‘Mr Brionne,’ said Miss Matthews stonily, ‘you have been very public-spirited, coming forward, it would seem, without any outside compulsion.’
Lucy had slipped back through the court doors to find Mr Penshaw seated and the young woman barrister on her feet.
‘Tell me,’ said Miss Matthews with curiosity, ‘when did you first discover the Defendant had taken refuge in a monastery?’
‘On the news.
‘That would be April of 1995, a year ago,’ calculated the barrister. ‘And you made no effort to contact the police?’ She firmly drew out each word.
Brionne turned to the judge, as if for help. Mr Justice Pollbrook stared back dispassionately
‘When did you first discover the Defendant had been formally arrested?’
‘I… I’m not sure, perhaps it was… er…’ ‘Let me help you. On the news?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘That was in mid-August 1995, four months later?’ ‘All right, yes.’
‘Yet you made no effort to contact the police. Why?’ Once again Brionne floundered, like a man with a map he could not understand.
Miss Matthews pressed remorselessly forward. ‘When did you learn the Defendant had actually been charged with murder?’
‘I think it was the next month.’
‘You are right. Yet you made no effort to contact the police. Why?’
‘I can’t explain…’
‘Why not? It strikes me that you have closely followed this case from the day the Defendant fled his home to the day this trial commenced. Is that so?’
‘I have, yes.’
‘Yet it is only at the last hour you come riding into court to tell us what you know Why now?’
Brionne lowered his head, unable or refusing to answer. Miss Matthews patiently leafed through some papers. She looked up and said without a trace of sympathy:
‘Are you frightened of someone, Mr Brionne?’
Still there was no response.
‘Mr Schwermann, perhaps?’
Brionne became totally still. He held on to the sides of the witness box, controlling his breathing. But he would not speak.
‘All right, Mr Brionne, if you won’t reply we’ll move on, said Miss Matthews contentedly ‘When you finally presented yourself to the police a few days ago, after the trial had begun, you related only one great incident of heroism on the part of the Defendant. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nothing about round-ups, internment centres, deportations or death camps. Correct?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Just one, brief, glittering moment when a boy’s life was spared, like Moses against the orders of Pharaoh?’
Lucy wanted to cry out: pick up the convoy sheets in front of you. The boy’s name must be there. Please, please, look now
‘I’m sorry but it’s the truth,’ Brionne said purposefully.
‘Is it indeed?’ Miss Matthews suddenly shifted direction to the dirty underside of the rescue story. Mr Bartlett showed no trace of surprise.
‘You proclaim he saved a boy from certain death at Auschwitz?’
‘That’s what I’ve said.’
‘Then tell me this. Can this jury safely conclude that SS-Unterscharfuhrer Schwermann knew “deportation to the East” meant one thing, and one thing only: brutal execution?’
Brionne started, caught off-balance by the question.
She’s trapped him, thought Lucy as Miss Matthews said, with icy detachment:
‘Either the Defendant separated a boy from his mother for no reason, or he knew about the machinery of death. Which is it?’
Without forcing a reply the interrogator drew a slow line across a page, watching him all the while. Then she sat down, leaving Brionne with his head bowed.
Lucy smiled to herself, her heart racing. Miss Matthews had learned a neat ploy from Mr Bartlett: the strange power of a well-placed, otherwise empty gesture.