The trial of Eduard Walter Schwermann opened on a warm morning in the second week after Easter. Queues for the public gallery stretched from the Old Bailey towards Ludgate. The Body Public sat on canvas chairs nibbling sandwiches. Flasks of tea stood like skittles on the pavement. Many in due course would be turned away when the Porters informed them there were no storage facilities for their hampers. Anselm, on his way to meet Roddy, was forced off the kerb. He crossed the street and looked back at the noble inscription high upon the court wall: ‘Defend the children of the poor and punish the wrongdoer.’ Anselm gazed upon the crowds and moved on, discomposed by the faint hint of carnival always attendant upon the airing of other people’s tragedy
Two weeks beforehand, Schwermann had moved out of Larkwood at six in the morning, hidden among a loud convoy of vehicles and motorbikes. He would be held on remand for the duration, Milby had said with yawning indifference. Schwermann’s stay at the Priory had lasted a year. That same afternoon, Anselm and Salomon Lachaise met at The Hermitage for a glass of port over a game of chess. Reviewing their many matches, Anselm had been judged the overall winner, although that did not reflect the distribution of talent between them. Luck, it seemed, had played the better part. The ensuing match was a draw, each not truly wanting to win. Salomon Lachaise had left the next day for London. He would be staying in a small flat above Anselm’s former chambers, overlooking the main square of Gray’s Inn and a short walking distance from the Old Bailey The offer had come from Roddy on his last visit to Larkwood (while he didn’t believe in God, he often came to the Priory just to ‘peep over the rim’). Such an offer, from the old rogue’s mouth, meant no expenses would accrue. And thus the subject of remuneration, always delicate for the recipient of kindness, was quietly and happily dismissed.
Walking briskly, Anselm turned his thoughts to what lay ahead. First, he’d arranged to meet Roddy at chambers for a low-down on the principal players in the trial – a taste of old times. Afterwards, however, Anselm would catch a train to Paris to see the Fougeres family – for a more unpalatable task. Milby through DI Armstrong, had suggested he might go on their behalf, given the unpleasant legal realities that required sensitive explanation.
‘I think the boss is right,’ DI Armstrong had said. ‘It would be better coming from someone like you.’
Anselm had agreed, but had found himself seizing the opportunity to request another favour, made tawdry by a hint of bargaining: ‘I have something to ask of you. It relates to Victor Brionne.’
‘He’s gone, I’m afraid.’
‘Can I have the same assurance as last time? If I tell you what more I know, will you allow me a first interview?’
DI Armstrong had looked Anselm directly in the face. ‘I don’t know what you’re doing, Father, but you must have crossed a line, morally and legally I think you should step back. Go home.’
‘I’d like to, but I can’t. I haven’t yet worked out where the line was.
‘No, Father, we all know where it is.’
‘I’ve said something very similar to other people in the confessional. I’ll never say it again.’
‘I can’t forgive sins, you know that.’
‘I give you the same assurance as I did last time. What I am doing is in the interests of justice.’
‘All right, go on.
‘A man came to see me. He told me Brionne died after the war. In a peculiar way everything he said struck me as true – and it still does, even though I am sure now it was false. Intuition tells me he’s related to Victor Brionne.’ He’d given the signposts he had remembered: Robert B, the Tablet subscription and the rest. She’d written them down in a notebook, saying, ‘Father, you really don’t have to make a deal with me. I’d do this even if you refused to go and see the Fougeres family’
Anselm had reddened under the reprimand, all the more so because he sensed DI Armstrong no longer saw him in quite the same light. The monk wasn’t that different after all.
Roddy was languidly smoking a cigarette while studying a wall of closed files as if they were strange objects uncovered by the Natural History Museum. He was dutifully engaged in that old internal debate, the outcome of which was already decided: to read or not to read?
‘VAT fraud,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I find the facts tend to get in the way of a good defence. Good to see you.
He turned away, chortling, and reached for Anselm’s hand. After covering gossip about the latest string of inexplicable judicial appointments, Roddy moved on to the Schwermann trial.
The judge was a safe pair of hands: Mr Justice Pollbrook, known as Shere-Khan because of his patrician vowels and his tendency to strangle weak arguments while scratching his nose. Leading Counsel for the Crown was Oliver Penshaw ‘Terribly mice chap, rather solemn, engaging bedside manner – which is probably why he’s got the briefbut he’s far too decent. Has a tendency to let the witness go, just when he should finish ‘em off.’ Roddy turned to Anselm, adding, ‘. That’s why they’ve given him Victoria Matthews as a Junior.’
‘What’s she like?’
‘Young, charming and, to the unsuspecting witness, apparently harmless. But that just hides the knife. They’re a good team. Balanced. If Oliver has any sense he’ll keep her wrapped up for any witness who might wreck his case.’
‘What about the Defence?’
‘Henry Bartlett, without a Junior. A small man with vast talent. He’ll choose two or three cracking points and admit everything else. Short cross-examinations. By the time the jury retire there’s a good chance they’ll only remember what Henry chose to demolish.’ Roddy drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘It’ll be an interesting match. Have you got a ticket?’
‘No,’ said Anselm from afar. The hunt, the chase, going in for the kill, the runners and riders, hitting the crossbar, caught behind, nose-enders. It all sounded rather distasteful now: the understandable levity of soldiers on the front line.
Roddy looked at his VAT files as one nudged by a conscience often ignored by more astute experience. ‘I do hope your life of abstinence can be suspended for two hours. We haven’t had lunch in years.’
‘It can, Roddy But keep it simple. I’ve a train to catch.’
‘What on earth are you expecting, old son?’ said the Head of Chambers, his reputation for moderation sorely offended.