William Brodrick - The Sixth Lamentation

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’

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 Fougeres?’ 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 Fougeres and out through the gate.

‘I showed my grandfather a cutting last week,’ said Max, watching them part. ‘It was about him, Pascal Fougeres. 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.’

Anselm felt a sudden affiliation with the young man. They were both relying on the missing Frenchman to make sense of strained loyalties.

‘You know, Father,’ said Max, ‘I think we are in much the same position. My grandfather planted himself here, behind these walls, and I sometimes wonder if he took refuge in my childhood… another secluded place where questions don’t have to be answered.’ He looked blankly at traces of paint beneath his nails. ‘But now I’ve grown up.

‘Unfortunately’ said Anselm, ‘that is never more apparent than when we ask the first forbidden question. Maybe that’s when we really cease to be children.’ Thinking of the young woman with the haunted eyes, Anselm went on, ‘I wonder who Agnes might be?’

Max said, ‘I get the feeling Pascal Fougeres doesn’t know… but the girl does.’ He made to go, saying with a tinge of disinterest, ‘I just came to let you know there’s no sign of Victor Brionne as yet. ‘

‘There’s still time,’ said Anselm hopefully ‘Something will have found its way on to paper.

After Max had gone Anselm devoted half an hour to John Cassian’s Sixteenth Conference, On Friendship. Putting down the text at the bell for Vespers, Anselm was struck by an answer, on the face of things, unrelated to his reading, even before he’d formulated the question. Did Agnes know Victor? Yes, she did; she most certainly did. And they had both known Jacques — an interesting fact that had escaped the family education of Pascal Fougeres.

Anselm shook his head, ruing the scheme of things that only allowed him to discover great truths by accident.

They travelled in silence for a mile or so. The roads were empty and the evening sun was beginning to dip behind the darkening trees.

‘Who’s Agnes?’ Pascal said.

A cold, crawling sensation spread over Lucy’s scalp: it’s a fact, he’s never even heard of her. Proudly vehemently, she said, ‘My grandmother.’

‘And the child?’

‘Her son.’

‘The father?’ He’d guessed the answer: his own history, the redactor’s script, had been torn in two.

Lucy checked her mirror and pulled into a lay-by near a farm gate. The sun slipped further down, a dying blaze. She said, ‘Jacques Fougeres, your great-uncle:

‘What happened to the boy?’

Lucy couldn’t read his expression. Resentment and despair choked the words.

The whole story would now tumble forth. Pascal wound down his window, pulling in a slap of cold fresh air, and Lucy broke her promise to Agnes.

The late evening sky had acquired a faint glamour, like the surface of the sea, deep but impenetrable. Lucy drove into the advancing night, the obstacles that had lain between her and Pascal floating all around — broken words on a rising wave, a swell made of two rivers suddenly joined.

Pascal rang Lucy on her mobile while she was having lunch with her parents. Her father sat at the head of the table; her mother had just left the dining room for the kitchen. The opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth, electrified and appalling, blared out from Lucy’s pocket.

‘Destiny, I presume?’ asked Freddie woodenly

Lucy took the call.

‘I think a little miracle happened when we were at Larkwood Priory.’

‘It passed me by’

‘Meeting Max Nightingale.’

‘You’re joking.’ She thought of him with revulsion. ‘I call that unfortunate. ‘

A long moan of hopes betrayed floated out from the kitchen. As usual her mother was battling with milk and powder, strong adversaries that would not be reconciled.

Pascal said, ‘I don’t know why he threw that question in about your grandmother but he hadn’t the faintest idea who she was.’

‘That’s not a miracle.’

‘But if he knows of her, he may well know of Victor Brionne… and his name.

Her father realigned his plate, clinking it against a neatly laid dessert spoon.

Lucy said, ‘But he’s not going to tell you, is he?’

‘I’d like to find out.’

‘You’re joking again.’ Lucy sensed the future, predatory and inevitable.

‘I’m not. In a way he’s no different to you or me-Lucy spat, ‘How?’

‘He’s part of the aftermath. He’s not a criminal. I’d like to meet him, it’s just… right… and I couldn’t be bothered to work out why’