William Brodrick: The Sixth Lamentation

Father Andrew sat with his hands joined, only the fingertips touching, a characteristic gesture known by Anselm to mean intense, troubled concentration.

‘He was captured in January 1945, disguised as a priest and with transit papers for England.’

‘A priest?’ repeated the Prior.

‘I’m afraid so. He was recognised on a train and subsequently arrested. At that point he appears to have informed the military police that he was travelling with someone else, a Frenchman named Victor Brionne. He too was arrested. Both men had false identities. Both were interviewed by a Captain Lawson. Both were released and their passage into this country went ahead.’

The Prior frowned. ‘Why were they released?’

‘We haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll be talking to the interviewing officer in a few days’ time. He’s now a Labour Peer. Back then he was a captain in Military Intelligence.’

‘Who provided the false identities, the travel papers?’

‘We don’t know. But the fact that Schwermann was caught dressed as a priest might suggest an ecclesiastical connection.’

‘And then again,’ interjected the Prior logically, not defensively, ‘it might not. There may be a diplomatic link, though I can’t imagine why or how’ The Prior drew a hand across his tight lips.

‘Of course. The strange thing is’ — her manner altered suddenly, becoming warmer, less analytical — ‘that the false identities appear not to have been recorded. It is as though they were let into the country and the trail to finding them was quietly brushed away’

‘By Captain Lawson?’

‘So it seems.’

A reflective pause ensued, until Anselm said, ‘So what happened for the next fifty years?’

‘Nothing, until Pascal Fougeres, a young Frenchman and foreign correspondent for Le Monde, found a declassified memo in the United States setting out the information I’ve just given you. It turns out he has a personal interest, because Schwermann was responsible for the deportation of his great-uncle, Jacques Fougeres. Apparently he’s a Resistance hero.’

‘So what did he do?’ asked Anselm.

‘He wrote an article — this is about a year and a half ago — alleging that two war criminals had found a safe haven in Britain. It caused a big splash on the Continent, but only a ripple over here. And then another peculiar thing happened. Fougeres received an anonymous letter giving him the name under which Schwermann had escaped: Nightingale.’

‘The number of people who knew that can’t be very large,’ said Father Andrew pensively

‘No, but Fougeres hasn’t pursued that angle. I have to say I find that puzzling. Anyway, what he did do was contact Jewish and former Resistance organisations in France. They quietly started putting together the case against Schwermann-’

‘And Brionne?’

‘No, not against him, which is even more puzzling. When they had the outline of a case they presented it to the Home Office. Somehow Schwermann found out before we could arrest him and the next thing we know he’s here, claiming sanctuary.’

She glanced at Detective Superintendent Milby who added quickly, with a studious frown, ‘We find that a little odd, sanctuary.’

‘A right granted by Clement III. It has no legal force,’ Father Andrew said dismissively

Anselm caught Wilf’s eye — he had been an historian in the world — and read astonishment at the hidden erudition of his Prior.

‘But what gave him that idea?’ asked DI Armstrong.

‘Father Anselm will enlighten you.

Anselm recounted to the police officers what he had told his Prior the previous night just before Compline, when the Great Silence would fall on Larkwood and the chances of reproach were least likely to blossom. On the day of Schwermann’s arrival Anselm had been on the afternoon confessions. No one had come. When he’d left the confessional there had been only one other person in the nave, an old man sitting at the back, as still as a painted figure in a frieze. As Anselm had walked past he’d suddenly moved, grabbing Anselm’s habit, saying, ‘Father, what does a man do when the world has turned against him?’

Anselm had paused, disconcerted by the tight grip on his clothing rather than the question posed. It was one of those ponderous enquiries, he’d thought, which is the lot of the monk to answer.

‘In the old days,’ he’d replied, pulling at the cloth, ‘you’d claim “sanctuary”, the protection of the Church, if the accusation was unjust.’

‘And would you be safe?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Truly?’

‘I promise you.

‘Thank you,’ the old man had said, with a quiet calm that Anselm had later recognised as the threshold of decision. At the time he had simply walked away reflecting carelessly on the eccentricities of the faithful and the curious things that troubled them.

‘Therefore,’ Anselm said to Milby and DI Armstrong, ‘I fear he took words lightly spoken as an invitation.

Father Andrew turned to Brother Wilfred and said, ‘Now is a good time to tell us what happened next.’

Wilf was the sort of gentle, reflective man who could not talk to the police without feeling as if he had committed a crime. Nervously, he said, ‘I was talking to Brother Sylvester at reception about a news item I’d just heard to the effect that a local man accused of wartime atrocities had vanished from his home. Then in he walks and says, calmly as you like, he’s claiming sanctuary. I told him it had been abolished. I asked him to leave and he refused, so off I went to call the police.’

‘And then,’ said Father Andrew, musing, ‘the troops of Midian arrived at our gates with their panoply of cameras.’ He waited for a response, his silver eyebrows slightly raised.

The Detective Superintendent said, ‘The Press. They’re always one step ahead.’

‘Indeed,’ said Father Andrew dryly ‘What happens now?’

‘There will be an investigation, and then we’ll review the evidence,’ informed DI Armstrong.

‘That isn’t quite what I meant,’ said Father Andrew gently ‘I meant how do you propose to remove him?’

DI Armstrong looked at her superior officer with, to Anselm’s judgment, a hardening of expression. Milby leaned across the table in a sort of sprawl. In a confiding way he said, ‘We’ve given that some thought. If at all possible, we think he should stay here, as a short-term measure at least, if only for his own protection.’

‘Detective Superintendent, this is a monastery, not a remand home for the elderly’ The words were strangely familiar to Anselm.

‘I appreciate that, but-’

‘And our first duty is to our common life.’

‘Of course- ‘And we have the peculiar sensation of having been deliberately compromised.’

Springing unforeseen from pliable courtesy, the accusation stung the Detective Superintendent. From Anselm’s point of view there followed that delicious silence upon which he had often dined in the past. The embarrassment of the police is every defence barrister’s illicit pleasure and years of committed monastic life had done nothing to diminish his appetite. And, curiously, on this occasion it seemed the delight, ill-suppressed, was shared by DI Armstrong.

Unconvincingly, but ready for a tussle, Milby said, ‘I’m not sure I follow you.

Father Andrew smiled benignly He never engaged in useless arguments. In the absence of an admission where one was required he abruptly closed a conversation down. It was a powerful, unnerving tool. Returning to his former gentility, he said, ‘I’ll let you know our position a week from today’ He turned his attention to DI Armstrong — ‘I’m very grateful for all you have told us.’

The meeting over, Anselm walked the police officers to the courtyard in front of Larkwood. The gravel crunched underfoot as the question came from the Detective Superintendent: