Elizabeth dabbed the corners of her mouth. ‘The second business is Riley’s own concern. He runs it from a transit van, selling odds and ends at fairs and bazaars.’
‘Stuff from the house clearances?’
‘Yes. So when he buys a job lot, everything is somehow or other divided between this shop and his van.
‘So what?’ George wasn’t interested in Riley’s commercial habits.
‘Aren’t you ever inquisitive?’
‘Not really’ His eye fell on the last triangle of toast. ‘How do you know all this?’
‘He has to file accounts at Companies House. I’ve read them.’ Elizabeth pushed the plate towards George, as if it were a donation. She said, ‘I’m reliably informed that this business isn’t what it seems.’
George threw down a crust. ‘You’ve just said that he’s gone straight.’
‘No I didn’t. I said he’d gone into business.’
‘What’s the difference?’
‘All the figures add up perfectly’
George couldn’t understand lawyers. How could they see a weakness that wasn’t there? Mind you, that was what the other one had done. How had he known to ask about David Bradshaw? Duffy was his name. He’d got lots of pages all to himself in book thirty or so.
Elizabeth said, ‘To find out what he’s really doing we need to see more than a balance sheet.’
‘We?’
‘Sorry,’ said Elizabeth with a smile. A slip of the tongue. But now you mention it, I’ve an idea.’
‘Have you?’
Elizabeth glowered at him. ‘Yes. Both companies are registered at Nancy’s shop.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s their official business address. Riley is obliged by law to keep all financial records for seven years. I doubt if he keeps a filing cabinet at home.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘Nancy is the key. She must have turned aside from so much to have seen so little.’
‘Your idea… it wouldn’t be me knocking on the door and introducing myself?’
‘Not far off, George. Imagination and subtlety would have taken you the remaining distance.’
‘Would it?’
Elizabeth glowered again and refused to answer.
A loud flap from the polythene nudged George into wakefulness. The present moment gathered density, becoming prickly; he had pins and needles along one arm. The conversation was still complete, like an echo. He listened to the aftershock, understanding — for that moment of rebounding — all that had happened over the following months. But then an awful doubt came over him: had it all been a dream? With a torch held under his chin, he fumbled through his notebooks. He turned the pages quickly, his mind growing dim, Elizabeth’s words fading… until he paused to smooth out a dog-ear at the beginning of book thirty-six. There was the heading. It brought back her voice: ‘George, this is what you are going to do.’
12
After compline Anselm knocked on the Prior’s door. It was the Great Silence, but Father Andrew never let a rule, however ancient and secure, take primacy over an insistent worry. A fire had been made. Two chairs had been placed in front of it. The Prior was already seated, arms on his knees. Light flickered upon broken glasses that had been repaired with a paperclip.
Anselm took his place. ‘You know of the key?’
‘I do.’
By the hearth was a life-size statue that he’d never seen before. Such things turned up occasionally in the fields, or by the Lark near the abbey ruin. Once cleaned up, they stood in for garden gnomes in the grounds. This one had lost its head and an elbow. Whoever it was stood like an observer of sacred things long gone.
‘I suspect you know everything else,’ said Anselm, grateful to have an ally.
The Prior shook his head. ‘All I’m sure of is this: in the nicest possible way, we’ve been set up.’
They looked at the wrangle of impatient flames. The wood was wet and hissed and steamed.
While Larkwood was a deeply impractical place, its traditions were very ordered when it came to talking — because of the Rule’s insistence on listening. Back-and-forth dialogue wasn’t the norm with serious matters. You took turns. At a nod from Anselm, the Prior kept the initiative.
‘Elizabeth asked to see me — in confidence — the week before you came to Larkwood, which is to say about ten years ago. Inadvertently it seems, you had given me a favourable recommendation. Or, at least, the kind that spoke to her.’
Anselm had said that the Prior pops illusions… it was all he could remember saying.
‘She made an appointment. She came all the way from London. But she couldn’t speak. We just looked at each other. And something surfaced while I was watching her… anger, helplessness… and finally she said, “How can evil be undone?”‘ The Prior scratched his scalp. ‘We spent the next hour exploring this territory, never approaching a specific issue. And yet I was talking to a haunted woman.’
Anselm remembered his own conversations with Elizabeth on those dark Friday nights: she’d been intellectually tireless, searching out the implications of every nuance. When she’d come to Finsbury Park, she’d told of a voice that would not be stilled and Anselm had said that to understand the ways of the heart you need a guide…
‘Years later she asked to see me again,’ resumed Father Andrew, eyes on the fire. ‘She didn’t want you to know of her visit, so we met while you were away In many respects it was a re-run of our first encounter, only this time the anger and helplessness had been replaced by despair. As before, she did not speak. So I asked her a question, “Why are you unhappy?” Almost whispering, she said, “I’m implicated in a homicide.” And then she seemed to slip away, leaving her body behind. I said, “I think you need a solicitor not a monk.” She replied, “It’s not the law that has a claim upon me. It’s my “‘
‘Conscience,’ Anselm interjected. The Prior nodded.
Kierkegaard had called it ‘an affair of the heart’. Anselm’s rebelled. He’d been in the same position as Elizabeth: they’d both defended guilty men before. And if Riley were connected to the death of John Bradshaw, conscience could not hold either Elizabeth or Anselm to be responsible. There was no link between anything they had done and that outcome. So how had the discomfort become anguish? Mechanically, Anselm surmised that this particular visit to Larkwood must have occurred shortly after Elizabeth had received the letter from Mrs Bradshaw.
‘We sat in silence,’ continued the Prior, gazing into the fire. ‘Gradually, as it were, she came back, and we talked of her work — of revenge and fair dealing, of injury and restoration, of judges and juries: these ideas, and their connections, seemed to fill her mind, and she sifted through them as if she were doing a jigsaw whose picture it was desperately important to complete… and keep out of view.’
The Prior leaned forward and threw another log on the fire. Flakes of orange ash burst free and rose and turned instantly to grey.
‘The last time I saw her was a month ago. She wanted to talk to you, but only after a meeting with me — which was, however, to remain confidential. She was neither angry, nor helpless, nor desolate. I found her composed; you might even say at peace. He took off his glasses and fiddled with the paperclip. ‘Going back to the jigsaw, I think the gathering of the pieces was over. She said, “I’ve thought a great deal about our previous discussions and, as a result, I’ve been tidying up my life.” I waited, expecting her to tell me what this had all been about, but she confided nothing. So I said, “If ever I can help again, don’t hesitate to ask.” She smiled, saying, ‘Actually, I’ve a small favour to ask.” And at that strange moment, I felt like the first domino in a queue.’ The Prior repositioned his glasses and looked to Anselm, as if inviting the next in line to relate the fall.
Anselm said, ‘She wondered if I might be free to run an errand on her behalf.’
‘She did,’ said the Prior. ‘And I agreed.’
‘She then said, “
May I give him a key to be used in the event of my death?”’
‘She did. And I agreed.’ The Prior pursed his lips, thinking. ‘What you will not know are the instructions she then gave me regarding what should happen after you had opened the box. They were precise. As regards myself, I was to wait, otherwise you would not understand what I was to say As regards yourself, she said, “Firstly Anselm should visit a Mrs Bradshaw She wrote to both of us many years ago. She deserves a reply” Does that mean anything to you?’
‘I’ve just read it.’
While Anselm explained what had been written, the Prior went to his desk and opened a drawer. ‘She then said, “Secondly please give him this letter. He should open it when he has left Mrs Bradshaw After that, everything should fall into place.” And she added, ‘A police officer called Inspector Cartwright will one day thank you, as I do.” I’d have called a halt to this drama, if it hadn’t been for her resolve and.., her pain.’
Anselm took the envelope. It bore his name in her small, painstaking hand. ‘And then, to evoke the past, she sought me out with a box of chocolates.’
The Prior sat down with a sigh, rubbing the back of his head — a gesture possibly from his younger days in Glasgow ‘Tell me all about it; from when you first met her.’
From when you first met her. The Prior, like Anselm, was already looking further back than appearances would warrant. Accordingly, Anselm began with a conversation on a Friday night long before the Riley trial, a talk about parents, children and dying.
It was late when Anselm finished. Larkwood’s owl — heard but never seen — had taken flight, and was hooting round the spire, permanently baffled by the fearlessness of the partridge weathervane.
‘I suppose Sylvester told everyone that Inspector Cartwright came here?’ asked the Prior.
‘Not quite, but the bulk of the message got through.’
‘She believes that John Bradshaw’s death was a revenge killing linked to the Riley trial, although the mechanics were beyond proving. We decided that Elizabeth must have come to a similar conclusion, because this was undoubtedly the homicide to which she’d referred. This, however, was not the only matter we discussed. It transpired that in the seconds before she died, Elizabeth had made a telephone call to Inspector Cartwright.’
‘Really? What did she say?’
“‘Leave it to Anselm.”‘
Anselm frowned and repeated Elizabeth’s last words with incredulity. ‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘She hadn’t a notion. Presumably you’ll find out after you’ve visited Mrs Bradshaw and read the letter.’ The Prior rose, indicating that the interview was over. ‘Inspector Cartwright would like you to call her in due course.
The cry of Larkwood’s owl began to fade as it flew west over Saint Leonard’s Field, leaving behind a charged silence, a sense that something strange occupied the night sky above the monastery.
Anselm went to his cell and threw open the window The night was cool and sharp, softened by the smell of apples. The community had been peeling them before compline, and the skins were in sacks by the kitchen door.
Leave it to Anselm. Was that wise, Elizabeth? What did I say that made you choose me? Or is it something I’ve done?
Anselm breathed in deeply wondering why he’d put the key back in his wig tin. Generously, the Prior had not enquired. Perhaps it was that word ‘murder’, and the hopeless search for a rhyme. Whatever the cause, Anselm was altogether sure that the consequent delay would complicate things considerably Elizabeth had foreseen many things, but Anselm’s hesitation wasn’t one of them.
PART TWO
the story of a box
1
The door opened and Mr Wyecliffe’s face emerged out of a warm gloom. His brown oval suit seemed to join his beard and run up his cheeks, stopping just below the small eyes. ‘Sorry, the light bulb’s just blown. There’s sufficient illumination, however, in my quarters.’ He led Nick to a sort of hole composed of shelves and files. The air was stale and still and seemed to have a colour, as though they were immersed in a yellowish solution carrying a hint of blue from far, far away. Upon a large, chipped bureau stood a yellow plastic air freshener that kept watch over piles of paper in disarray.
‘I thought it best we speak outside office hours.’ He blinked and nodded with a single movement. ‘Can’t say much, mind. Client confidentiality’ He slumped in a chair behind his desk and said, ‘It was a first-class funeral, if you take my meaning. Very nice reception. Lovely house. Nice to see the clients invited. But I am sorry. Dreadful business, if you ask me.’
‘Your clients?’ asked Nick.
‘Quite a few One of them ate the ham sandwiches.’ He spoke as though he were tempting the outrage of a magistrate.
Nick said, ‘You specialise in criminal law?’
‘Not really,’ he reminisced, scratching an ear as he leaned back. ‘I’ve followed the personal injury market. And family work, of course. I’d always done that. Care, divorce, custody. Always lots to do in that neck of the woods.’ His narrow eyes seemed to glaze. ‘I sent your mother more dog’s breakfasts than I care to admit. But she had a knack with parents not disposed to cooperate with expert assistance.’ He blinked in the gloom, regarding the air freshener. ‘But why do you want to know about the Riley case? It was a long time ago… Best forgotten, I should think.’ He almost winked.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Nick. ‘But I found the papers among my mother’s personal things. She kept them for nearly ten years. I wondered if you might be able to tell me why’
Mr Wyecliffe’s eyes enlarged like ink on blotting paper. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He picked up a glass ball containing a log cabin, two fir trees and three reindeer yoked to a sleigh. He shook it and a blizzard swirled against a cobalt sky It was the only movement in the room. ‘Was there anything with the brief?’
‘Why?’
‘Sorry. Silly question. That’s why I keep out of court.’ He watched the flakes of snow sinking. ‘Maybe I should begin before the trial… You don’t mind if I put the odd question do you?’ His eyebrows seemed to nod.
‘Not at all.’
‘That’s fine.’ As if startled by a recollection, he went to a side room. A cupboard door clipped open and then shut. He came back with some envelopes and threw them into a large plastic bin the size of a laundry basket. ‘My out-tray,’ he explained. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes… It’s probably best to start after your mother took silk. You’ll appreciate, I wasn’t in the criminal field that often, so what I know was picked up from here and there.’ Nick saw him at the funeral reception, eyeing the plates, picking at this and that. ‘She’d built a reputation as a prosecutor and was always booked up. But defendants wanted her as well: word gets round. Villains talk while they’re on remand. They play bridge and discuss the relative merits of counsel. So, you see, it wasn’t surprising to have a client who came in asking for your mother. But with Mr Riley it was slightly different.’
‘Why?’
‘He’d never been in trouble with the police.’
Evening had come and the room was weakly lit by a single central light. A dinted shade hung askew, like a hat on a stand-up comic.
‘You mean that Mr Riley asked for my mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he say why he wanted her?’
‘Not right off the bat.’
‘Did you ask?’
‘Yes.’
Annoyance raised Nick’s voice. ‘Well, what did he say?’
‘That he’d heard she was good; so good that she could win without even opening her mouth.’
‘Who’d said that?’
‘He didn’t say’
‘Did you ask how he’d heard of her?’
‘No.’ Mr Wyecliffe raised his hands, like he was offering a platter. ‘Mr Riley had considered a newspaper article about women at the Bar. He picked your mother because he’d read she could see right inside the guilty. Such an aptitude, he said, would be invalua
ble for the exposure of his detractors.’
‘What’s that got to do with her not having to open her mouth?’
‘An astute question, if I may say so,’ complimented Mr Wyecliffe, ‘for that telling phrase wasn’t in the article.’
Coldly and with apprehension, Nick considered his interrogator. This mound of hair and cloth had been angling for an understanding of the trial ever since he’d cleaned up the plates at St John’s Wood.
Mr Wyecliffe reached for his glass ball and gave it another shake, stirring up the snow The flakes swirled and began to fall slowly Nick said, ‘Please can we open the window?’
‘Sorry. It’s been painted shut.’
The air was still and warm and quietly beating.
‘Where was I?’ asked Mr Wyecliffe pleasantly ‘Oh yes. I arranged a conference and sent the papers off Your mother rang up the next day to say the case didn’t need a silk and suggested I use Mr Duffy instead. But the client wouldn’t agree. So I booked them both — at your mother’s insistence. Speaking of the monk — well, he wasn’t a monk then — do you know him?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Any idea why she might have selected him?’
‘No. Why?’
‘If I might speak confidentially… He was good if you wanted a trumpet on a sinking ship, but to stay afloat.., there were others. As it happens, I was wrong. He blew the other side out of the water with one question.’
‘Something about calling himself George rather than David.’
‘Yes.’ Mr Wyecliffe twisted the air freshener on its axis. ‘How did you know that?’
‘Mr Duffy told me.’
The solicitor hitched a shoulder and coughed. ‘I trust my nautical metaphor can remain between ourselves.’
‘It can.’
‘Most grateful.’ Mr Wyecliffe scratched his beard. ‘All very peculiar really because the name business came from me — well, I brought it to the attention of instructed counsel — but your mother didn’t like it all.., discouraged it, in fact. I’ve often wondered why because it turned out to be our best point. Are you leaving already?’
The Gardens of the Dead Page 6