By early evening DI Armstrong had still not returned Anselm’s message. Idle waiting seemed an offence against the circumstances. He fidgeted anxiously in his room, rehearsing the future. What if Agnes’ being alive made no difference to Victor Brionne… and he refused to go to the police voluntarily? A yawning hole seemed to open before him, all the more frightening because Anselm had already decided to fall into it. It was not helpful to see the expanding dimensions beforehand. Without thinking, Anselm picked up the telephone and rang Salomon Lachaise.
They met at the same restaurant as before, sat at the same table and were served by the same waiter. The repetition of the past had the mark of ceremony and under its weight Anselm disclosed to his companion everything he had concealed on the last occasion: including his own role in finding Victor Brionne.
‘I am deeply sorry – I presented one person to you when in fact I was another.’
‘That is true of all of us,’ replied Salomon Lachaise. ‘Sometimes it cannot be avoided. You do not need my forgiveness, but you have it.’ He fixed Anselm with a piercing gaze and said, ‘Are you really prepared to go to the police and bring down your own life, the reputation of your church, your community?’
‘Yes.’ He was embarrassed by the simplicity of his reply.
Salomon Lachaise removed his heavy framed spectacles, revealing the vulnerable skin kept behind thick glass. He said, ‘Anselm, go to see Victor Brionne, by all means. And deliver the message to Agnes Aubret. But promise me two things.’
‘Of course.
‘First do nothing else until after the case is over-’
‘But-’
‘Promise me.’ His voice ground out the words.
‘All right.’
‘And secondly,’ he said, ‘please put your habit back on. To me you’re a monk to the core… and appearances matter.’
Anselm got back to St Catherine’s to find a message pinned to his door: DI Armstrong had rung and would meet him on Thursday evening at 5 p.m. on the steps of St Paul’s. She could see him no earlier because of a murder enquiry. Anselm entered his room and immediately lifted his habit off the bed and smuggled himself into its folds. He then tiptoed down to the oratory on the first floor. Sitting in the dark, he could not escape the sensation that Salomon Lachaise had already known a great deal of what he had said, but one question in particular returned again and again: why had he forbidden Anselm to act to his detriment when it was required by what he had done and what he knew? Anselm’s imagination was perhaps too easily excited, but he sensed his mysterious friend was about to cast an appalling light upon the tragedy that had engulfed him.