‘Normally, when it comes to legal exegesis, I’d defer to your better judgement.’
‘I make no lofty claims—’
‘But on this occasion I sense you’ve latched onto what is important, while missing the importance of it, do you get my meaning?’
The Prior made it sound like a surprising achievement.
‘Not really.’
‘Look at the wording again,’ said the Prior. ‘They may well be a confused bystander, they’re also a sure voice, inhibited by an understanding and respect for the law. They don’t accuse anyone, because they don’t have the evidence. They don’t allege murder, because they know it can’t be proved. The importance of the matter is this: they still know that Peter Henderson killed his wife. They want that rare justice which lies “beyond the reach of the law”. This is why they’ve come to you. No one else would even try to help them. Perhaps no one else could.’
Anselm wasn’t so sure the Prior’s reading of the text was entirely different from his own. The Prior had identified a note of certainty, Anselm an agonised hesitation. They were separated by a hair. On either understanding the author wanted Anselm to prove that Jennifer Henderson had been murdered: whether that end was achieved by confirming a belief or dispelling a doubt hardly mattered. Anselm’s mind began to wander:
‘They’re holding something back.’
‘What?’
Anselm had seen the lie. ‘They knew Jennifer Henderson was in danger but they didn’t take it seriously. They failed to act. And now they live with a secret guilt. They want it purged.’
Anselm thought of his shoebox and the little heap of despair, mischief and last-ditch pleading. Only someone with nothing to lose would write to a Monk who’d Left it All for a Life of Crime. In there, folded neatly, were serious attempts to hit back at the sadness and tragedy of life; attempts to bring someone on side who might make a difference. Anselm felt curiously light-headed. Through an anonymous letter, Larkwood’s Prior had heard those joined voices.
‘There’s more than guilt here,’ corrected the Prior. ‘There’s pity, too. They might speak for Jennifer but they also care for Peter. They’ve seen the signs, and understood them. Now he’s a danger to himself.’
‘And this time they’ve decided to act,’ agreed Anselm.
‘Exactly. So get started immediately. On their behalf. You might want to thank Mr Robson first. He helped me to understand how I might best direct your talents.’
Anselm said he would, colouring slightly – for praise and indebtedness made him restive – and then, with a tentative exploratory voice he ventured a novel idea:
‘Normally I operate alone, but on this one occasion do you mind if I bring Mr Robson on board as an assistant … if he’s willing? In the circumstances, I think it would be more than fitting.’
The Prior approved, but when Anselm had reached the door on his way out, he called him back.
‘Bring Larkwood’s flame into this family’s hidden tragedy … only be careful.’ He’d been arrested by an afterthought of great importance, something he should have seen earlier and mentioned at the outset, only, being a Gilbertine, he’d come to it by accident and at the last moment. ‘Bring the flame but take care not to burn yourself or anyone else. We view this troubled world by a wavering light. Don’t impose the truths you think you see.’
Bemused by this obscure warning, Anselm straddled his scooter thinking of Peter Fonda in Easy Rider, the outlaw who joined up with another fugitive to discover the taste of freedom. On reaching the public library in Sudbury he consulted the newspaper archives and did some adroit Googling, research that generated a handful of photocopies and print-outs that he placed in his leather satchel, a childhood relic more proper, now, to the discerning bohemian than a monk who wrestled with crime. Wanting an appreciation of the wider issues, he glanced at an entry in the Encyclopaedia Britannica, only to confirm his initial expectations: the ancient Greeks had thought of everything (though – and this was new to Anselm – the first suggestion of a code of conduct for health professionals was to be found in Egyptian papyri of the second millennium BC).
Back at Larkwood, brooding on the healing craft, Anselm mumbled his way through Vespers, afterwards pushing food around his plate in the refectory while Father Jerome read out some twelfth-century text entitled ‘Awareness in the Heart’. Unfortunately, Anselm was so taken by the title that he couldn’t follow the reading itself. The very notion intrigued him, suggesting as it did a kind of insight parallel to scientific enquiry. The heart as the seat of conscience. He was still turning over the phrase throughout Compline, during Lauds the next morning, and while he walked along the west bank of the Lark, his feet wet with dew. Two miles upstream he saw the pleasure wherry and slowed, wondering how best to express himself. If Anselm was going to start a new life, he wanted a clean slate.
4
The Jelly Roll was moored to a wooden landing stage. A black canvas sail hung lowered, leaving the stout single mast among taut cables, their clean lines sharp against the morning sky. The hull was black with a white nose, the long cabin section a rich cedar brown. Anselm came on board by a companionway that divided the living quarters in two, descending the few steps to a door that had been left ajar. He pushed it gingerly and entered.
The interior was beamed and low. Drawers and lockers separated cushioned benches, all built into the surrounding wood panelling. Brass instruments of navigation, almost certainly of no use on the Lark, adorned one wall. At the far end a row of copper pans hung above a devastated kitchen. Sunlight broke through small round windows, igniting months of dust.
‘Good morning, Mitch,’ said Anselm, when he’d reached the middle of the cabin. ‘It’s been a long time since we talked about right and wrong. In those days it was about notes. And bending old rules. Bop and be-bop. You favoured them. I didn’t. Shall we delve a little deeper, now?’
He was talking to the figure slumped in an armchair. A silver trumpet lay on a nearby table, along with a bottle of water and a torn packet of aspirin. Mitch had come back late from his club, it seemed. Too tired to get undressed, he’d blown himself to sleep. Anselm looked around. There were no signs of wealth. No hint of ill-gotten gains. The room glowed with old wood, crafted when people still went to work by foot; when shire horses nodded along the churned-up Suffolk lanes; that simpler, ruder time.
‘C’mon Mitch,’ said Anselm, loudly. He gave the sleeping man a nudge with his foot. ‘It’s time to wake up and face the day.’
The two men eyed one another across the years.
‘I never thought I’d see you again,’ said Mitch, with his soft Northumberland lilt.
He’d showered while Anselm made strong coffee. Seated now at a table, they found themselves evoking other, less fraught meetings, held long ago in Anselm’s chambers. They’d talked about Earl Hines over damning evidence: heaps of paper demonstrating slow but sure enrichment. The first time around, forensic accountants had calculated that £113,268.32 had disappeared in settlement of small, bogus claims. No one had signed them off. Though one of a team, only Mitch Robson had worked on each of the cases in question.
‘I read about you in the Sunday Times,’ replied Anselm. ‘I thought we might tie up a few loose ends.’
After the second trial, concerning the alleged theft of £174,189.84 from a previous employer (by identical means), Anselm had never set foot in Mitch’s club again. He’d let their friendship wither without saying why. Professional etiquette had prevented him from speaking plainly, as friends must. He couldn’t say that he’d blushed at the improbability of his closing speech, when he’d twice blamed missing secretaries and the honourable dead (juries like to think the upright had merely concealed their corruption). He couldn’t say that he’d never accepted either of the rogue verdicts.
‘Where do you want to start?’ teased Mitch. ‘Where we left off?’
‘No. To put our parting in context, I need to go back to the beginning … to when I first came to the bar. Will you bear
with me?’
Mitch gave a willing nod. He had the worn look of a man who lives by nights, not altogether caring what happens during the day. His hair was silvered, cropped close to the scalp. He was dressed in black: a rumpled T-shirt and faded jeans: the uniform of musicians and vendors of Socialist Worker, devoted acolytes of art and protest. His face was lined from too much frowning. All those high notes, fancied Anselm. Or maybe it was the worry. He was pale, too, from only working when the sun went down. Brown eyes flickered with curiosity. Anselm said:
‘When I first entered a courtroom, I thought that winning a case was all that mattered. If I lost, well, it was just hard luck; or maybe I just needed to learn a few clever moves … you know, the tricks of the trade. It took me years to realise that winning had nothing to do with finding the truth. More often than not I went home pretty sure the jury had got it right. But sometimes, especially during a winning streak – like with you – I was convinced they’d got it wrong. And these were golden moments, because I’d pulled off the impossible. I’d persuaded twelve decent people that in the exceptional circumstances of this most difficult case, two and two make five. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d followed the rules. But I’d ended up as part of the crime. I went home with a taste of ash in the mouth. This wasn’t why I’d come to the Bar. Not to win a game. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’
Mitch gave the matter careful consideration. Then he reached for his trumpet and played an Ellington refrain, forte: ‘I’m Beginning to See the Light’. He was a cautious man. Even now he wasn’t going to incriminate himself.
Anselm continued:
‘You, Mitch, belong to the ash. That’s why our friendship ended. But I’ve come back because I’ve selected you for a special role. On the scale of criminals I helped along the way, you are roughly in the middle. You’re an average player. And that makes you a fitting symbol for the rest … for all the people who walked free but should have been sent to Wormwood Scrubs.’
Mitch couldn’t think of a rejoinder so he just worked the valves. In a way, it was a gesture of appreciation; and sarcasm.
‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ said Anselm. ‘But first I need to ask a few questions, starting with the obvious. Why steal the money? You needed nothing.’
‘There Was Nobody Looking’. Mitch had blown another Ellington line, pianissimo this time.
Anselm persevered: ‘The police couldn’t trace a penny. Will you tell me where it all went?’
Mitch gave a shrug and played ‘Undecided’, a Dixieland standard, but Anselm cut the tune short: ‘Have you gone clean? I need to know for sure. No fooling around this time.’
Mitch thought about the question long enough to persuade Anselm that he was being serious, and then he began ‘Keepin’ Out of Mischief Now’.
It was one of Fats Waller’s funny promises. And an appropriate note to end on.
Broadly speaking, these guarded ‘replies’ had completely exceeded Anselm’s expectations. He’d foreseen a spat and some trading of insults. But instead, Mitch had cut to the chase with a candid confession making sure, however, that it could never be used to initiate a fresh prosecution. He’d been honest, retracting with the Gilbertine the lies he’d told the lawyer. As if acknowledging that the first half of this peculiar conference was over, Mitch put his trumpet down and said:
‘You mentioned a proposal.’
The sun had climbed high, moving shadows round the boat as if to rearrange the furniture of light and dark. Something important had changed. Nothing looked the same. Mitch swallowed a couple of aspirin and finished off the bottled water. He was smiling faintly. A kind of forgiveness had come to his pleasure wherry. And he was important now. He was a symbol.
‘Up until this morning I was a beekeeper,’ explained Anselm. ‘I also picked apples, washed bottles, and waxed floors. On occasion, I was released to help those who’d come unstuck with the law. This arrangement has come to an end. You are partly responsible.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You invited readers of the Sunday Times to contact me should they find themselves in a hopeless situation. That’s a large category of people and a surprising number took up the offer. My Prior thanks you. He’s also asked me to respond in the name of the community. For me, it’s a new beginning. And like everyone who starts a new venture, I want to clean up the past. I’d like you to help me.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
‘As a symbol?’ Mitch was amused, failing to appreciate that Anselm wasn’t even remotely smiling.
‘At Larkwood we use lots of symbols and rituals to express things that can’t be put into words. We also use them to enact important changes in direction.’
‘You have something in mind?’
‘I do.’
‘And?’
‘I want you to help me solve a case, just one example of the need for justice. I’d like you to contribute something to the system you flouted. Because whether you like it or not – remorse and forgiveness aside – the law is our only means of restoring order to a disordered world.’
Mitch was no longer flippant. The creases in his pale face, the lines of worry or concentration, had deepened.
‘There’s an element of reparation, too,’ persisted Anselm. ‘Call it a fine, but I want you to meet any expenses. And since you twice before took me for a ride, I’d like you to provide the transport. We’ll use the boat as our office. That’s everything. If you think about it, I’m not asking much.’
‘And what’s in it for you?’
‘Like I said, you represent all the others, from the greatest to the least. All the liars, thieves and killers. Back then, I could only offer a route off the charge, not knowing whether it should stick or not. Now, with your help I want to uncover the truth regardless of what anyone says and whatever the cost or implications. Working with a former client who should have been convicted will be my one small act of reparation. It’s not much either, but it’s something. That’s what symbols are for.’
When the silence grew heavy, Mitch went to the kitchen and made more coffee. He was quiet and absorbed, mulling over Anselm’s outlandish proposal; reviewing their friendship, the sudden break, and now this surprising offer of reconciliation. Before each jury the greater part of Anselm’s speeches had dwelled upon good things, things known to be true: Mitch’s blameless past, a jazz club that raised thousands for charity, the history of glowing commendations from his bewildered employers. All that good faith had survived. It was still there. The only shadows – back then and now – had fallen from the two indictments. When Mitch came back to the table Anselm spoke again. There was a need for absolute candour:
‘I’ll be honest, Mitch, I’m hoping that once you become involved in the search for justice, once you’ve seen how we need rules to protect and save, you’ll answer for yourself without hiding behind a trumpet. I’m hoping you’ll tell me why you stole the money and what you did with it. I’m hoping you’ll hand yourself in and face the consequences.’
‘As a symbol for all the others?’
‘No. For your own good.’
The grooves along Mitch’s forehead buckled and Anselm wondered if there wasn’t an element of bitterness in those crooked shadows; a deep and abiding disillusionment. Mitch’s brown eyes rose inexorably, settling onto Anselm with a kind of livid pity. Or was it frustration? An exasperation with do-gooders who don’t understand their own rhetoric? He seemed to accept a challenge: there was tension in his voice, born of the longing to be proved right:
‘Maybe at the end of this expedition into joint atonement, you, too, will learn something about law and the complexity of life, and how rules don’t always protect or save.’
Anselm held Mitch’s gaze: there was fire in there, and resistance. The spat and the insults weren’t that far away after all. Anselm said, lightly:
‘I take it you accept my offer?’
Mitch’s anger subsided. He slumped back in his chair, regarding Anselm with
an old familiarity. They’d spoken like this about bop and be-bop. They’d said hard things to one another; unforgivable things. And then Mitch had got charged. They’d spoken politely about the evidence, never once exchanging a cross word. Everything had gone smoothly. Smiling mischievously, he reached for his trumpet. Assenting to Anselm’s proposal – and looking forward to the rewards of conversion – he closed his eyes and belted out ‘Oh When the Saints’.
Anselm was jealous. He coveted the wherry and its place on the Lark. He’d always been drawn to rivers and the sea and their shared element, water. It was cleansing but dangerous, sure but unpredictable. At night, listening to ‘Sailing By’, he rode imagined waves, feeling the swell of the deep, wondering what tomorrow might hold. Humming the tune, he followed Mitch on deck to a bench on the prow. The morning glow had vanished off the fields. Cattle tugged at the grass. Fish snapped into the air.
‘I have a case already,’ said Anselm, watching ringlets spread and vanish. ‘There’s no evidence of any crime. Finding out what happened will require both grit and imagination.’
‘What do you expect from me?’ said Mitch, uncertainly. ‘I’m just a musician.’
‘And I’m just a monk. Perhaps you could improvise with the facts.’
They watched the cows slowly eating, sticking close together as if they might get lost.
‘But you’re not just a monk, are you?’ qualified Mitch, to distinguish the conductor from the player. ‘You’re a detective.’
This time Anselm was the one with a lined brow, shadows cut into skin that had once been smooth and free from cares. He almost felt the Lark lift with anticipation.
‘I’m not sure the term meets the demands of the moment,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘Think more a solver of puzzles. A troubled explorer in a wilderness of moral problems.’
5
Michael moved resolutely down the stairs of the guesthouse, past the dining room and out through the front door. A cold wind struck his face like a wave on a desolate beach. Orange-rimmed cloud, violet to black, smeared the vast expanse above the complaining sea. Michael didn’t linger. He had a job to do. He’d picked his target during the previous days’ dawdling, after confirming that the corner shop was still there, flanked by a pub and lighthouse. He’d checked the opening and closing times. He’d found out when the streets were deserted. The informer had told Michael to practise.
The Discourtesy of Death Page 3