The outstanding feature of Mr Bartlett’s speech was as much its length as its content. He spoke for no more than a minute.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, I think we know each other well enough by now for me to be brief. You’ve heard the evidence. You know it as well as I do. I shall say nothing about it whatsoever. But forgive me if I draw one small point to your attention. Many of you may already be troubled by its significance.’
Mr Bartlett had an unnerving posture, a mix of the ornithologist and hunter: very still, watching for hours at a time, fascinated by what he saw, but ready to kill. He moved a few steps along the Bar towards the jury, away from his ‘hide’, his body relaxed, becoming Henry the man, not Bartlett the Silk.
‘You cannot convict this man of being involved in a joint enterprise of murder. The edifice constructed by the Crown will not stand. Against others, yes, but not him.’ He leaned back against the bench, sitting on his hands. ‘The cornerstone is missing, it belongs to a different building. And you possess it. It was retrieved by Victor Brionne. In August 1942, a young German officer got one chance to save one boy a Jewish boy. A boy who became a man, and who, as we sit here, probably still lives and breathes, and will never know that he does so because of Eduard Schwermann. ‘
Lucy looked blankly at the line of files in front of Mr Bartlett. One of them should have contained the deportation records for Agnes’ son, but for some reason it wasn’t there. It was the final obliteration. He hadn’t even survived on paper.
Mr Bartlett moved back to his usual place, back into the courtroom, into the contest.
‘These were dark, unimaginable times, far from the comfort of this courtroom. Ask yourselves: if he saved one Jewish child, would he have chosen to harm a hair upon the head of any other?’
He looked at the jury with such a hard stare of enquiry that Lucy thought for an awful moment someone might answer out loud. Then he said, like a command, ‘No, he would not. Eduard Schwermann was, in his own way a member of The Round Table, only they never knew it. Ladies and gentlemen, set this man free.’
Mr Justice Pollbrook began his Summing-Up of the evidence, his voice crisp and dry. After a few sentences Lucy heard the deep whispering of Mr Lachaise close to her ear: ‘I think we need a little drink.’
They found a wine bar and took two stools by the window Mr Lachaise ordered half a bottle of Brouilly
‘I trust you are well?’ he enquired paternally.
‘No.’
‘Neither am I.’
‘Cheers.’
They sipped a disconsolate communion. Lucy said:
‘I simply cannot understand Mr Bartlett’s last remark – about saving one child and therefore not choosing to harm another. It’s rubbish.’
Mr Lachaise turned his glass in small, tight circles, bringing the wine up to the rim. ‘It is rhetoric, not logic. Words well used. It is also deliberately ambiguous. To save a child means opposition to the system of killing, at least in that one instance. But it also means knowledge of the system that claimed the lives of all the others – and, given his participation in what happened, that should be enough to convict him. Mr Bartlett, however, is gambling that the ambiguity will tilt in his client’s favour. ‘
‘But why should it? If The Round Table knew what “resettlement” meant, so did Schwermann,’ said Lucy
‘I know. And so does Mr Bartlett. That is why he has done what every advocate does with a strong point that can’t be refuted.’
‘What’s that?’
‘He’s ignored it, as if it wasn’t there. In its place he’s planted a seed of pity for an unsung hero.’
‘But the jury can’t fall for that.’
Mr Lachaise shook his head. ‘Sometimes, we all like to think the right answer can only be found by making the most difficult decision, the one we’re at first inclined to reject. It shows we took the matter seriously. My dear old mentor, Mr Bremer, used to say nothing more than pity serves to tip the balance.’
‘I hope he’s wrong.’
‘So do I.’
He expressed agreement with such feeling that Lucy looked up, and she was shocked to see the awesome distress upon his face.