The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘I’m sorry, he’s away,’ said the old monk at the reception desk. ‘The Prior is occupied – God himself doesn’t know where. The Guestmaster can never be found’ – he waved vaguely towards the world beyond his cluttered table – ‘so that leaves me. I know the place backwards. Built half of it and thatched the rest. And that was after I met Baden-Powell. That’ll give you some idea about the length of these old teeth. Anyway, sit down and tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong … I never said there was.’

  ‘Come off it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you don’t look too well.’

  ‘I’m fine, absolutely fine.’

  The wiry monk’s kind blue eyes appraised him like a father. Then, as if he’d found an ointment for a cut to the knee, he said, ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll tell you about a string of wooden beads worn by a king of the Zulus. How he lost ’em, we don’t know. But they were found by my old friend …’

  Before long Robert was under the heat of a South African sun during the late 1880s. The old monk, thumbs tucked into a frayed rope around his waist, spoke as if he’d been there. But those ancient eyes were like an open door, inviting Robert to talk of things he couldn’t possibly know about … his dad … his mother’s spring cleaning … those potted plants: they’d brought change and colour, upturning the familiar. Robert had wanted to hurl them over the fence.

  ‘Do you want a glass of water?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘A soft-boiled egg?’

  ‘No.’

  The old man returned to King Dinizulu’s necklace and the man who’d found it, Baden-Powell, but the effect of the story was altogether different. It was as though the old Scout was carefully unscrewing the lid on a jar. It was almost open. Robert felt the stir of rising emotion. Politely he cut the monk short:

  ‘How long can someone stay here?’

  ‘Seven days.’

  ‘Why the limit?’

  ‘Sometimes people want to run away from themselves.’

  ‘Are there any circumstances when you’d make an exception?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘When?’

  The old monk seemed to have finally understood what was wrong with Robert. He spoke a fraction more slowly: ‘When the circumstances are exceptional.’

  Robert had recovered. The lid was tight and secure.

  ‘But you’d have to explain yourself? Say why a week wasn’t long enough?’

  ‘You’re getting ahead of yourself, young man. If you want to stay, you can. But don’t bother thinking any further than tonight. Things always look different in the morning.’

  He winked but then his ancient features became absolutely still.

  ‘Have you seen this man before?’ Robert pushed Sanjay’s photograph of Littlemore across the old monk’s desk. ‘He’s an American priest. He may have grown a beard. I’m trying to find him.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Has he stayed here recently?’

  The old man was studying the clean-shaven features and then he began reading the brief summary beneath the portrait. Robert pressed his enquiry: ‘He’s not turned up asking to stay longer than seven days?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  Just then an arched door flew open and a short, round figure stomped towards them. Like the older monk, he was dressed in black and white, but his face was a shining beetroot red. Blood pressure seemed to have stiffened his eyebrows. He glowered down at the receptionist.

  ‘Didn’t you hear the bell?’

  ‘What bell?’

  ‘For Vespers. The summons to pray. You’re meant to come running “mox auditus fuerit signus”. As soon as you hear the signal. Chapter Forty-Three, Verse One.’

  Robert intervened: ‘Have you seen this man?’

  The round monk gave a start as if a genie had just appeared from an oil lamp.

  ‘Terribly sorry. I’m Brother Bede. Larkwood’s Archivist. Member of the ARA.’

  ‘I’m trying to find someone,’ said Robert, retrieving the Missing Persons profile sheet. ‘A lot of people are concerned for his welfare.’

  Brother Bede frowned importantly.

  ‘I’m hoping someone with a good memory might recognise him,’ continued Robert. ‘He could have turned up pleading special circumstances. For all I know he’s here as we speak. I just want to help him face up to his past.’

  The old monk was trying to rise from his chair, leaning on thin, bony arms. ‘Bede, remember another line in the Rule: a man is recognised as wise when his words are few.’

  The Archivist sighed wearily, looking to Robert for understanding. ‘“Sapiens verbis innotescit paucis”. Chapter Seven, Verse Sixty-One. It’s called the eleventh rung of humility.’ He spoke with the long-suffering voice of a man who’d made the ladder himself – a little something knocked together in the atelier of human experience. Taking the photograph, he angled it towards the light as if to examine a recently discovered manuscript. An obscure illustration had baffled lesser minds. Expert opinion was required. He gave it swiftly.

  ‘The face means nothing.’

  ‘You’re sure.’

  ‘Absolutely. If he crossed this threshold, he didn’t stay for long. I’d have known. Frankly, I remember everything I see. A snapshot gets filed away without my even thinking about it. It’s a gift, not a skill. Unfortunately I don’t get to use it much round here. In days of yore, when I managed—’

  The old Scout had finally come to his feet, elbowing his way between Robert and the proud member of the ARA.

  ‘Who are you?’

  Robert had reached the door, leaving the monks bunched like two lost sheep. If they weren’t going to answer his questions, he wasn’t going to answer theirs.

  11

  Anselm’s intention to dissociate himself from the request of Martin Brandwell was easier said than done. Faced with Dominic and Emily Brandwell in their tidy home towards the end of a quiet road off Nightingale Lane, he couldn’t even mention his name. Within minutes of his being ushered into the sitting room – an airy living space with antique maps on the walls, handsome books on the shelves, a stripped-pine floor vanishing beneath a patterned rug and chairs draped in blue linen – Dominic and his wife Emily were articulating their disillusionment with Church and State. Anselm – at least on a first meeting – didn’t want to add Family to the list. He sat nodding sympathetically, waiting with dread for the sound of the call from Maisie to say that the monk had failed to turn up.

  ‘Right from the start my brother Justin warned us to keep away from him, but we didn’t listen. It only took three meetings to find out we should have listened.’

  Anselm guessed Dominic was approaching forty. Like Kester, he’d left vigorous activity behind and had that ample, settled look. The nearest he’d come to a stretching exercise was reaching for a secondhand book in his shop near Leicester Square. He spoke carefully as if choosing the right edition for the right man. ‘You see, Justin had a breakdown some while back. He works with the homeless and it all got a bit too much. But he pulled himself together … eventually. Set up a charity to help people leave the street. It’s called the Bowline. Takes them rock climbing. Boating, too. And cycling. They even go on holiday together. You’ve never heard of it? No matter. The point is, he spends so much time listening to people wanting a free lunch that he’s not the most trusting of chaps, is he, darling?’

  Emily, seated in one of the blue chairs, nodded. ‘That’s why we didn’t listen.’

  ‘Justin knows Father Littlemore?’ asked Anselm. His eyes latched onto a carved mask on the wall: a distorted face with three open mouths, rural art to scare off demons. It was not the sort of thing you’d want to meet in the dark.

  ‘It seems so,’ replied Dominic. ‘And well enough for Justin to decide he didn’t like him. That’s all I know. Justin and I don’t talk much. No bad history … just difference. And because of that, an
d the breakdown, I didn’t take Justin seriously.’

  Emily poured tea. The tray had been prepared before Anselm’s arrival. She’d let it brew too long. ‘We’re so glad you’re going to find Littlemore,’ she said. ‘The whole family has been devastated. But it’s not us that matters, is it? It’s Harry.’ She put the pot down and leaned back in despair. ‘He’s barely spoken since … that awful day … he’s locked up inside himself and we can’t reach him. He won’t even look in our direction. It’s as though he holds us responsible. He’s very angry.’

  An invisible charge passed between husband and wife. Dominic said:

  ‘Harry refuses to speak to the police. He won’t speak to anyone at all, except Fraser.’

  ‘Who’s Fraser?’ asked Anselm.

  ‘The gardener,’ replied Emily. ‘He’s wonderful. He’s been with us for years. But he’s not the right sort of person. I mean, I don’t want to sound superior or anything, but he was homeless for most of his life and I’m not too sure he can even read or write.’ She glanced through a wide arch into the dining room and a far window onto the back garden. A weathered man was removing his gloves. Anselm had already seen him on entering the sitting room. The hunched figure had raised a trowel in salute. He was packing up, now. Emily began to whisper: ‘He’s as kind as the day is long, but what Harry needs is someone who can help him talk about what happened to him. Do you understand?’

  ‘Completely.’

  Dominic was bleak: ‘He stays in his room. He barely eats. His behaviour is changing. He spits, he swears. We know he’s smoking. We have to find someone he might trust.’

  Anselm agreed. He wondered about those often important people on the borderlands of family intimacy. ‘Have you thought of your brother, Justin?’

  ‘We did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He got nowhere. Took him rock climbing in Wales. We’d hoped that, far from home, he might get some perspective and open up. But he just became even more remote.’

  They were quiet, listening to Fraser. He was whistling ‘Loch Lomond’. Then Emily spoke:

  ‘Would you have one last try, Father? Maybe he needs someone like you to unlock the door … tell him that what that man did was awfully wrong.’ She was desperate. ‘We don’t know why he won’t speak. We’re here to support him … but he seems to think he’s completely on his own.’

  Anselm sat very still. He wondered if a bad death might feel like this. The triumph of appearances not put right.

  ‘Isn’t he at school?’ he wondered, clearing his throat.

  ‘No, we kept him at home,’ said Dominic, embarrassed, acknowledging a mistake made from weakness. ‘He had a stomach ache … It’s gone, now.’

  ‘Please, Father,’ said Emily, ‘we’ve nowhere else to turn.’

  Just then, a wizened head appeared around the door. It was Fraser:

  ‘I’ll be off then, if you dinna mind.’ The Scottish accent was musical and comforting. ‘Back next week. I’ve given young Harry his orders. Sorry to break your stride there, Father.’

  Then he was gone and Dominic and Emily were waiting. Anselm couldn’t immediately open his mouth. He was scavenging for the right way to express how he’d found himself beyond the limits of any right code of conduct. His skin was tingling with fresh sweat but then the door opened as if lightly pushed. When it had completed its arc, they all looked at the young boy standing in the corridor as if they’d been caught with their hands in the till.

  ‘I’ll be in the back garden,’ said Harry Brandwell.

  12

  Harry waited for Anselm at a small table by a wooden shed. Despite the warmth of early evening, he’d put on a blue duffel coat and his hands were hidden deep in his pockets. His face was tense. Anselm had no choice but to take the initiative.

  ‘I’ve got a shed like that.’ He nodded towards the green door. ‘At Larkwood we keep our beehives in a clearing near a graveyard. Actually, there is no graveyard. There are just trees and crosses and a clearing. And my shed … which is where I go to hide from monks like Brother Bede. He knows all the rules and never breaks them. So when I’ve forgotten to put the car keys back on the hook or left the lights on in the refectory – you know, breached one of the really serious rules that keep a community on the right side of the road – and I know Bede is on the warpath, I go and hide among my hives. I can see him coming through a crack in the door, red, round and raving, and do you know what, after all these years, he’s never once thought of looking in the shed.’

  Harry listened to the story intently, his dark brown eyes barely straying from Anselm’s face. He seemed to be wondering not whether to cooperate, but how.

  ‘I suppose I should have said I’m a beekeeper.’

  Harry was still weighing the odds.

  ‘I make honey, obviously, and swedgers – a kind of sweet – which, if the world were a fair place, would be prize-winning. And I brew mead. Which is a sort of wine. But I imagine you knew that already?’

  Harry nodded. Fine lips, like his mother’s, parted, but he did not speak. His eyes flicked towards the kitchen to check if they were being watched, and they weren’t.

  ‘I’m thinking of making a lip cream for jazz trumpeters but first I want to develop a face lotion for Bede. I’m going to call it “Bede’s Balm”. You see, when he gets cross, which is pretty much every day, his cheeks go blazing hot, and he could do with something to cool him down. I owe it to him, really. Because, truth be told, Bede is right.’

  Anselm was fairly sure that Harry was interested in Bede. He’d sensed that praise for Bede was going to end with a sudden twist, which was true.

  ‘Bede is right because people like me – apparently nice guys who make sweets and non-fizzy drinks – shouldn’t be allowed to get away with breaking the rules. Even the small ones. And they shouldn’t hide afterwards. The best thing would be for me to come out and listen to what Bede has to say, put the keys back and then turn the lights out on the whole business. That way everyone can start afresh tomorrow. I’m saying that no one should ever hide from what they’ve done.’

  Harry mulled over Anselm’s parable and then, as if a decision had been made, he said:

  ‘Father Littlemore’s been gone a long time now. The police don’t know where he is. I reckon he’s in Spain. Sunning himself. What do you think?’

  The poor boy had heard someone rehearse the possible. They’d thought of the Costa del Sol, the bolt-hole for English-born criminals, the sunny refuge where the sheds are villas.

  ‘He’s out of reach, I’m sure,’ said Harry. ‘What do you reckon?’

  Harry was appraising Anselm with the same compressed attention that he’d given to the story of Bede’s quest for a law-abiding community. When Anselm failed to reply, he seemed to make another decision, but only after another glance towards the house.

  ‘Father, is it always wrong not to tell the truth?’

  Anselm couldn’t help but squint at the form of the question. He would have expected it to be framed the other way around, in relation to what is right; but Harry had opted for the reverse. He was wondering if it can be right to remain silent. Plato had dealt with this one, somewhere … something to do with promises, whether it’s wrong to break them when there’s a danger of someone being stabbed in the back … but Anselm couldn’t remember the story; and, given the electric atmosphere that now linked him to Harry, any attempt to recover the memory was an academic diversion. There are instances when moral problems become absolutely incarnate; when, unfortunately, we have to become the Great Mind that knows the answer. Anselm’s hesitation was not lost on Harry. It gave him encouragement.

  ‘Does Brother Bede know?’ he asked.

  ‘I imagine he does, yes.’

  ‘What would he say?’

  ‘He’d probably tell you that it’s always right to tell the truth.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  Anselm felt he was hiding in a shed. That he ought to come out and admit that Edmund Littlemore
was a long way from Spain; that his refuge was closer to home.

  ‘I’ve learned never to answer a question about right and wrong without first knowing the facts. The right thing to do, the good thing to do, is best decided after we’ve looked at what has actually happened. So, shall we start there, Harry, with the facts? If you like, I can help you tell other people what you daren’t say by yourself.’

  Harry pondered the idea as if Anselm had produced a plate of spinach from behind his back. Despite strenuous objections, he’d been told endlessly that it was good for him.

  ‘Do I have to talk about it?’

  ‘No one can force you to say anything, Harry. You have a choice.’ Anselm had blundered. He should have moved by stages. Instead, he’d bridged the distance between the abstract and the concrete with one giant step. He’d ignored the obvious: that Harry had voiced a theoretical question precisely because the facts were too painful to recount; the boy was trying to handle them on his own, reaching out for the right answer, not wanting to make a wrong move, absolutely convinced that the last thing he could do was discuss the facts with anyone. Harry rose and stepped away from the table.

  ‘Thank you, Father. I’d like to go in now.’

  13

  Robert drove through the rolling green fields away from Larkwood Priory, the road weaving gently between hedges and low stone walls. On either side were thatched cottages, the odd quaint pub and, peering above the orange tiles or clustered leaves, belfries and steeples. It was a county of ancient churches. He called Crofty on loudspeaker to let him know what he’d found on the balcony: the cuttings, the notes on jazz, the addresses and phone numbers. After a few half-remembered quotations he underlined his most significant discovery: someone was working with Littlemore.