A great sigh swept through the court. After its subsidence, Mr Bartlett continued, ‘I am confident this jury already knows the direction in which their conscience must take them. The case for the Defence is closed.’
Lucy turned to Mr Lachaise who, throughout the trial, had become a quiet source of steadiness, especially when reason saw no room for hope. But for the first time he slumped forward, his gentle face pale and drained of emotion.
Mr Justice Pollbrook adjourned the case, allowing time for Counsel to prepare their speeches and him his Summing-Up. By the time the judge had finished his remarks to the jury Mr Lachaise had recovered his customary self-possession. He suggested they have a coffee and a biscuit. Sitting in a small cafe off Newgate Street Lucy said, ‘Why isn’t he going to defend himself?’
‘It’s far too dangerous,’ said Mr Lachaise. ‘If he was cross-examined, his present position, however precarious, could only be harmed. He is on a knife-edge, illustrated by the rather good point made by Miss Matthews — he either separated a boy from his mother for no reason or he knew what was going on at Auschwitz but managed to save a single life. I hadn’t thought of that before.’ He looked exhausted again, but continued, ‘Of course, the second alternative is not a defence. If true, it’s a plea for sympathy against the enormity of what he must have done. With a jury, pity is a sticky sweet. It’s often savoured over justice.’
Lucy asked, ‘Are you a lawyer?’
‘No, but I grew up alongside a wonderful man called Bremer — the family solicitor — and he passed on to me the maxims of his craft. I have made them my own.
‘Mr Lachaise,’ said Lucy tentatively probing the inscrutable expression on his face. ‘My grandmother was a member of The Round Table, and that explains me. But can I ask, why are you here?’
His large eyes glistened behind the heavy spectacles. Lucy could only fractionally recognise the meaning of his smile: it had something to do with misfortune. Mr Lachaise said: ‘You may ask me any question under the sun, but not that one.’ His voice dwindled to a whisper: ‘I do not know the answer.
3
Lucy left the court and went straight to Chiswick Mall. She found Agnes apparently sleeping. Her arms lay by her side upon white sheets; her face was still, the mouth slightly drawn at the sides; she seemed not to breathe. Lucy watched, her heart beginning to beat hard upon her chest. She touched her grandmother’s wrist: it was cool, the skin shockingly close to the bone. Lucy spoke, as hope fled, ‘Gran…’
Agnes opened her eyes. Her face seemed to change, a minute animation suggesting pleasure. Lucy drew up a chair and sat down. Relief loosened her limbs and she wanted to sob. Holding her grandmother’s hand she said, ‘It’s almost over.
Agnes blinked deliberately. Lucy knew — she sensed it from years of knowing her grandmother — that Agnes wanted to laugh. Yes, she would have said, it is almost over. Soon I’ll be dead.
Wilma came through the door. It was the usual time for reading out loud, something Lucy had done years ago when she was much younger and they would sit together in the fading light. It was a pastime that had been resumed by Wilma and she sat down and opened a pamphlet of poems.
“‘The Burning of the Leaves”, by Laurence Binyon,’ Wilma said.
Lucy turned away, unable to watch the intimacy that had once been hers being played out with someone else. She fixed a stare upon the wall, shutting off her ears to the sound. But Wilma’s hushed voice gathered strength and pushed aside her defences:
“‘Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before:
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there;
Let them go to the fire, with never a look behind.
The world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.
Agnes raised her right hand off the counterpane. At the signal Wilma stopped. She closed the pamphlet and left the room. The clean net curtains fluttered. Agnes gestured with her fingers for Lucy to come nearer. She did. The fingers said closer. Lucy bent down, almost touching the skin of her grandmother’s face. Agnes barely moved but Lucy received the faintest touch of a kiss.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
‘Give me the whole mess in order,’ said Father Andrew It was a cold wet night and a fire had been’ lit in his study. The stubborn wood cracked and spat at the lick of the flames. Anselm and his Prior sat close to the grate on creaking chairs. Flashes of orange light danced upon their concentration.
‘It began with resentment,’ said Anselm. ‘Perhaps it goes back earlier, to the sort of differences of background and opinion we have here at Larkwood. But it’s simple enough: Pleyon had his nose put badly out of joint by Rochet on more than one occasion. Events conspired so that Pleyon got his chance to have the final swing back. If what I’m told is right, it seems Pleyon may have been an anti-Semite, and that spurred his attempt to pull down Rochet. He betrayed The Round Table to Victor Brionne, who then told Schwermann. ‘
Father Andrew listened, his bright eyes chasing the whirl of sparks. He said, ‘How do you know Pleyon had any contact with Brionne?’
‘I don’t. It’s just an assumption. There’s no other explanation for the facts.’
‘How did either or both of them know all the names?’
‘I’m not sure. I’ve a suspicion Pleyon only knew of Rochet, and perhaps one or two others, but that Brionne already knew the rest from before the war.’
Father Andrew gazed into the fire and said playfully ‘What a coincidence that they should meet, each with a reason of their own to bring down their former friends.’
‘Tragedy often arises out of coincidence,’ replied Anselm defensively trying to be wise.
‘I suppose the pieces fit.’
‘The assumptions are confirmed by what happened next.’
‘Proceed.’ The Prior seemed not to be taking Anselm altogether seriously.
‘When the war ended the two runaways knew where to turn — Les Moineaux, and fortune had conveniently lodged Pleyon in the Prior’s seat. He arranged their escape, planning to tell Rome a fairy tale about deceptive appearances to cover his own misdemeanour. But he died before he could really sink his teeth into the lies. As it happens, Chambray had already told Rome the full story — which includes the fact that Schwermann was passed on to us’ — Anselm glanced at his Prior: no emotion disturbed the attentive calm — ‘and they did absolutely nothing.’
Father Andrew raised his hands to the flames and said, ‘Tell me about the papers that were torn up by that poor woman.
Anselm described what he had seen — the list setting out the knights of The Round Table and the two deportation records, all signed by the man Anselm had urged to give evidence. He said, ‘It seems Schwermann was a forward thinker. In the event that Germany lost the war he kept those documents so he could blackmail Victor Brionne.’
‘Compelling him to do precisely what?’
‘To testify that Schwermann saved someone when he got the chance… to give a handle for doubt… for pity.’
The Prior reached for a poker and jabbed the embers. With a hiss flame rushed upon exposed wood. Shadows twisted and shivered. He said, ‘And what do you say Rome were doing when they sent you off to find Victor Brionne?’
‘When Schwermann came back to Larkwood it was like a signal, a threat — he could expose Rome as he had been exposed. That would mean everything Chambray had told them would come out into the open. It appears
