Chambray waited, gathering what patience he could find. ‘Extremists,
wanting a restoration of the monarchy, with Jews and Freemasons shown the door.
Rochet’s objection was that they represented the worst aspects of the Middle
Ages.’

‘What
did he mean?’

‘Well,
I wasn’t there, but he meant antagonism to the Jews. The story goes that in the
Chapter before the election Rochet said something like, “The Round Table of
Christ cannot have a man in the seat of honour who is not a brother to the
Jews.” And remember, the violence and the desecrations had already begun in
Germany Within a couple of years Hitler would be Chancellor. As I’ve said,
Rochet had a way of seeing things …’

‘What
happened?’ asked Anselm.

‘Le
Comte became Prior. Rochet had gone too far … and Pleyon got his revenge.

Anselm
frowned in disbelief. Priors didn’t do things like that. But he listened.

‘Within
the year a young girl from a nearby village died in childbirth. She never named
the father. Rumour said it was Rochet, and on the strength of that, so I was
told, Pleyon threw him out. He was sent to a parish in the capital.’

‘Was
there anything to the rumour?’

‘Well,
it seems he’d applied to leave the priesthood, but then changed his mind after
the death … Anyway, Pleyon got rid of Rochet … and the community ousted
Pleyon because a lot of monks thought the removal of Rochet was a settling of
scores. That’s when I came, under the new Prior, Father Morel.’

‘So
what happened to Rochet?’

‘We
next heard from him just before the fall of France, in early 1940. He addressed
us all in Chapter. I was only in simple vows but I was allowed to attend
because of what he intended to say That was the only time I met him. He wanted
to know if the Priory would join a smuggling ring to get Jewish children out
of Paris if the need arose. Who do you think had doubts?’

‘Pleyon?’

‘Exactly
All dressed up as reasonable enquiry, but there was little enthusiasm. Rochet
had foreseen that and he came prepared. Pleyon asked if the ring had a name. It
has, Rochet replied. What is it? asked le Comte. “The Round Table,” said
Rochet. It was a slap across the face from old Sans-culotte. Le Comte didn’t
have much to say after that. Prior Morel decided to join the scheme, we were
all bound to silence and the children began to arrive. And then, in 1942, the
pigs turned up and shot the Prior.’

‘How
did they find out?’

‘Wait,
I’m coming to that. After Morel’s death, Pleyon took over once more; it was a
crisis, he was a strong man. And I have to say,’ the voice became lighter,
searching, as if assailed by unwelcome generosity, ‘he led the community with
enormous sensitivity. He was a changed man.’

‘And he
was in place when Schwermann and Brionne arrived in 1944?’

‘Yes.’

Chambray
had stopped his finger-drumming. He was tiring under the weight of memory. He
continued:

‘After
the execution there was nothing we could do to find out what had happened. We
were in the Occupied Zone in the north; we had to wait until the war was over
before we could make any enquiries. The opportunity arose the day Schwermann
and Brionne turned up. We knew then that the Germans had fled Paris. I asked
Pleyon if I could go as a visiting curate to Rochet’s parish, to see what I
could find out. To my surprise he agreed. Arrangements were made with the Bishop
and I left a few days later. By the time I got back Schwermann and his dog had
gone, with new names taken from a song. This is what I found out.’

Chambray
shuffled in his seat, leaning closer to the grille.

‘Rochet
was a loner. No one knew of his past as a monk. Adored by his parish. Some said
he drank — you know what I mean?’

‘I do.’

‘Many
of his friends were Jews, though none survived the war. The Resistance knew he
was up to something but had no idea what it was, so they distrusted him. A
Communist, they said. According to the Resistance, The Round Table was broken
in one day Most of the arrests took place simultaneously in the early afternoon
of fourteenth July Rochet was picked up in the evening, drunk. One of the ring,
Jacques Fougères, was taken that night at his own home, even though his family
had already escaped. For some reason he stayed in Paris, as if waiting for
something or someone. No one knows.’

Anselm
did. He must have been waiting for Agnes Aubret. ‘The Resistance believed
Rochet was the traitor. You see, he’d known Brionne from before the war. So the
thinking was: Rochet told Brionne, who told Schwermann, and the Germans then
arrested Rochet once they’d swept the floor:

‘But
why would he do it? He had no reason.

‘Maybe
he lost his grip when drunk. Destroying everything around him, good and bad. It
happens. ‘

‘Yes,
but I’m not persuaded. And I get the impression you’re not either.’

‘I’m
just telling you what everybody else thought. I’ll tell you what I think in a
minute. I came back to Les Moineaux and told Pleyon everything. Oh, he was ill
at ease, especially when I told him I didn’t swallow the Resistance line on
Rochet. I said it must have been someone else. All he did was nod. He told me
he’d used diplomatic family connections to get Schwermann and Brionne into
England. But then, and mark this well, I was bound to secrecy I was not to
discuss what I knew or thought with anyone. He said he didn’t want speculation
about Rochet to divide the community again.’

‘So if
it wasn’t Rochet, who was it?’

The
thick breathing rumbled as if it were far off, deep in a cave.

‘Who
else could have sent them down the river?’ asked Anselm quietly

The
reply came, drawn out, inexorably detached. ‘Pleyon. He betrayed The Round
Table.’

‘That’s
too convenient, replied Anselm instinctively

‘Think
about it.’ Chambray’s voice rose, harder. ‘Why else would Schwermann and
Brionne come to Les Moineaux? None of us knew them. How did they know that they
would be safe, that the Prior would protect them? They came because they
already
knew
he was the one who had betrayed the ring. He was in their power. If he
did not do what they asked, they could reveal what he had done. And it was in
his interests to help them. He got them out of the country before the reprisals
got under way Don’t you see? Pleyon was a collaborator as well. He was saving
his own skin.’

Anselm
was captivated by the neatness of an argument he had failed to see. Chambray
continued:

‘It all
makes sense. Pleyon was the one who showed Rochet the door all those years ago;
he was the one who had doubts about The Round Table scheme in the first place,
and when I got back to the Priory after my stint in Paris, he bound me to
secrecy …

‘But
why should he bring about such a catastrophe?’

‘He
didn’t want to. He didn’t realise what would happen. He thought they’d just get
a warning. But he was wrong. And after the shooting of Prior Morel he was a
changed man. Why?’

‘Remorse?’
asked Anselm.

‘Absolutely’

Chambray
was right. Anselm sensed the hardening of loose data into an intractable
judgment.

‘So it’s
obvious now, isn’t it: Pleyon betrays the ring, thinking it will simply end the
scheme — but he hasn’t foreseen the firing squad. He becomes a humbled,
penitent man. But then, the war over, the two of them arrive, ghosts from his
past, reminding him of what he did, claiming him as their brother. He’s trapped
by what he’s done, and he uses his authority and influence to ensure they
escape justice.’

He’s
right, thought Anselm. That is the one explanation that meets all the
questions. But now there was another enquiry.

‘You
said that Rome knew everything?’

‘The
lot. I wrote it down in 1945, despite Pleyon’s order, and sent it to the Prior
General. He wrote back saying my report had been passed on to the Vatican. They
did nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then Pleyon died of a heart attack a year
or so later. I left the Priory in 1948 and haven’t been back since. I’ve never
left the Church but I sit on the edge, neither in nor outside. They’ll find my
body in the porch.’

Anselm
groaned, those last words having struck him a blow he so fully understood, for
there were many living on that line whom he would reach if he could.

Chambray
struggled to his feet and pushed his way out of the box.

‘I’ll
leave you a copy of what I sent to Rome. You can read it for yourself.’

Anselm
called out, ‘Father, was it you who sent Schwermann’s false name to Pascal
Fougères?’

The old
man rasped, ‘No … I never learned what it was … but I remember the song
— “A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”‘

The
breathing and shuffling moved slowly away, like that of a wounded animal, until
the nave echoed to the sound of its parting. Then there came the opening of a
great door, an implacable slamming from the in-rush of wind, and a silence
reaching out to the one who had gone.

Chapter Thirty-Three

1

Having spent the afternoon
listening to an historian recount the exploits of The Round Table, Lucy left
the court and made her way to Chiswick Mall for a conference organised by her
father. On the tube she rehearsed the various interventions of Mr Bartlett,
most of which seemed to be largely insignificant. But they left the impression
of a man who cared about the detail, regardless of whether or not it helped his
client’s case. He was fair, judicious and yielding. He helped his opponent. He
helped the court. And no doubt the jury thought he was helping them in all his
little ways. Turning her mind from that, Lucy anxiously thought of the other
meeting proposed with such enthusiasm by Mr Lachaise as they had left the
court. Upon enquiry, Max Nightingale had said he was a painter. Mr Lachaise had
instantly suggested the three of them go together to see ‘Max’s work’ on
Saturday afternoon. Lucy had been so completely unsettled by the innocence of
his manner that she could not bring herself to refuse. But that was another day
Tonight had to be endured first.