‘One day… soon, in fact.’ Lucy thought of her grandmother and the swift, merciless approach of death. ‘But not now’ She glanced instinctively over the river towards Hammersmith once more.
Pascal said, ‘You’re so sure about Victor that I don’t know what to think. You see, I’ve got two good reasons as to why you are wrong.
‘And they are?’ invited Lucy
‘First, Mr Snyman was a close friend of both Jacques and Victor-’
‘I know’
‘He’s still alive; I grew up with him and he has no doubt that Victor would condemn Schwermann if he was given half a chance. Victor’s problem, of course, is that he was a collaborator. He can’t speak out without being accused himself- which is why I am trying to reassure him.’
Lucy thought: he really has no idea at all that it was Victor Brionne who betrayed The Round Table. She said, ‘And what’s the second reason?’
‘I have a feeling it was Victor who wrote to me, giving me the name Nightingale.’
Jolted, Lucy asked, ‘Why?’
‘Because the only other explanation is that it came from the individual or organisation that helped him escape in the first place. I don’t see any reason why they should undermine what they did.’
‘They could have regrets. ‘
‘Possibly But the letter was written to me, Jacques’ own blood, and that suggests a personal motive.’
‘But you wrote the article saying Brionne and Schwermann had found refuge in Britain. You were the obvious person to contact. ‘
‘Again, possibly you’re right.’ Pascal pouted doubt. ‘It’s far more likely that Victor arranged to have it posted from France to cover his tracks.’
Lucy pushed her salad to one side. She said, with polite impatience, ‘I can’t see that it matters. Let’s suppose it was Brionne who wrote to you. It doesn’t follow that he would give evidence against Schwermann in any trial.’
Pascal looked with dismay across the river, to Hammersmith, to the rough area where Lucy herself had gazed. ‘That is why I will do what I can to arrange the meeting you want. ‘
As they left the veranda and passed the debating lounge Lucy noticed a man by the door with a shock of white hair and an amused, enquiring face, as if someone had just told him a wonderful joke. A moustache and beard, also white, suggested both Gandalf and Father Christmas: a dispenser of wisdom and toys. He gave Lucy a donnish nod as if she were welcome to join his class.
Outside, Lucy and Pascal shook hands and parted. She walked lightly to the Underground, more quickly than usual, thinking how agreeable it was to have found a place where you could argue for the hell of it and where people smiled at you for no good reason.
Chapter Seventeen
1
Anselm and the Prior of Notre-Dame des Moineaux strolled over neat lawns between graceful horse chestnuts to the memorial plaque on the medieval refectory wall. The Gilbertines had taken over an old Benedictine Abbey in the seventeenth century. And so it was that the same Rule had been read on the same spot for eight hundred years.
‘This is where he was shot. We commemorate it every year.
A small tablet of stone recorded the name of Prior Morel above an inscription taken from the Prologue to The Rule: We shall persevere in fidelity to his teaching in the monastery until death.
The Prior was a short, stocky man with a rounded back, as if his spine were strapped to a hidden tool of penance. He stood arched over his folded hands, solemn and still.
‘It was a most simple operation,’ said the Prior, taking Anselm by the arm and turning away ‘Children were brought here in twos or threes during the day and placed in the orphanage run by the nuns. We had our own printing press, turning out false identification papers, baptismal certificates and the like. The children would then move with couriers into the Occupied Zone and down to Switzerland, hopefully to be reunited with their parents at some point in the future. Frontier guides would take them over. As you know, it was tragically betrayed.’
‘By someone unknown?’
‘Yes. But whoever it was didn’t know very much. When the Gestapo came, no searches were carried out. Not even the orphanage. They just shot the Prior.’
‘Why were the children smuggled here on their own?’ asked Anselm, dreading the answer.
‘Adults are hard to hide, and easily found, and children were liable to give away their hiding place. But here in broad daylight, among others, their chance of survival was higher. That is one of the terrible things about this whole episode. The parents were desperate. They chose separation from their infants because they were certain it was only a matter of time before they themselves were arrested.’
‘We’ve no idea, have we, Father?’
‘None at all. And do you know what I find most moving? The knights of The Round Table were students. It was the young saving the still younger from the adults.’
They walked on, momentarily distracted by the growling engine of an old tractor.
‘Unfortunately’ resumed the Prior, ‘there’s no one left from that time, so all we have are stories handed on by monks with unreliable memories.’
‘Do you mind telling me?’
‘Not at all. Come, we’ll walk along part of the escape route. The railway line has gone but it’s a pathway now It is a place charged with the actions of the past.’
They left the Abbey grounds and took the lane to the abandoned station. On the flanks stood endless regiments of vines, thickly woven over low hills, touching the resplendent skies of Burgundy
‘One of the problems,’ said the Prior, ‘was that the smuggling operation relied completely on trust. All the knights knew each other. They knew this place. The risk of betrayal is nowhere more grave than at one shared table.’
‘Can you tell me anything about Father Rochet?’ asked Anselm.
‘By all accounts he was a most gifted man — well read, with a passion for medieval literature — but his life here collapsed in disgrace.’
‘How?’
‘It has never been substantiated, but it was said he formed… shall we say, an attachment to a young girl in a nearby village. She died in childbirth and it was said Rochet was the father. The rumour was not entirely fanciful. He had apparently asked to be laicised, but he withdrew his application after the death. He was moved out to a parish in the city… a very broken man. He only came back to propose The Round Table. It is touching that he should later lose his life saving children.’
In that one dreadful sentence Anselm glimpsed an untold epic. He pursued the other questions he had prepared. ‘How were Schwermann and Brionne known to the Priory in the first place?’
‘They weren’t. Both men arrived as complete strangers.’
‘And yet they were concealed even after the execution of Father Morel,’ said Anselm, with the hopeless puzzlement of one gathering scattered jigsaw pieces.
‘And now we come to the most disturbing mystery of all.’ The Prior recounted the oral history carefully, making sure the terms used were accurate. ‘Father Pleyon, the Prior of the day, decided both men would be hidden. All he would say was that Schwermann had risked his life to save life.’
‘Save life?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Only the Prior knew the answer to the riddle. But one thing is certain: whatever he was told persuaded him that Schwermann and Brionne should be spared. He never explained himself and died with his secret untold.’
