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.