Lucy sat in the public gallery, absorbed by Father Anselm’s words. They repeated themselves in a jumble, as though she were swiftly scanning radio stations, catching partial trans-. missions. A letter from Jacques Fougeres… Mr Snyman… Victor Brionne… Agnes… Pascal… death… reconciliation… and that the evidence to come might disappoint her. It was an unusual thing to say, reminiscent of what Myriam Anderson had said about another possible grieving, over the death of a final hope. Her reflection was disturbed by a quiet cough.
‘May I introduce myself? We sit here every day, and we don’t even know each other’s names. I am Salomon Lachaise.’
The remark was addressed to both herself and Max Nightingale.
‘I thought you might like to join me for tea one afternoon.’