12
After compline Anselm knocked on the Prior’s door. It was the Great Silence, but Father Andrew never let a rule, however ancient and secure, take primacy over an insistent worry. A fire had been made. Two chairs had been placed in front of it. The Prior was already seated, arms on his knees. Light flickered upon broken glasses that had been repaired with a paperclip.
Anselm took his place. ‘You know of the key?’
‘I do.’
By the hearth was a life-size statue that he’d never seen before. Such things turned up occasionally in the fields, or by the Lark near the abbey ruin. Once cleaned up, they stood in for garden gnomes in the grounds. This one had lost its head and an elbow. Whoever it was stood like an observer of sacred things long gone.
‘I suspect you know everything else,’ said Anselm, grateful to have an ally.
The Prior shook his head. ‘All I’m sure of is this: in the nicest possible way, we’ve been set up.’
They looked at the wrangle of impatient flames. The wood was wet and hissed and steamed.
While Larkwood was a deeply impractical place, its traditions were very ordered when it came to talking – because of the Rule’s insistence on listening. Back-and-forth dialogue wasn’t the norm with serious matters. You took turns. At a nod from Anselm, the Prior kept the initiative.
‘Elizabeth asked to see me – in confidence – the week before you came to Larkwood, which is to say about ten years ago. Inadvertently it seems, you had given me a favourable recommendation. Or, at least, the kind that spoke to her.’
Anselm had said that the Prior pops illusions… it was all he could remember saying.
‘She made an appointment. She came all the way from London. But she couldn’t speak. We just looked at each other. And something surfaced while I was watching her… anger, helplessness… and finally she said, “How can evil be undone?”‘ The Prior scratched his scalp. ‘We spent the next hour exploring this territory, never approaching a specific issue. And yet I was talking to a haunted woman.’
Anselm remembered his own conversations with Elizabeth on those dark Friday nights: she’d been intellectually tireless, searching out the implications of every nuance. When she’d come to Finsbury Park, she’d told of a voice that would not be stilled and Anselm had said that to understand the ways of the heart you need a guide…
‘Years later she asked to see me again,’ resumed Father Andrew, eyes on the fire. ‘She didn’t want you to know of her visit, so we met while you were away In many respects it was a re-run of our first encounter, only this time the anger and helplessness had been replaced by despair. As before, she did not speak. So I asked her a question, “Why are you unhappy?” Almost whispering, she said, “I’m implicated in a homicide.” And then she seemed to slip away, leaving her body behind. I said, “I think you need a solicitor not a monk.” She replied, “It’s not the law that has a claim upon me. It’s my “‘
‘Conscience,’ Anselm interjected. The Prior nodded.
Kierkegaard had called it ‘an affair of the heart’. Anselm’s rebelled. He’d been in the same position as Elizabeth: they’d both defended guilty men before. And if Riley were connected to the death of John Bradshaw, conscience could not hold either Elizabeth or Anselm to be responsible. There was no link between anything they had done and that outcome. So how had the discomfort become anguish? Mechanically, Anselm surmised that this particular visit to Larkwood must have occurred shortly after Elizabeth had received the letter from Mrs Bradshaw.
‘We sat in silence,’ continued the Prior, gazing into the fire. ‘Gradually, as it were, she came back, and we talked of her work – of revenge and fair dealing, of injury and restoration, of judges and juries: these ideas, and their connections, seemed to fill her mind, and she sifted through them as if she were doing a jigsaw whose picture it was desperately important to complete… and keep out of view.’
The Prior leaned forward and threw another log on the fire. Flakes of orange ash burst free and rose and turned instantly to grey.
‘The last time I saw her was a month ago. She wanted to talk to you, but only after a meeting with me – which was, however, to remain confidential. She was neither angry, nor helpless, nor desolate. I found her composed; you might even say at peace. He took off his glasses and fiddled with the paperclip. ‘Going back to the jigsaw, I think the gathering of the pieces was over. She said, “I’ve thought a great deal about our previous discussions and, as a result, I’ve been tidying up my life.” I waited, expecting her to tell me what this had all been about, but she confided nothing. So I said, “If ever I can help again, don’t hesitate to ask.” She smiled, saying, ‘Actually, I’ve a small favour to ask.” And at that strange moment, I felt like the first domino in a queue.’ The Prior repositioned his glasses and looked to Anselm, as if inviting the next in line to relate the fall.
Anselm said, ‘She wondered if I might be free to run an errand on her behalf.’
‘She did,’ said the Prior. ‘And I agreed.’
‘She then said, “May I give him a key to be used in the event of my death?”’
‘She did. And I agreed.’ The Prior pursed his lips, thinking. ‘What you will not know are the instructions she then gave me regarding what should happen after you had opened the box. They were precise. As regards myself, I was to wait, otherwise you would not understand what I was to say As regards yourself, she said, “Firstly Anselm should visit a Mrs Bradshaw She wrote to both of us many years ago. She deserves a reply” Does that mean anything to you?’
‘I’ve just read it.’
While Anselm explained what had been written, the Prior went to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘She then said, “Secondly please give him this letter. He should open it when he has left Mrs Bradshaw After that, everything should fall into place.” And she added, ‘A police officer called Inspector Cartwright will one day thank you, as I do.” I’d have called a halt to this drama, if it hadn’t been for her resolve and.., her pain.’
Anselm took the envelope. It bore his name in her small, painstaking hand. ‘And then, to evoke the past, she sought me out with a box of chocolates.’
The Prior sat down with a sigh, rubbing the back of his head – a gesture possibly from his younger days in Glasgow ‘Tell me all about it; from when you first met her.’
From when you first met her. The Prior, like Anselm, was already looking further back than appearances would warrant. Accordingly, Anselm began with a conversation on a Friday night long before the Riley trial, a talk about parents, children and dying.
It was late when Anselm finished. Larkwood’s owl – heard but never seen – had taken flight, and was hooting round the spire, permanently baffled by the fearlessness of the partridge weathervane.
‘I suppose Sylvester told everyone that Inspector Cartwright came here?’ asked the Prior.
‘Not quite, but the bulk of the message got through.’
‘She believes that John Bradshaw’s death was a revenge killing linked to the Riley trial, although the mechanics were beyond proving. We decided that Elizabeth must have come to a similar conclusion, because this was undoubtedly the homicide to which she’d referred. This, however, was not the only matter we discussed. It transpired that in the seconds before she died, Elizabeth had made a telephone call to Inspector Cartwright.’
‘Really? What did she say?’
“‘Leave it to Anselm.”‘
Anselm frowned and repeated Elizabeth’s last words with incredulity. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘She hadn’t a notion. Presumably you’ll find out after you’ve visited Mrs Bradshaw and read the letter.’ The Prior rose, indicating that the interview was over. ‘Inspector Cartwright would like you to call her in due course.
The cry of Larkwood’s owl began to fade as it flew west over Saint Leonard’s Field, leaving behind a charged silence, a sense that something strange occupied the night sky above the monastery.
Anselm went to his cell and threw open the window The night was cool and sharp, softened by the smell of apples. The community had been peeling them before compline, and the skins were in sacks by the kitchen door.
Leave it to Anselm. Was that wise, Elizabeth? What did I say that made you choose me? Or is it something I’ve done?
