Brother Sylvester’s distinctive contribution to community life inspired two extreme reactions: protective affection and a desire to kill. The ground in between was narrow and easily traversed. Watching Sylvester potter back to the reception, halting here and there to rub and smell herbs along the way Anselm stepped swiftly from the first to the second.
As Porter, it was one of Sylvester’s tasks to answer the telephone and take messages. The considered view of all was that about half got through. Therefore, Anselm had no idea Max Nightingale was coming, and Sylvester had now airily brought him into contact with the man who had exposed his grandfather.
Pascal rose stiffly saying, ‘Thank you for your time, Father. We’d better be going. If the nameless visitor calls again, I’d ask him some more questions.’ He walked quickly after Brother Sylvester, followed by Miss Embleton.
‘Is that Pascal Fougeres?’ asked Max.
‘Yes,’ replied Anselm resignedly
Max took a step, halted and then called out, ‘Hold on… just a second… tell me about Agnes… and a child…’
The young woman who’d said hardly anything throughout their short meeting turned abruptly showing an involuntary flash of pain. She hurried past Fougeres and out through the gate.
‘I showed my grandfather a cutting last week,’ said Max, watching them part. ‘It was about him, Pascal Fougeres. My grandfather hadn’t realised he was involved in the group that had exposed him…’ He blinked rapidly, half squinting, ‘The next thing I know he’s walking back and forth… mumbling… and out spills that name… as though he could see her there, in the room… I barely heard him after that… but he said “child” as if he’d seen flesh and blood.’
They were alone, now, in a scented garden.
Max said, ‘I asked him today what he meant and all he’d say was that Victor Brionne knew the answer.’
Anselm felt a sudden affiliation with the young man. They were both relying on the missing Frenchman to make sense of strained loyalties.
‘You know, Father,’ said Max, ‘I think we are in much the same position. My grandfather planted himself here, behind these walls, and I sometimes wonder if he took refuge in my childhood… another secluded place where questions don’t have to be answered.’ He looked blankly at traces of paint beneath his nails. ‘But now I’ve grown up.
‘Unfortunately’ said Anselm, ‘that is never more apparent than when we ask the first forbidden question. Maybe that’s when we really cease to be children.’ Thinking of the young woman with the haunted eyes, Anselm went on, ‘I wonder who Agnes might be?’
Max said, ‘I get the feeling Pascal Fougeres doesn’t know… but the girl does.’ He made to go, saying with a tinge of disinterest, ‘I just came to let you know there’s no sign of Victor Brionne as yet. ‘
‘There’s still time,’ said Anselm hopefully ‘Something will have found its way on to paper.
After Max had gone Anselm devoted half an hour to John Cassian’s Sixteenth Conference, On Friendship. Putting down the text at the bell for Vespers, Anselm was struck by an answer, on the face of things, unrelated to his reading, even before he’d formulated the question. Did Agnes know Victor? Yes, she did; she most certainly did. And they had both known Jacques – an interesting fact that had escaped the family education of Pascal Fougeres.
Anselm shook his head, ruing the scheme of things that only allowed him to discover great truths by accident.