William Brodrick: The Gardens of the Dead

‘The passages that unsettled me most,’ confided Anselm, ‘were those where he seized the blame. Repeatedly he said he’d made his choices, that no one had twisted his arm, that he was his own man. It read like vanity or a kind of vicious pride; as though he was holding on to what he could of himself, however ghastly it might be. And yet, in one place – almost inaudibly I assume, because the typist had put questions marks on either side – he seems to have said, “I never had a chance.” He strangled his own mitigation before it could see the light of day’ Anselm wrapped his cloak tighter, hugging his knees. ‘Was he free, even though he claimed his actions for his own? Can you be responsible if you’re so injured in the mind? I’m filled with dread at the thought that today’s capacity to choose might already be forfeit to yesterday’s misfortune.’

‘Well, it might be,’ said the Prior simply ‘But it might not. When I first went into the confessional, I believed that all evil, at root, was a wound and never a choice – and I still hold on to that, when I can. But I’ve met charming people who tell me they’ve done unconscionable things, quite freely without the benefit of yesterday’s misfortune. And I believe them. The wounded and the free: they both break windows. But there’s one narrow piece of ground upon which they have an equal footing. It might seem unfair, but forgiveness is available to each – not because they can prove they deserve it, but because they can both say sorry. I used to think it scandalous that each could be reprieved on the same basis, just as easily when the deserts of one so outweighed the other.’

‘What changed your mind?’

The Prior’s eyes twinkled. A little knowledge of myself.’ He stood up and brushed the back of his cloak. As for Mr Riley who knows where he stands? We can’t discern who’s truly free, and who isn’t, or where the difference might lie. We have to muddle along, all of us, remembering, I think, that in the end, the giving of mercy is not our lot.’

Resolutely Father Andrew followed the track away from the aspen trees towards Larkwood. He had a meeting organised by Cyril. Gazing at graves, he’d said, was an excellent means of preparation.

The winter sun was low and clouds were moving over St Leonard’s Field. The air was charged with precipitation, and the light curiously pink.

The court system, thought Anselm, would handle the question of Riley’s intentions and deserts with bracing clarity. He would receive censure, a certain amount of sympathy and a lengthy custodial sentence, which, on reflection, would be merciful to Nancy But despite his many crimes, Anselm felt pity for Graham Riley He could not easily dismiss the image of a boy collecting coloured stones and bottle tops; of such a boy casting a poker into a lake that it might never be seen again. In a sense, he thought, Elizabeth had successfully recreated herself; and so had George. They’d run away and started again. But Riley had failed hopelessly He’d never left Dagenham. The courts could no longer punish him. It would just be window-dressing, however severe. He was, in several disquieting respects, beyond the reach of the law But not Nancy’s…

That ruined instrument, Elizabeth had said of him. She, too, had finally settled on pity.

Anselm looked up, his attention caught by a small, roundish figure hurrying along the track. He wore a brown overcoat with the collar up and a red woolly hat with a bobble on top.

‘Frank Wyecliffe,’ muttered Anselm, astonished.

The solicitor bowed, shook hands, looked around warily and sat on the railway sleeper. He wanted to raise a delicate matter, he said. He’d asked for Anselm and a monk had given him faultless directions to the graveyard, which, given the errand in hand, was a most appropriate location. He sat blinking at the aspen trees.

‘So… is this how you spend your free time these days?’

‘Some, but not all,’ replied Anselm.

‘Very nice.’

Mr Wyecliffe rubbed his hands, blowing into them. His head had almost vanished below the high collar. He said, ‘Our mutual friend Inspector Cartwright is of the opinion that my old client, Mr Riley could not have devised his harebrained scheme without contemporaneous informed assistance. She thinks it came from me. But I don’t give that kind of help – not on legal aid… ‘He glanced over the collar. ‘That’s a joke… all right?’

‘Yes,’ replied Anselm.

‘I could do without another complaint to the Law Society,’ he said, wincing at the cold. ‘Would you explain to the good Inspector that I’m not responsible for the workings of Riley’s mind? That I limit myself to its effects?’

‘Of course.’ Anselm considered the huddled figure with warmth and something like admiration. For thirty years, Frank Wyecliffe had represented Graham Riley’s interests – from conveyancing to homicide; he was that most adroit of guides: a scout in the maze of the law If there were a turning he could take to his client’s advantage, he’d take it, with a bow He was a necessary man, a dedicated man; a good man, though, inevitably such work leaves its mark.

‘Frank…’ Anselm began to smile. At last, he’d worked something out. ‘Did you post letters to me and Inspector Cartwright on Elizabeth’s behalf?’

The hairy head appeared above the collar again. The narrow eyes were asking if this matter was on the record or off. ‘Consider this a species of confession,’ he said, to cover both alternatives.

It transpired that Elizabeth had come to Cheapside not long after she’d visited Larkwood for the last time. Just as Anselm had been entrusted with a key so Mr Wyecliffe had been given two letters. They’d each been asked to act in the event of her death. They’d both of them delayed (in Mr Wyecliffe’s case, because he’d lost them in his office. It was the phone call from Nick that had him on his hands and knees).

Anselm could not suppress a smile. There can be a grim humour among lawyers. And he saw wit in Elizabeth’s allocation of duties:

‘You ought to know,’ he said, ‘that you posted to me the means by which your client now stands charged with murder -for that was how I met Mrs Dixon. And if Elizabeth hadn’t made a mistake about the law, you’d have posted to Inspector Cartwright the evidence to convict him of living off immoral earnings.’

Mr Wyecliffe blinked at the aspens, and said, ‘I wonder what the Law Society would make of that one?’

‘Don’t worry, Frank,’ said Anselm. ‘We’re all in the same boat. She gave everyone a part to play depending on what they’d done: me, George, you, even Inspector Cartwright. We were all meant to get what we deserved. Especially your client.’

Mr Wyecliffe hurried back along the track, a figure so very different to the Prior, and perhaps, in his own way just as important.

The branches trembled and snow began to fall. Instantly the whole valley of the Lark became speckled. The greens of winter began to fade and the woods turned white. There was so much activity and so much silence. Pensively Anselm thought, What will grow in the space I leave behind? Something for the delight of others, or pain? He didn’t know; and, he felt, he ought to. ‘Now is the time to decide,’ he said out loud. On that note of homage to Elizabeth, he rose and sought refuge in the small tool-shed propped against the enclosure wall. As he rattled free the door, a yellow butterfly skipped past him and left the grove. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.