The morning after his return from Paris, Anselm went to the library to write some letters, mindful of Johnson’s observation that a man should keep his friendships in constant repair. He had just sealed an envelope when Father Bernard, the cellarer, put his head round the door. There was a telephone call for Anselm that had been transferred by Sylvester to the kitchen. There was no point in trying to get him to re-direct it. They both hurried down the stairs, habits flapping like wide streamers on a kite that refused to get off the ground.
‘The call was from Detective Superintendent Milby enquiring how the visit to the Fougeres family had transpired. Anselm explained, concluding with the ambiguous remark, ‘I’m very glad I went.’ Milby then transferred the line to DI Armstrong’s extension.
‘I think we’ve found Victor Brionne,’ were her first words.
‘Good God.’
‘Not exactly, others were involved. The person who came to see you was almost certainly Robert Brownlow He’s fifty-five and lives on the north-east coast in a place called Cullercoats. His father, Victor Brownlow, lives in London – Stamford Hill. The place looks shut up and has been for months according to the postman. The son, however, pays rates on a property on Holy Island, “Pilgrim’s Rest”. We’ve had local police drive around in civvies and it looks like that’s where he’s gone to ground.’
‘I’ll give you a ring as soon as I have spoken to him.’
‘You may as well tell him to contact me. He can’t go on running, not at his age.’
‘I will.’
Anselm fished out a pencil from his habit pocket and said, ‘I’ve another favour to ask.’
‘I hope you’re not going to surprise me again, Father.’
‘No, this is different. Can I have Lucy Embleton’s telephone number? I’ve got a letter for someone she knows.’
‘Father, since I came to Larkwood Priory I’ve met nothing but mysteries.’
Anselm walked back to the library deep in thought and collected his correspondence, before strolling into the village to post them. On the way he glimpsed a flaming red Fiat Punto with a foreign number plate turning towards Larkwood. It was oddly familiar, but Anselm applied himself to another pressing distraction. Something was nagging at the back of his mind and he could not entice it forward. But he was absolutely certain of one thing: the name Brownlow was familiar, and it went back to his schooldays.