‘My Lord, owing to a rather surprising development in this case, I fear it may be necessary to have a substantial adjournment so that-’
‘How long, Mr Penshaw?’
‘At least the rest of the day’
‘You can have this morning.’
‘My Lord, the development is significant, and I anticipate the need to serve additional evidence upon my Learned Friend. He will need to consider it most carefully’
There was a pause. Mr Penshaw had spoken in Bar-code. The judge quickly scanned the lawyers below
‘Very well. You can have until two-thirty tomorrow That’s a day and a half. Mr Bartlett, any objections?’
‘No, my Lord, I’ve always enjoyed little surprises.’
‘Court rise.’
Lucy thought, faster than she could order her mind: it’s Victor Brionne. He must have decided to speak out. Why else would he have come out of hiding? Why else would the Crown so enjoy expressing their concern for Mr Bartlett? He comes to strike down his former master.
Suffused with exultation, Lucy turned on Schwermann in the dock, but was stunned to see his relief and the slight trembling of repressed emotion: the look of one who has heard the soft approach of his saviour.
Chapter Thirty-Six
1
Lucy returned to court unable to forget the look of hope that had smoothed the anxious face of Eduard Schwermann. But now, sitting in the dock, he looked to the public gallery with growing agitation, directly towards the empty seat of Max Nightingale.
Mr Lachaise was uncharacteristically wearied, like the front-runner who unexpectedly limps to one side, unable to continue with the race. Another man, roughly the same age as Mr Lachaise, caught Lucy’s attention, being a new observer among what had become a familiar throng. He stood out not through that difference but through the imprint of tension. His short silvered hair, neatly cut and parted, suggested the boy as much as the man. She suspected that he was here with Victor Brionne, who was about to give evidence on behalf of the Prosecution.
When Counsel were all assembled, the judge came on to the bench in the absence of the jury
‘My Lord,’ said Mr Penshaw, rising to his feet, ‘the adjournment has been of considerable assistance. If I may briefly explain-’
‘Please do.’
‘An individual came forward from whom it was thought a contemporaneous account of events involving Mr Schwermann might be forthcoming. A statement was taken by the police which your Lordship has no doubt seen.
‘I have.’
‘There is nothing deposed therein which adds anything of significance to the Prosecution case. I do not propose to call the witness.’
The judge languidly raised an eyebrow ‘Has Mr Bartlett seen the statement?’
‘He has.’
‘Good.’
‘My Lord,’ said Mr Penshaw ‘That completes the evidence for the Crown.’
‘Mr Bartlett, are you ready to proceed?’
‘I am.’
‘Call the jury please,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook, turning a fresh page in his notebook.
Desperate and confused, Lucy grasped for an understanding of what had happened. How could the Prosecution case come to an end without evidence from Victor Brionne? What had he said to the police that was of so little value? As she threw the questions like flints around her mind the jury returned to their seats, the Crown closed their case and all eyes locked on to Schwermann who, at any moment, would make his way from the dock to the witness stand. Mr Bartlett made a few ponderous notes with his pencil. He sipped water. A collective apprehension rapidly spread throughout the court. The judge patiently waited and then, just as he opened his mouth to speak, Mr Bartlett suddenly rose, saying:
‘My Lord, notwithstanding the usual practice of calling the Defendant first, in this particular case I call Victor Brionne.’
‘What?’ said Lucy, aghast.
Mr Lachaise leaned towards her and said in a low, strong voice, ‘Do not worry.’ With an affection tainted by anger she thought: it’s always the powerless who are most generous with their comfort.
Victor Brionne walked through the great doors. The appearance of the man who had haunted so many lives mocked expectation. He was wholly ordinary — shortish, with a wide, laboured gait; owlish eyes, his skin dark and deeply lined — the sort of man you’d meet in the market. He took the oath. His eyes avoided the dock, and he turned only once towards the handsome man three or four seats away from Mr Lachaise. Then he faced the jury.
Mr Bartlett constructed Brionne’s Evidence-in-Chief like a master stonemason. Both hands held each question and every expected answer was pressed slowly into position. He halted work frequently, allowing facts to settle.
‘Mr Brionne, you worked with Eduard Schwermann between 1941 and 1944?’
‘Yes.’
‘You are French by birth?’
‘Yes.’
‘You joined the Paris Prefecture of Police in June 1941, at the age of twenty-three?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘You were, however, not an ordinary policeman, in the sense that you were based at the offices of the Gestapo.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I shall spare the jury an argument as to your status. Your place of work made you a collaborator?’
There was no reply Brionne’s lower jaw was gently shaking.
‘I asked if you were a collaborator. Please answer.
Very quietly, Brionne replied, ‘Yes.’
‘Louder, please.’
‘Yes. I was a collaborator.’ The words seemed to burn his mouth.
‘Please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury how you came to work with Mr Schwermann. ‘
‘I spoke good German. I was transferred to an SS department within weeks because they required a translator.’
‘And was that the extent of your “collaboration”?’ queried Mr Bartlett, slightly stressing the last word.
‘It was enough.’
‘Mr Brionne, I am now going to ask you some questions about an organisation known as The Round Table. We understand Mr Schwermann was credited with uncovering the smuggling operation. Did he ever tell you how he did it?’
‘Not exactly, no,’ Brionne wavered. ‘All he said was that a member of the group had told him everything.’
‘Did he say who this person was?’
‘No.’
‘Did you enquire?’
‘I didn’t, no.
Mr Bartlett’s voice was growing imperceptibly louder, imposing a sort of moral force on to his questions.
