William Brodrick - The Sixth Lamentation

H-E

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W-I–L-L

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T-U-R-N

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U-P

Lucy lifted her grandmother’s hand again and smoothed the skin, as if to ease a deep bruise, the wound that still believed an old friend might yet turn up to redeem himself. So much of their relating had now been transferred to a meeting of hands. It replaced the voluntary. silence that had once been a communion. Lucy reached over and took the alphabet card. She had something to say that had never been said:

I

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L-O-V-E

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Y-O-U

The handle of the door turned and Wilma came in with the bowl of ice cubes, a saucer and a teaspoon.

The vestibule floor was dry and safe to walk upon when Lucy left. On the way out she walked past the front room. It was no longer used. Agnes had left it for ever. The piano, the television and the furniture stood waiting for joking removal men in white overalls.

The morning after his return from Paris, Anselm went to the library to write some letters, mindful of Johnson’s observation that a man should keep his friendships in constant repair. He had just sealed an envelope when Father Bernard, the cellarer, put his head round the door. There was a telephone call for Anselm that had been transferred by Sylvester to the kitchen. There was no point in trying to get him to re-direct it. They both hurried down the stairs, habits flapping like wide streamers on a kite that refused to get off the ground.

‘The call was from Detective Superintendent Milby enquiring how the visit to the Fougeres family had transpired. Anselm explained, concluding with the ambiguous remark, ‘I’m very glad I went.’ Milby then transferred the line to DI Armstrong’s extension.

‘I think we’ve found Victor Brionne,’ were her first words.

‘Good God.’

‘Not exactly, others were involved. The person who came to see you was almost certainly Robert Brownlow He’s fifty-five and lives on the north-east coast in a place called Cullercoats. His father, Victor Brownlow, lives in London — Stamford Hill. The place looks shut up and has been for months according to the postman. The son, however, pays rates on a property on Holy Island, “Pilgrim’s Rest”. We’ve had local police drive around in civvies and it looks like that’s where he’s gone to ground.’

‘I’ll give you a ring as soon as I have spoken to him.’

‘You may as well tell him to contact me. He can’t go on running, not at his age.’

‘I will.’

Anselm fished out a pencil from his habit pocket and said, ‘I’ve another favour to ask.’

‘I hope you’re not going to surprise me again, Father.’

‘No, this is different. Can I have Lucy Embleton’s telephone number? I’ve got a letter for someone she knows.’

‘Father, since I came to Larkwood Priory I’ve met nothing but mysteries.’

Anselm walked back to the library deep in thought and collected his correspondence, before strolling into the village to post them. On the way he glimpsed a flaming red Fiat Punto with a foreign number plate turning towards Larkwood. It was oddly familiar, but Anselm applied himself to another pressing distraction. Something was nagging at the back of his mind and he could not entice it forward. But he was absolutely certain of one thing: the name Brownlow was familiar, and it went back to his schooldays.

Lucy broke her journey home by calling unannounced upon Cathy Glenton. They’d only spoken to each other once since Pascal’s death, when Lucy rang to tell her what had happened. After that Lucy had slipped out of circulation. A couple of messages on her answer machine from Cathy had not been returned. But on leaving Chiswick Mall, Lucy suddenly felt the urge to see her old friend.

The door opened narrowly and Cathy peeped over a lock-chain. Lucy saw the white cotton bathrobe and the towel turban around her head. ‘Is it too late?’

‘Nope.’

They shuffled into the kitchen. ‘So, what are you up to?’ asked Cathy, producing two bottles of beer from the fridge.

‘Attending a war crimes trial.’

‘Why?’

‘Long, long story. I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Fine. How’s your grandmother?’

‘Dying slowly I don’t want to talk about that either:

‘Fine.’

Cathy sat in the corner of the settee, her legs tucked beneath her. She stared into the narrow green neck of the bottle and said, ‘I’m sorry, so sorry, for being such a fool.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Lucy, kicking off her shoes. She sat against a wall.

‘About you and Pascal.’

‘Oh,’ sighed Lucy with surprise, ‘forget it.’

‘When you didn’t call back I thought you were angry with me.

‘No, no,’ replied Lucy with feeling, apologetic. ‘I just wanted to be morose on my own. Now I want to be morose with you.’

‘Fine.’

They drank their beer. ‘It’s always the same,’ said Cathy after a while. ‘You get to our age and every now and then you recover the enthusiasm of childhood, but you just get another slap across the face.’

Lucy glanced over to Cathy and said, ‘You once told me you never think about the past. That’s rubbish, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

Suddenly, without brutality, Lucy asked, ‘What happened with Vincent?’

‘I screwed up. Monumentally.’

‘How?’

‘It’s astounding, looking back. I mean, he was really different. No interest in a career, money, all that stuff; did lots of charity work, quietly; said great things I wanted to write down… and I ended it.’

‘Why?’

‘One day he got really, really smashed. We had a row about nothing — a wet towel left on the floor — but he called me an ugly bitch.’ She put her bottle carefully on the floor. ‘The next day I started covering up the scar. He said sorry, didn’t mean it, and so on… and then I realised what had happened: I’d changed, just like that.’ She clicked a thumb and finger. ‘I hadn’t realised my self-confidence was so fragile. We sort of made up, but I steadily edged him away All rather self-indulgent, really I heard the siren call of existential meltdown, thinking it might give me added depths. I suppose I wanted him to chase after me. But he took me at my word. I should have hung on to him.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Married to some other divinity.’

‘Cathy, I’m sorry.’ Lucy felt strangely ashamed of her own appearance.

‘Don’t be. The artwork’s only an interim measure. Inside I’m becoming a goddess that soars over all flesh. There. Are you morose now?’

‘Yes.’

‘So am I. Let’s play Snap.’

Anselm got back from the post office in time for lunch, which proved to be an unspeakable combination of cold pasta and beetroot without any other benediction to hold them together. Brother Jerome’s news bulletin was a helpful distraction, containing an interesting item on the trial. Anselm determined to read the whole report once he’d escaped from the refectory. Meanwhile, an agenda fell into place: he would see Lucy Embleton and Salomon Lachaise the next day, before heading north to confront Victor Brionne at the weekend — another cold prospect that now filled him with dread. By Sunday night, after sending a fax to Cardinal Vincenzi, his involvement in the whole affair would be over. After lunch Anselm spoke to the Prior and received the necessary permissions. He then pinched the newspaper from the library and made for his bench by the Priory ruins.

After Bartlett had cross-examined Madame Beaussart, he’d surprised the court by volunteering to disclose his client’s defence. As the judge had observed, Schwermann was under no obligation to do so, but Bartlett had said he deemed it right since ‘it could only assist the jury in this particularly difficult case’. Not quite, thought Anselm. It was a ploy to get round the fact Schwermann had not cooperated with the police. A ‘No Reply’ interview always looked suspicious, even if it did pay homage to Goethe. So Bartlett was making Schwermann look as helpful as possible to the jury. And he must have chosen his moment, having got the answers he needed from the witness. Showing Madame Beaussart the photograph was a risky shot, but Bartlett must have noticed the prosecution didn’t formally prove how she knew Schwermann. In the absence of that foundation Bartlett had crept upon her warily, his instinct for the kill growing warm.