Anselm was captivated by the neatness of an argument he had failed to see. Chambray continued:
‘It all makes sense. Pleyon was the one who showed Rochet the door all those years ago; he was the one who had doubts about The Round Table scheme in the first place, and when I got back to the Priory after my stint in Paris, he bound me to secrecy…
‘But why should he bring about such a catastrophe?’
‘He didn’t want to. He didn’t realise what would happen. He thought they’d just get a warning. But he was wrong. And after the shooting of Prior Morel he was a changed man. Why?’
‘Remorse?’ asked Anselm.
‘Absolutely’
Chambray was right. Anselm sensed the hardening of loose data into an intractable judgment.
‘So it’s obvious now, isn’t it: Pleyon betrays the ring, thinking it will simply end the scheme — but he hasn’t foreseen the firing squad. He becomes a humbled, penitent man. But then, the war over, the two of them arrive, ghosts from his past, reminding him of what he did, claiming him as their brother. He’s trapped by what he’s done, and he uses his authority and influence to ensure they escape justice.’
He’s right, thought Anselm. That is the one explanation that meets all the questions. But now there was another enquiry.
‘You said that Rome knew everything?’
‘The lot. I wrote it down in 1945, despite Pleyon’s order, and sent it to the Prior General. He wrote back saying my report had been passed on to the Vatican. They did nothing. Absolutely nothing. And then Pleyon died of a heart attack a year or so later. I left the Priory in 1948 and haven’t been back since. I’ve never left the Church but I sit on the edge, neither in nor outside. They’ll find my body in the porch.’
Anselm groaned, those last words having struck him a blow he so fully understood, for there were many living on that line whom he would reach if he could.
Chambray struggled to his feet and pushed his way out of the box.
‘I’ll leave you a copy of what I sent to Rome. You can read it for yourself.’
Anselm called out, ‘Father, was it you who sent Schwermann’s false name to Pascal Fougeres?’
The old man rasped, ‘No… I never learned what it was… but I remember the song — “A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.”‘
The breathing and shuffling moved slowly away, like that of a wounded animal, until the nave echoed to the sound of its parting. Then there came the opening of a great door, an implacable slamming from the in-rush of wind, and a silence reaching out to the one who had gone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
1
Having spent the afternoon listening to an historian recount the exploits of The Round Table, Lucy left the court and made her way to Chiswick Mall for a conference organised by her father. On the tube she rehearsed the various interventions of Mr Bartlett, most of which seemed to be largely insignificant. But they left the impression of a man who cared about the detail, regardless of whether or not it helped his client’s case. He was fair, judicious and yielding. He helped his opponent. He helped the court. And no doubt the jury thought he was helping them in all his little ways. Turning her mind from that, Lucy anxiously thought of the other meeting proposed with such enthusiasm by Mr Lachaise as they had left the court. Upon enquiry, Max Nightingale had said he was a painter. Mr Lachaise had instantly suggested the three of them go together to see ‘Max’s work’ on Saturday afternoon. Lucy had been so completely unsettled by the innocence of his manner that she could not bring herself to refuse. But that was another day Tonight had to be endured first.
They all sat in the front room. Doctor Scott, the Senior Social Worker, a Regional Care Adviser from the Motor Neurone Disease Association, Freddie, Susan, Lucy and Wilma.
‘The reason why we’re all here,’ said Pam from Social Services, ‘is to discuss Agnes’ future.’
‘She hasn’t got one, ‘ said Wilma.
Pam blinked uncomfortably ‘We need to coordinate a care plan, to make sure Agnes is empowered to face the future in her own way
Doctor Scott winced. Freddie didn’t like it either, although probably for different reasons. He had his own scheme and Lucy saw it at once, before he spilled out his demands. He wanted professionals in (and, by implication, Wilma out). He wanted volunteer visitors from the MND Association to come round every day He wanted equipment loaned or bought. Anything and everything that would clean up the messiness of dying, although that word was studiously avoided. Freddie preferred to use convoluted expressions which, by their abstraction, focused all the more sharply on the reality he could not bring himself to name.
A potential structure of care (Pam’s phrase) was constructed. Freddie enthusiastically endorsed all the proposals, perhaps not quite understanding Pam’s reverent doxology that ‘empowerment was to do with having choices’.
The package (Pam’s phrase) was taken through to Agnes. She listened as Pam explained the options, Freddie making confirmatory interjections as she went along. When she’d finished, Agnes nodded towards her bedside table. Wilma fetched the alphabet card.
T-H-A-N-K-. Y-O-U
Pause.
V-E-R-Y
Pause.
M-U-C-H
Longer pause.
I
Pause.
O-N-L-Y
Pause.
W-A-N-T
Pause.
W-I–L-M-A
Freddie embarked upon an appeal for sense to prevail until professionally disengaged by Pam using low-key techniques. Back in the sitting room, she translated what ‘empowerment for choice’ actually meant. Exasperated, but in control, Pam said, ‘It’s her death, not yours. Let her go in her own way’ She was unrelenting and mercilessly firm.
Freddie, confused, said, ‘You don’t understand. I just don’t want to see her suffer.’ He couldn’t stay to discuss it any further. Overwhelmed, lie left brusquely, blinking quickly to mask the well of tears.
Pam gave her number to Lucy, saying she could call her at any time, night or day, ‘given what was to come’.
2
Mr Lachaise was already at court when Lucy took her seat the next morning. So was Max, who now figured in her head by his first name, an alarming mental shift that had occurred without formal approval. Mr Lachaise offered them both a mint. Max took one; Lucy did not.
Miss Matthews, the Junior to Mr Penshaw, stood for the first time to ‘take’ a witness for the Crown. She called Doctor Pierre Vallon, an elderly French historian now resident in the United States who had previously been based at the Institut d’Histoire de Temps Present in Paris. He was slightly stooped, with a kind, enquiring face. His hands held the witness box as if he were upon the bridge of a ship. He wore a dark, limp suit and a fat bowtie.
