1
Mr Lachaise rang Lucy and suggested they meet for lunch in Gray’s Inn Gardens at half past one. He did not propose to attend the end of the Summing-Up. Neither did Lucy at least not all of it. The slow treading-over of the evidence was an unbearable form of waiting.
The gardens lay off Theobald’s Road, neatly circumscribed by mansions of the law, elegant screens of pale magenta brick with regular white-framed windows like rows of pictures. Lucy strolled along a narrow passage into Field Court, a tight enclosure adjacent to an ornate pair of wrought-iron gates, resting between two pillars. Surmounting each was a fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle. She paused to study the strange, seated guardians. They threatened to suddenly move, relinquishing stone; to slink, warm-breathed, off their pedestals and wreak wrath and mercy upon High Holborn. What did they protect? Nothing. Whom did they save? No one. When would the day of reckoning come? Never. What were they other than dismal protestations at the absence of angels?
Lucy passed between them into the gardens. A lane of polished gravel unrolled between short trees, plump courtiers on afternoon parade. Benches, set well apart, secured leisure with privacy. Upon one of them sat Mr Lachaise, talking earnestly to Max Nightingale.
They did not hear her approach. Lucy sidled to the edge of the path, in line with the bench, reducing the chance of being seen. She harboured a not altogether irrational suspicion that Mr Lachaise had met Max first on purpose. As she drew near, she heard his distinctive, appealing voice say:
‘Regardless of what you have said, do as I ask. Do nothing. Rest assured, there is no need.’
Then, unfortunately she was seen. However, the conversation ran on in an entirely innocent fashion, which rather disappointed Lucy. She had liked the idea of consecutive meetings, up-turned collars and secret conversations. Mr Lachaise continued talking as he beckoned Lucy with his hand:
‘You might think your paintings are not especially good, but I’m confident my colleagues will come to another conclusion. As I have said, leave it all to me. The University will issue the invitation; after that it’s all very simple. Ah, Lucy do join us.
Lucy shook Max’s hand. Seeing him outside the courtroom lit his absence from the trial as a sort of failure, as though he’d left her and Mr Lachaise on the front line. How peculiar, she reflected. He’s from the other side.
‘I’ve brought along some very Jewish provisions, said Mr Lachaise, opening a large plastic bag. ‘It’s always bitter or sweet… I’ll explain as we go along.’
They ate sitting in a line, passing curious things from one to the other.
‘It’s rather like Waiting for Godot,’ said Lucy.
‘Except this time,’ announced Mr Lachaise, ‘he might come after all, just when he’s not expected.’
2
At 2.30 p.m. the gardens closed and, politely expelled, they strolled back to Field Court. Mr Lachaise left them standing at the gates between the two indifferent protectors.
In the absence of their intermediary, Max shifted: not clumsily, but though a refined guilt. Lucy saw its trim, its shine, the self-loathing that came from an organic relation to evil. A giddy sense of authority unsettled her balance, like a rush of blood. She could leave him bound, if she wanted. A delicious splash of something wholly foreign touched her lips. Her tongue tasted malice. She recoiled from herself and said, ‘Max, to me you are Nightingale, not Schwermann. There’s a big difference.’
‘It’s just paper over cracks.’
Lucy winced at the deliberate use of her words. ‘I should never have said that. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t say that to me, of all people.’
‘I mean it. We’re all cracked, covered in paper. I’m no different. There’s nothing wrong with being ordinary.’
As they walked out of Field Court, away from the ornate garden protected by myths, Max said, ‘I won’t be coming to the rest of the trial.’
‘Why?’
‘I know he’s guilty.’
‘How?’
‘I suppose I’ve known all along,’ he said, ‘but I never suspected that he’d entrusted me with the proof of his guilt.’
Lucy understood that elaboration would not come and that it lay in the past — given to Mr Lachaise while she stood contemplating the avenging, lifeless stones.
‘I’m glad you liked the picture,’ he said, backing away.
‘I love it,’ replied Lucy.
A half-smile broke his face. Something had been achieved. Lucy held out her hand. ‘I’ll be off then,’ said Max as they shook. It was as much goodbye as a settlement of the past. Lucy watched him leave, threading his way against a stream. Symbolically self-consciously as in the final cut of a film, she waved at the back of his head as he vanished among a multitude.
3
Lucy arrived at the Old Bailey, just in time to catch the learned judge’s final remarks. There was standing room only.
‘It should be noted,’ said Mr Justice Pollbrook evenly, ‘that for fifty years no student of the times knew that Jacques Fougeres had a child. This is now admitted by the family and perforce by the Crown. Why it should ever have been concealed in the first place escapes my imagination, but that need not trouble you. The important fact is that the detail came from Mr Brionne.’ He examined the jurors dispassionately ‘If you are satisfied that having told one significant truth the rest of his evidence can also be believed, then you are entitled to infer the boy in fact, survived solely because of the conduct of the Defendant. If that is your conclusion, then you are left with the anomaly upon which Mr Bartlett seeks to rely — that it would indeed be strange for the Defendant to have pledged himself to an enterprise that involved the death or serious harm of other children. However, ladies and gentlemen, let me say this.’ Mr Justice Pollbrook stared hard at the jury. ‘In my long experience, people can be very strange indeed. Look at your own families. How many of them leave you baffled at every turn? No, you must ask yourselves a different type of question altogether: if you are sure of what the Prosecution allege, you must find the Defendant guilty. If you are not sure, you acquit.’
The judge then went through each count on the indictment, giving a series of questions designed to determine whether or not the Defendant was guilty — of the ‘if you decide A, then 13 must follow’ variety. When he had finished, the judge closed his red book and removed his glasses, saying, ‘Down whichever avenues your reflections may lead you, please remember this. The ground of suspicion belongs to the Defendant.’
The jury then retired, bound by a promise to consider what justice was required according to the evidence. Mr Justice Pollbrook said at this stage he only wanted a verdict upon which they were all agreed.
There was no mistaking it, thought Lucy as she left the court. Whatever the judge had said about the abstract requirements of the law, Schwermann’s innocence or guilt was going to turn on what the jury thought about the strange story of a child, believed by them all to be still alive, known by Lucy and Agnes to be dead.
4
