Lucy could go no further.
Agnes didn’t respond. Her face could not be read; only her eyes, and they were turned to one side. Had she already heard the news — about the first witness for the Crown abandoning the stand, exclaiming through her tears that she did remember Schwermann? Had she heard about Mr Bartlett’s surprise announcement to the court? These were things Lucy would not say, not to Schwermann’s most secret victim, lying here unable to reply Agnes would discover them soon enough when Wilma declaimed from The Times report next morning.
Agnes moved her head towards the bedside table and her alphabet card. She had a simple method. After pointing out the letters of a word, she paused and rested her hand. Then she spelled out the next word. It was the lightness of her wrist, moving like a conductor, and that pause, still fingers upon her breast between measures, that broke Lucy down.
P-A-S-C-A-L
A long pause followed: this introduced the subject she wanted to talk about, like a heading.
T-R-Y
Pause.
T-O
Pause.
C-A-L-M
Pause.
T-H-E
Pause.
F-I-R-E
Pause.
W-I-T-H-O-U-T
Pause.
P-U-T-T-I-N-G
Pause.
I-T
Pause.
O-U-T
Pause.
Lucy nodded gratefully, reaching out to meet the anxiety, the entreaty deep within her grandmother’s blue eyes. Sensing the question that was trapped in Agnes’ head she added, ‘The college are being enormously helpful. They’ve told me to take a few weeks off. They’re sure I can catch up.’
Agnes touched Lucy’s arm, and then continued:
I-F
Pause.
V–I-C-T-O-R
Pause.
A-P-P-E-A-R-S
Pause.
I
Pause.
M-U-S-T
Pause.
S-E-E
Pause.
H-I-M
Pause.
B-E-F-O-R-E
Pause.
I
Pause.
D-I-E
Lucy stroked her grandmother’s shaking hand. Agnes couldn’t point for long. Anguish pulled down the corners of her mouth.
‘Gran, I think he’s gone for good.’
Agnes shook her head.
H-E
Pause.
W-I–L-L
Pause.
T-U-R-N
Pause.
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
Pause.
L-O-V-E
Pause.
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.
2
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.’
