‘Because as long as Littlemore is out of the way there’s a chance the whole thing becomes history. The family have someone to blame and meanwhile the pressure on Harry to say nothing gets stronger. There’s a kind of peace, even for Harry, because everyone leaves him alone. He can begin to forget. The moment Littlemore is found and defends himself, Martin Brandwell is in trouble. People will have to listen to Littlemore. They might believe what he says. And then they start looking for the real culprit.’
The consultant had warned Anselm that headaches might come, but he’d said nothing about their intensity. With flickering eyes Anselm watched the Prior: he’d sat down on a stone bench. His annoyance had turned to dread.
‘Leaving aside Kester’s assumptions, do you know why Littlemore left the States … why he left Sierra Leone?’
‘No. Carrington kicked me out before I could ask.’
‘Doesn’t that suggest there’s something to hide?’
‘It’s possible, yes, but I got the impression I’d met a second persona, someone who couldn’t cooperate with me in any way. That’s what this strange case is all about.’
‘Isn’t that worrying in its own right?’
‘It could be, yes. But—’
‘Shortly after Littlemore came back to England he was, in fact, accused of a serious offence.’
‘It seems so … though Harry didn’t repeat it when interviewed. At this stage we only know—’
The Prior snatched the phrase: ‘That Littlemore came to Larkwood after running from a police station.’
‘Scared by the allegation.’
‘Not so scared to reflect on what happens when you’ve made a mistake and there’s no going back.’
That very idea had tormented Littlemore. Anselm’s temples were beating. The Prior continued:
‘Have you considered that Martin Brandwell might have been persuaded or even forced by Carrington to enter into an agreement that protects the reputation of an Order over the crime of an individual?’
‘I haven’t. Because Carrington came to see me. He—’
‘Wanted you to believe that Littlemore was innocent, despite the evidence stacked against him.’
The reversal in meaning stumped Anselm. ‘But why do that?’ he managed.
‘Perhaps we’ve yet to find out. Perhaps we’ve yet to discover the true scope of this agreement. You know that secrecy arrangements have been entered into before?’
‘I do.’
‘They’ve shattered the moral authority of those who conceived them with devastating consequences for those who were silenced. Haven’t you considered that in receiving Edmund Littlemore, we may have been drawn into a conspiracy?’
Anselm hadn’t. The Prior was relentless: ‘So that leaves the intimations of Fraser the gardener, someone you met for five minutes on Clapham Common – someone who you know to have suffered a significant breakdown?’
‘It does.’
‘He’s your best witness?’
The weight of incredulity had gradually accumulated behind the Prior’s questioning and now Anselm felt crushed. However, the Prior showed no sign of having finished. He’d simply paused as if to change weapon, causing Anselm to shift closer to a pillar in an attempt to avoid another attack. But there was no escape:
‘Assuming you are right and Littlemore is innocent – and I accept that no formal charge has been made – then why not come to Larkwood the moment he was falsely accused?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Why become homeless first?’ The Prior answered his own question. ‘Because – like Dunstan wondered at the outset – it gave him a reason for meeting you.’
It did. There could be no doubt. Only it didn’t make sense to Anselm. There were simpler ways of contacting him.
‘You’ve been outmanoeuvred, Anselm,’ said the Prior. ‘We all have. If Carrington knew about you and your work, so did Littlemore. They’ve acted together.’ The Prior had risen, stepping forward, his round glasses flashing light from the Garth. ‘Innocent people seldom plan their escape. They rarely choose a false name. And if they do, they don’t linger once their cover has been blown.’
Anselm hadn’t followed the last trenchant observation because the Prior held back his explanation, not for effect but to bring all his concentration to bear on the one point that probably explained that look of dread:
‘I told Mr Collins yesterday that you’d gone in search of someone called Father Littlemore.’
Anselm thought his head might explode. He struggled to remain attentive as the Prior explained how John Joe Collins had perspired and paled, his eyes flickering like a trapped animal.
‘And this is the problem, really,’ said the Prior, ‘because he must have known that you’d meet the Brandwells. He knew there was a chance you’d speak to Harry. He knew that you would be compromised and that the community would be compromised. And yet, rather than escape while he had the chance, he’s remained here, waiting. Perhaps he’s paralysed with fear … but I’m worried it might be the behaviour of a man who’s thought well ahead. He’s anticipated this moment, Anselm, even if it’s terrified him. He’s ready for whatever might happen next. And we aren’t.’
Anselm, grimacing with pain, hadn’t noticed Wilf’s arrival. Larkwood’s Guestmaster had a light and timid step and he’d somehow walked the length of the West Walk without making a sound. Even now, he hung back, motionless like a shadow. When the Prior turned in his direction, Wilf coughed:
‘I think you’d better come to the reception desk.’
‘At this hour?’
‘There’s a couple of policemen. They’ve come with a search warrant intending to arrest someone, which is complete nonsense of course, but they insist. They’re after someone called Edmund Littlemore and I’ve told them there’s no one here who goes by that name. But they won’t listen. They intend to search the place, starting with the guest house. There are some journalists, too … all the way from London.’
The Prior nodded slowly to himself and then his eyes rested on Anselm. All the dread had gone. ‘Let’s see what happens when propriety takes precedence over prudence,’ he said.
18
On receiving the message – an incredible message – Anselm suffered a fresh wave of nausea. It was the culminating moment to a long day of unpleasant surprises.
The first arrived on the morning after Edmund Littlemore’s arrest. The Guardian had run a front-page article about the monastery that had not only hidden a wanted man, but housed a monk who’d tried to silence the victim. ‘A minor who can’t be named for legal reasons’ – as Harry Brandwell was now known – had been approached by ‘the monk-detective Father Anselm, ostensibly as part of a search for the missing suspect’. Anselm couldn’t read any further. And he didn’t want to look either, because there were photographs … close-ups of a wanted man blinking by a fire.
Anselm dropped his head and closed his eyes. A journalist had come to Larkwood while he was in London. It was an unfortunate coincidence to say the least. But how had the writer, Robert Sambourne, known that Littlemore was at Larkwood? The only person who knew was Carrington. Did Carrington tell him? There was something strange at work here on any score, because there’d been no need to call the press: contacting the police alone would have sufficed. Involving the Guardian had simply elevated Littlemore’s case in the public eye. Why had that been deemed necessary?
Anselm made himself read on.
The facts dealt with, Sambourne took a step back, casting his eye towards the United States, Europe, Australia … Anselm was horrified: the abuse crisis that had appalled him – a crisis that had always seemed a world away from everything he’d ever known himself – had come to his own door with him as an accomplice. Like someone thrown overboard, he reached out towards random details as if they were floating bits of wood: Harry had given an interview to the police the morning after his discussion with Anselm. And he’d accused Edmund Littlemore rather than his grandfather … which meant that
Fraser had either been misled or he’d misunderstood what Harry had wanted to reveal. Or Harry had lied to the police … but then why had he been so concerned about telling the truth? Because he was under pressure from his grandfather to blame someone else? Anselm didn’t have time to grasp the possible explanations because the second surprise arrived shortly afterwards in the form of a letter from Emily and Dominic Brandwell.
It was a heartfelt expression of gratitude, written just after Harry had given his interview to the police. From their perspective – not knowing that Edmund Littlemore had been living at Larkwood for six months – Anselm had been pivotal in helping Harry to finally open up. They didn’t know what he’d said, but they were sure of its effect. He’d succeeded where everyone else had failed. Only (thought Anselm) they hadn’t yet seen the Guardian. They were yet to revise their understanding of what Anselm had set out to do and what Harry had done as a consequence, in effect rebelling against his scandalous interference.
The third unpleasant moment was not, in fact, a surprise. It was a highly predictable encounter between himself and Bede. They met in the corridor between the calefactory and the kitchen. Bede had come looking for his man.
‘You appreciate it is my duty to keep newspaper cuttings on matters that touch upon the life of this community?’
‘I do.’
‘For my liking you appear too frequently.’
Anselm nodded, wanting to step past the Archivist but like Martin Brandwell he’d blocked any escape.
‘Ordinarily your antics are restricted to yourself but this time you’ve implicated others.’ Bede stepped closer. ‘We’re taxed on how much we knew and why you travelled to London seeking Father Littlemore, who I thought was Mr Collins, when you knew all along he’d been housed within the enclosure.’
‘I know, Bede.’
‘It doesn’t end there. I hold a central place in this tasteless drama. I swore your protégé wasn’t here. A photograph on the front page of the Guardian shows him working in the orchard.’
‘I didn’t foresee this, Bede.’
‘Foresight has nothing to do with it. As a matter of common decency, you should have told us all who he was and why he’d come to Larkwood. You should have told us what he’d done.’
‘I didn’t know.’
‘But you found out?’
‘Only later.’
‘Then why on earth did you speak to the boy?’
There was no point in explaining how the mistake had come to pass. Bede was right. Anselm should never have walked into the garden. In fact, he should never have spoken to Martin or Dominic or Emily. He should have called the police the moment he left Kester
… only, if he’d done all that – placing prudence over propriety – he’d never have met Fraser; and Fraser had a very different story to tell, if only he could repeat what he’d been told. Bede had been glaring at Anselm and now, deprived of a satisfactory answer, he filled his lungs with rage:
‘You’ve made a big mistake this time “blind pot-holer in the fissures of the human conscience” or whatever claptrap you use to describe your ventures beyond the enclosure. Have you even remotely considered that someone, one day, might just tunnel into your vanity? Do you imagine that blandishments in the press have left your inner life unscathed? What’s left of it, after you went public?’
Anselm had never hit a monk before. But he was wondering whether a moment of rapture was upon him. His fingers formed a fist. Unperturbed, Bede angled his head to examine the white knuckles.
‘Not a good idea “deep-sea diver in a puddle of moral confusion” – that’s one of mine and you can use it as your epitaph because – thank God – you’re finished. It’s time to face the facts. You’ve been taken for a ride. The best thing you can do is stand up and take it on the chin. And then read Chapter Seven of the Rule. It’s entitled “De Humilitate”.’
After Bede had stamped off, Anselm took a winding route to his hives, not daring to meet anyone else. The Brandwell family would all be rightly indignant. The press would all run with a story of mounting censure. Every member of the community already blamed him. Some would harbour strong feelings of resentment. Larkwood’s name – its purpose and standing – had been contaminated. And yes, his career was over. Sitting on a weathered pew, distracted, he didn’t react to the light touch against his neck until he felt the stab of the sting. He thought things couldn’t possibly get worse.
But they did.
And it was this twist in events which gave Anselm that flush of nausea because when he returned to the monastery, summoned by the bell for Vespers, he found the Prior waiting for him in the cloister, standing at the very spot where, only yesterday, he’d outlined Edmund Littlemore’s adept manoeuvring.
‘The police have just called me,’ he said. ‘Littlemore won’t say a word.’
Anselm was surprised. Silence was not a good defence.
‘Apparently, he’ll only speak to you.’
‘Pardon?’
Like all monks of long experience, the Prior didn’t like repeating himself. He showed slight irritation, made extraordinary by his serene forbearance of something rather more serious.
‘You’re the only man he trusts.’
19
After the telephone call came to its strange and sudden end, Robert held the receiver in the air for a while and then, smiling like a trapper at work, he placed it back on the cradle.
Watched by Taylor, whom he now ignored, Robert had called a certain Rev. Fr George P. Carrington MA (Cantab), Ph.D., Provincial of the Lambertine Order in England. Given Robert’s article, Littlemore’s superior had expected further press attention and he’d done some homework, trying to cut the interview short by reading a prepared statement. It had taken the usual and expected form – declining to ‘discuss matters of substance on the grounds that criminal proceedings were pending and nothing should be said or done to prejudice their outcome’. Father Carrington had evidently been onto a lawyer to get the wording right. But Father Carrington (and his lawyer) hadn’t anticipated the actual reason for Robert’s call.
‘I don’t wish to discuss Father Littlemore’s dealings with the boy who can’t be named,’ Robert said, after the Provincial had finished his spiel, quite sure that he’d shut the door to any further embarrassment.
‘Then why have you called?’
‘Because I’m interested in his dealings with a place that can: Sierra Leone.’
Robert waited and the silence yawned like some black hole sucking in the universe of the known and understood.
‘I said Sierra Leone,’ Robert repeated. ‘West Africa.’
‘I know where it is.’
‘Just trying to help.’
There was another gaping silence, Robert feeling the Provincial’s impulse to slam the phone down, to call the lawyer … only maybe that was a closed option, because he couldn’t come clean with the lawyer any more than he could come clean with Robert.
‘Does the Order have connections to the country?’
And the Rev. Fr George P. Carrington MA (Cantab), Ph.D. began a stammered history, trying to find his feet. Yes, the Order had strong connections with Sierra Leone. Parishes, mainly. And a school that closed in the seventies. St Lambert’s Academy. ‘The All People’s Congress had become the sole legal party …’ Father Carrington had tiptoed into generalities. Robert broke in:
‘Has Father Littlemore worked abroad?’
‘I said I couldn’t talk about Father Littlemore.’
‘No, you said you couldn’t talk about Father Littlemore and any pending criminal proceedings. So we can talk … unless of course there are proceedings pending in Sierra Leone. Is that the case?’
Father Carrington stalled. ‘Proceedings?’ he repeated at long last. ‘This is all highly speculative and—’
Robert punched harder in the same place: ‘Has he ever been to Sierra Leone?’
‘I don’t understand why you’re asking these questions.’
�
��It’s a lot easier just to answer them.’
‘I’m afraid I must—’
‘Does Father Littlemore understand Krio?’
‘I’m sorry?’
The voice dried out. But Father Carrington was also stunned; and being stunned he wasn’t able to conceal his desire to know the worst … which was why Robert had asked such a precise question. Rather than drop the phone, he listened, no longer breathing.
‘I’d like to know if Father Littlemore ever learned the Krio language,’ Robert said, gentler this time, coaxing. ‘If he did, then I imagine he learned it in situ. Am I right?’
There was no sound.
‘Would he understand the odd phrase? A proverb, for example.’
Father Carrington had seemingly vanished … and Robert wondered if the line had been cut … but then he heard a distant passing siren.
‘If you like, I can send you a list of questions,’ Robert volunteered.
‘That won’t be necessary.’ The voice was barely audible.
‘I’ll send them anyway. Do you have a fax number?’
‘Fax?’ And that was fainter still … followed by a soft click.
First thing that morning, Robert had studied once more the notes he’d made from the transcript of Littlemore’s interview with the police: ‘Birth: Islington, London. Emigration to the US aged two. After school: Ordained into archdiocese of Boston. Fell out with his superior. Came to UK. Joined Order of St Lambert. Sent first to Newcastle then Sierra Leone.’ And it had been at this point, when pressed about his return to the UK, that Littlemore had run from the station. The US embassy had already confirmed Littlemore didn’t have a criminal record and wasn’t wanted for questioning by any police authority. Calls and emails to the archdiocese of Boston had been repeatedly rebuffed. So Robert had called Carrington, having delayed the move until after the publication of his article. He’d wanted to know if the man in charge had been rattled. Satisfied with the outcome, he now rang the Sierra Leone High Commission. Two extensions and a long pause later, Mrs Sankoh confirmed that Edmund Littlemore was not wanted in relation to any potential criminal proceedings. She wouldn’t reveal whether he’d been granted a visa, but she could help about St Lambert’s Academy. It had been well known. Someone in the Public Information Unit was an old boy. When Mr Bangura came on the line he was eager to talk. Robert was ready with a pencil: ‘Great place. Education and fun. Rigour and vigour. Loss to the country. Two members of the Cabinet went there. Minister of Energy. Minister of Tourism and Culture.’ Robert chipped in, hoping to lure his source into admitting that Littlemore had, in fact, been granted a visa: ‘Do you know of any mission stations? Somewhere Littlemore might have stayed or worked?’ Mr Bangura didn’t know but he’d find out and call back.
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