His name was Wilson, apparently Peering through a window in the bursar’s office, Anselm saw the black Jaguar creep across the Priory forecourt. The mandarin emerged in a chalk pin-stripe of the deepest blue, his hair a laundry white, each strand obedient to its place in life. He extended a pale hand graciously to Father Andrew, as if it was a Royal visit, his faint smile conveying shyness, a remote fragility masked by exquisite courtesy
Precisely what Mr Wilson said was revealed that evening. Community meetings, like gatherings in Chambers, were notorious for bringing out everyone’s worst qualities. For a group of men capable of savage argument over nothing in particular, the prospects of a sensible discussion on modified asylum for a war criminal were not promising. But on this occasion there was a surprising display of common sense.
The monks silently took their seats in Chapter, side by side around the circling wall. All eyes fell on Father Andrew’s stern face. A single candle burned brightly on a plinth beside him. From where Anselm sat, the tiny flickering danced upon the Prior’s narrow glasses, lighting his eyes with fire.
‘I’ll be brief. The Home Office has asked us to provide this man with a short-term refuge. You already know what he was, and what he’s alleged to have done. He must be accommodated away from the public eye, and be protected. He can’t go home. Transfer to prison is considered inappropriate.’ Father Andrew had anticipated most of the questions and answered them mechanically in brief succession. ‘An expedited investigation has already commenced. No charges were brought after the war and it’s thought unlikely any could be brought now.
He’s never been in hiding from the British authorities. Our involvement is nothing more than a matter of convenience. Costs sustained by the Priory will be met, and the police will deal with any protesters. A personal protection officer will stay with the man himself. He should be off our hands in three months. That’s it. The question is this: does he stay or go?’ He surveyed the room gravely waiting for a response, and then dutifully checked himself. ‘Oh yes, Lord Thingummy-Other, a Catholic peer, humbly endorses the government’s request:
‘Do you mean Lord Crompton?’ purred Father Michael with deferential enthusiasm.
‘I’m sorry, I didn’t note the name,’ said Father Andrew brusquely
‘What do the sisters think?’ asked Anselm, realigning the debate but relishing the way Father Andrew had batted down Michael’s impulse for social climbing.
‘That he should leave.’
There was a general murmur of assent.
Father Jerome, a muscular chap troubled by occasional asthma and the only member of the community ever to have been imprisoned, named the problem. ‘Leaving aside any assurances, he’s come here for protection. Claiming sanctuary’s all about holy innocence, an appeal to God for higher justice. We can’t give that. And if he doesn’t deserve it we’re in for big trouble. In this world and the next.’
‘Nonsense,’ snapped Father Michael. ‘If he’s rejected this way and that because of a false accusation, then he should stay His own appeal is backed by the Establishment. How the world chooses to interpret our cooperation is neither here nor there. Appearances count for nothing.’ And by way of retort he added, ‘I know exactly what the Trotskyites among you think, but I happen to know Lord Crompton has a distinguished war record. He knew Mother Teresa. An assurance from him can be trusted.’
And so it went on. Only two monks kept silent: Father Anselm, who was biding his time, and a recently professed Brother, the youngest member of the community.
‘Benedict, what do you think?’ asked the Prior warmly
The young monk stood, as was the custom, and looked uncertainly around him. ‘I’m afraid I don’t have an opinion. Just questions,’ he faltered.
‘Go on.’
‘If he’s innocent, why the false name?’
‘A good question.’
‘Why come here?’
‘Another good question.’
‘Why wasn’t he indicted after the war?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Against expectation, if there is a trial, what happens then?’
‘As Father Jerome has rightly pointed out, we’re in trouble, especially if he’s convicted.’
Brother Benedict scratched the shaved hair behind his ear. ‘That’s all I can think of for the time being.’
‘Thank you very much,’ said Father Andrew, leaning back. ‘Jerome and Benedict have kindly demonstrated the nature of the problem facing the community.’ A reflective silence spread across the gathered monks. Now, thought Anselm, was the time for his planned contribution. He coughed, and stood. The Prior nodded.
Anselm held back from advocating any one course of action. Instead he donned the mantle of impartial adviser, reaming off an impressive summary of issues, neatly numbered, with recommendations depending on the view taken of other points raised.
It was all very professional and implicitly based on lofty experience of these difficult matters: sound advice from a man who knew the ropes. To the trained eye, Anselm feared he would be found out by his brothers – that he was angling to be involved in the handling of the Schwermann case.
‘Thank you, Anselm,’ said the Prior. ‘And thanks to you all. Now, time for quiet.’
Father Andrew said a brief prayer and extinguished the candle between his fingers. The meeting was over. And, having listened to all, the outcome was for the Prior alone to decide.
The Papal Nuncio came to Larkwood the following day – yet another unexpected visitor demanding to see Father Andrew Not some hobbledehoy, exclaimed Father Michael, but the top brass, you know. Precisely what the Nuncio had to say was not disclosed but word went round that Rome must have leaned on the Prior to throw Schwermann out.
And so it was the week drew to a close. Anselm stayed up late, waiting for Sailing By on Radio 4, and mused lightly on the curious sequence of events. In four days, four driven horsemen from different quarters had galloped across the hearth: the fugitive, the sheriff, the Queen’s good servant and, last of all, a Prince of the Church. But as he drifted off to sleep to the consolation of the shipping forecast with warnings of gales at Tyne and Dogger, he was gripped by a darker thought, and suddenly woke. Their coming had the mark of a grand reunion.