‘Allow me one decision,’ said Justin, crying into Martin’s shoulder, holding onto his dad as if he might disappear. ‘Don’t tell Mum, will you?’
‘I promise.’
The pact was made. There would need to be another meeting, at least, to discuss the anatomy of secrecy, but for now they walked on, Justin set free by this redeeming deceit. He began talking quickly. How he’d been thinking about starting a project for homeless people at the very bottom of the ladder, people who really thought their lives were over. He’d already thought of a name: the Bowline. He was going to take people out of the cracks in the pavement and let them see the world from a different vantage point: a ledge, an outcrop, a summit. ‘It’s what I do, Dad, and it works. I’m a different man up there.’
He spoke as if he was trying to make amends, expiate the guilt that had pushed him towards that first, controlled shot of heroin. And Martin grieved some more, because he knew it wouldn’t work. Maybe for others, but not for Justin. Because Justin would go up the mountain and he’d come down again and nothing would be any different. Save Martin would be there, waiting with his empty phrases.
‘What do you think, Dad?’
He sounded excited. He’d found a way out of his predicament.
‘It’s inspired.’
Martin went home, where Maisie sat in an old spattered gown before her easel, cleaning a brush. Without turning around, she told him not to worry; that the trial would soon be over. She’d seen how stressed he’d become. Right from the start, she’d advised him to keep away and work in the garden. Prune his roses. Martin stood by the open door surveying the African figurines lined up on a shelf: elegant women carrying water; then he watched Maisie paint: that’s how she carried the stress these days. She’d painted non-stop for weeks, rarely looking out of the window, her eyes fixed on an imaginary landscape: a beautiful valley with a winding stream, birds high in the air and a shepherd lying on the grass. It was nauseating. And Maisie was smiling, her face lit by a sun that didn’t exist.
36
Robert was on the edge of his seat, taking swift notes, his eyes on Grainger. The prosecutor apologised for the lack of warning, but in the exceptional circumstances of the case where a defendant, having refused to speak, then instructs as defence counsel a man complicit in his attempt to evade justice, he’d had no choice.
‘I accept that any conversations between my learned friend and the defendant are privileged but on his own account none have taken place. My interest lies rather in those discussions that might have occurred when the defendant was hiding at his monastery, before my learned friend became his advocate. These are not privileged and they never were. With respect to the police officers involved in this case, I’m afraid my learned friend ought to have been arrested and questioned at the same time as the defendant. Since no such steps were taken, I propose to examine my learned friend now, in open court. I see no alternative.’
‘Mr Duffy?’ It was evident Mr Justice Keating agreed.
‘I have no objection. But if I am to give evidence, I do so as a monk, not a lawyer.’
And with that, Father Anselm removed his wig and bands, and finally his gown. The jury watched, like the press, spellbound, wondering why the monk had made the distinction at all.
Before Grainger could get into his stride, he was corrected:
‘We didn’t know the defendant was a member of a religious order. He came to us as a homeless man. He used a false name and gave no account of himself. So we weren’t hiding anyone. We were misled.’
Grainger seemed off balance for a moment, because his surprise witness had just volunteered a number of damaging admissions. At a stroke, the monk’s candour was laid before the jury; at a stroke, he’d taken control of the questioning.
‘You were his confidant at the monastery?’ asked Grainger.
‘Yes, I suppose I was, though we didn’t talk much. Monasteries are like that.’
‘Did he go to confession?’
‘Not to me.’
‘Did he mention the Brandwell family?’
‘No.’
‘Harry Brandwell?’
‘No.’
‘Did he make any reference to the circumstances that had made him putatively homeless?’
‘Not directly, no. But two conversations took place which seemed to me significant.’ The monk almost ignored Grainger. He was speaking to the jury, as if sharing a twin conundrum. ‘The first was about faith. He asked me if I’d ever thrown mine away. Which is an odd way to phrase it, really: “lose”, yes, “throw away”, no. That made me think of some mistake, rather than a thought-out decision. Like one might “throw away” a marriage by outbursts of violence or whatever.’
‘The second conversation?’ Grainger asked, like a prompt.
‘It seemed linked. The defendant wondered what would happen if you made a mistake and it couldn’t be rectified. He said, “You’re left with what you’ve done.”’
Grainger – like Robert – watched Mr Justice Keating’s red pen as he slowly underlined these critically important words, astonished that the monk had chosen to reveal them. When the judge looked up, Grainger moved – with deference – to bring down his witness:
‘Knowing what you now know, Father, would you accept that the defendant was almost certainly referring to what the Crown say happened between himself and Harry Brandwell?’
The monk’s head was angled as if he was trying to make sense of a rune. ‘No, Mr Grainger, I’m afraid I wouldn’t.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because I got the very strong impression he was talking about someone else.’
The court fell absolutely silent. Uttered like that, in this place, after Grainger had called a charlatan to the stand intending to disgrace him, the monk’s searching declaration had the quiet ring of truth. And there was no one to gainsay it. Robert couldn’t believe what was happening … the direction of the trial was shifting in Littlemore’s favour. Despite all the evidence against him, the monk had established some doubt … and nothing more was required for a shock acquittal. Robert flicked over the page of his notebook. But what was he to write? That Carrington, in trying to ensure Littlemore’s conviction, had gone to the wrong man; that he’d gone to the one man who might just win the case? Grainger proceeded like a rambler who’d spied strong ground. But Robert sensed more sand; it was going to give way as soon as Grainger stepped forward:
‘Why did you speak to the victim in this case?’
‘Because his parents asked me to.’
‘And why did you visit his parents?’
‘Because I was on the trail of a man who’d used a false name. I’d left home wanting to find out why. Fortunately, I did.’
‘Why fortunately?’
‘Because Harry asked me, is it always wrong not to tell the truth? And I didn’t know what to say. Now I’ve got the chance to ask him the same question.’
Grainger had undoubtedly planned the end of his cross-examination. He’d have spent an inordinate amount of time getting the wording just right, his aim to elicit a reply that would conclude the monk’s evidence with a crowning disgrace. But he’d now decided to back away. Robert could feel it in the air. Grainger had lost his nerve.
‘I’m grateful, my lord.’
The monk left the witness box and shambled back to his place at the bar, seemingly oblivious to the eyes focused upon him.
‘It’s been a long day, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Mr Justice Keating. He spoke watching Father Anselm gather up his wig and gown. ‘We’ll meet again on Monday. I’ve another matter in the morning, so we’ll meet at two o’clock. Have a good weekend.’
* * *
Robert ignored the hubbub among his colleagues and quickly left the court. Once outside he didn’t know where to turn because he didn’t know what to do. The monk was going to pull off Littlemore’s acquittal. Littlemore was going to walk free. Only, his counsel didn’t know about Carrington’s plan, framed because Carrington k
new Littlemore was guilty. He didn’t know about George Timbo from Freetown who’d finally returned Robert’s calls. He didn’t know why Littlemore had been kicked out of Sierra Leone. Robert hailed a passing taxi. He was going to do what he should have done the day he borrowed those house keys from Sanjay – something he would have done, if his dad hadn’t died; if he hadn’t been disorientated by his mother’s cheap bid for a more exciting life.
37
Anselm called Kester Newman as soon as he reached the robing room. He didn’t bother with any preliminaries and went straight to the point.
‘Bring me to Father Tabley. I need his help one last time.’
An arrangement was made and Anselm took a Tube to Ealing Broadway where, after a ten-minute walk, he was back at the Edwardian manor, only this time skirting a boundary wall until he came to a lodge by the back entrance. In the old days, servants would have lived here, thought Anselm. They’d have shared secrets about their elders and betters. It had been another era; long before the main building had been bought to house an Order’s government.
And its archives.
The lodge was now a hermitage, of course. And Father Tabley had the place to himself, subject to unwanted visits from Carrington and Kester – the high and the low of Lambertine life – who kept a watchful eye on the old man’s health. Ordinarily, Anselm would have teased stories out of the shrunken figure lodged in an armchair, but there were pressing matters to deal with. Two in fact; and both of them were likely to be distressing.
‘I can’t cushion what I’m going to say,’ said Anselm. ‘If Edmund Littlemore didn’t harm Harry, then the person who did – I’d been told – was Martin. Yes. It’s inconceivable. But I had a reliable source. I now think Martin is innocent. And it seems that Edmund might be, too.’
Father Tabley had aged dramatically since their last meeting. Sand in the timer runs fastest towards the end and Anselm could sense the fear of death: as with Dunstan, life was running through the old man’s fingers. His loose white Aran jumper seemed to hang on a frame of wire. But there was more at work here, more than natural decline: the trial had ravaged him. If Dunstan was going to die through illness, Father Tabley was going to die through choice.
‘Everyone has thought that Harry suffered a shock at school and that Edmund exploited a request for help. But it seems something happened at the end of the summer holidays. Something traumatic that preceded the shock at school by a couple of days. This is the focus of my attention. And without my explaining why, I can tell you that the person likely to be responsible is Justin.’
Father Tabley shook his head, his mouth slightly open. Anselm proceeded, watching the old man’s features very carefully:
‘You helped Justin as a child; you can help him now. Why did he suffer a breakdown? I need to know what happened … because if I’m right he’s going to need specialised treatment, not simply justice.’
Father Tabley turned from Anselm towards his oxygen bottle. He was just checking; making sure the mask was on hand. A frail hand covered his face as he began to speak.
‘He was such a creative child. If you’d asked me back then where he’d end up, I’d have said on the cover of a book. He simply loved stories. He was always inventing adventures …’ Father Tabley was almost overwhelmed at the recollection. ‘I was amazed at the depth of his imagination. He would reach for his sword and shield, lost to this world.’
‘And then?’ Anselm felt like a warden in a dark corridor.
‘He began wanting to escape.’
‘His imagination?’
Father Tabley’s voice was hoarse and would have been grating if it hadn’t been so quiet: ‘Himself.’
He became ill at ease in the presence of other people. He began to climb trees – not like other boys, for danger or the thrill of conquest … but to get away from who he was, when he stopped to think … when he looked at others and then looked back at himself. He retreated from ordinary company. He stopped telling stories. It was as though he had nothing else to say; nothing anyone would want to listen to.
‘I didn’t follow his development because I moved to Newcastle.’
He’d been thirteen. Anselm said, ‘Adolescence,’ more as a question than a comment, but Father Tabley simply agreed. He wondered how many fun-loving boys changed at that unsettling juncture between innocence and responsibility. Justin had been one of them. Anselm gave a nod, watching Father Tabley closely.
‘Maisie told me he became increasingly quiet. There was something on his mind … something he wanted to talk about.’
Anselm couldn’t escape a backward glance, for the darker preoccupations of adolescence trouble everyone. He’d found German terms for his own, elevating them to the realms of transcendental philosophy. It can be a confusing time when no one quite understands what you’re talking about. But Justin’s situation was different. He’d grown into confusion and stayed there.
‘Martin was deep in his work, and I don’t think Maisie quite noticed what was happening …’ Father Tabley shifted in his armchair; like Dunstan, he was uncomfortable in his body. ‘She’d taken on a day job, if I remember rightly …’
‘Yes,’ said Anselm. ‘She’d given up the evening classes.’
‘That’s right. But this is the very time when parents feel they must take a step back and stop asking those questions which drive their children mad; they begin to leave someone they’ve loved and led to find their own way. It’s right and natural …’
What had Maisie said in court? That Justin was one of life’s loners? She’d watched her boy grow into a man she didn’t fully understand: it had been painful, no doubt. She’d watched him shift from trees to mountains, thinking he was just one of those people who, like an artist, occupy the margins of society.
‘Justin lost himself in other people’s problems,’ said Father Tabley, his chest beginning to heave. ‘He worked with down-and-outs, drinkers, rent boys, prostitutes … I mean kids of thirteen, fourteen, on the street with nothing but their bodies. These people became Justin’s family. He did his best to find them a home.’
There is remorse, here, thought Anselm, feeling a slight chill. Self-hatred. Self-disgust. Consuming shame. Emotions whose shadows fell even now upon the face of Father Tabley … for having gone to Newcastle? For having kept quiet when Justin first turned inwards? It was difficult to know: the man’s engagement with the family had been exceptionally close; Justin’s confusion will have roused complex and varied reactions in those who’d known him, from powerlessness to responsibility.
‘There’s an old expression,’ wheezed Father Tabley. ‘“Everyone has their own troubles.” And at some point they have to be faced. It doesn’t really matter how they got there. Either you choose to do something about them, or they do something to you.’
In Justin’s case, he’d taken a syringe and taunted death in a purple haze.
‘When was this?’
‘Seven years ago. Just before my retirement.’ Father Tabley returned Anselm’s gaze uneasily. ‘He recovered … and the Bowline was the result. I’d thought he’d left the shadows in his past behind.’
But he evidently hadn’t. Anselm mused upon the outcome, his attention drifting involuntarily around the spare room. The old man lived simply, under the eye of an icon, far from the misery and anxiety he’d tried to displace in Newcastle. But something of that world – the world of unresolved harm – had come back to haunt him. He was troubled and distressed by a confusion of memories. Anselm thought he’d better leave, but he couldn’t go without raising his final question. It had been nagging at him all summer and during Grainger’s careful handling of his evidence. He said:
‘You’ve followed the trial?’
‘Yes.’
‘You know the case against Edmund?’
He nodded, panting, a hand on his chest. ‘Well, if Edmund is innocent, then it follows everything he’s done has an innocent explanation.’
Father Tabley continued nodding.
; ‘Can you tell me why he’d prepare a memoir that you wouldn’t want and which doesn’t appear to exist?’
Father Tabley was bewildered. The police had asked the same question and he just didn’t know. Couldn’t imagine why. His eyes swam with tears.
‘I’m struck, too, that Edmund didn’t go to Newcastle,’ said Anselm, watching from afar, ‘where people would have a lot to say; instead he restricted himself to London. Do you know why?’
‘No.’
‘I just wonder if he was looking for a different kind of story.’
‘I think you’d better leave.’
Kester had spoken. He’d picked up Anselm’s overcoat and opened the door. If Father Tabley hadn’t reached out to shake Anselm’s hand, Anselm was fairly sure Kester would have pulled him out by force.
They stood on the gravel path that led away from the lodge. Kester regretted his manner, wanting to make a kind of peace. He produced a packet of Benson and Hedges. The hypnotist had told him if he so much as lit up once he’d be finished for ever. Back to forty a day. Striking a match, he cupped his hands to hide his defeat. A gust of smoke shot through the night air.
‘You remember Dorothy Newman? The woman who washed her husband’s overalls in the sink?’ he said. ‘Well, she was my grandmother. My grandfather died of natural causes, but she’s the one who got asbestosis. Father Tabley helped her make sense of that one. Day after day. From the moment she was diagnosed to the moment she died. I was there.’
And it’s partly why you’re here, thought Anselm.
‘I’m going to help him die, do you understand?’ Kester filled his lungs and let the blue smoke slowly escape. ‘I’m going to help him get past this trial and face death with some peace of mind. Peace that Littlemore took away by contaminating his name.’
Anselm understood the impulse. He wanted a cigarette but he resisted. (There’d been no hypnotist in his case. The Prior just gave an order.) ‘You still think Littlemore is guilty?’
‘I keep things simple. I’ve put my faith in the one witness who ought to be listened to most: Harry Brandwell.’
The Silent Ones Page 18