R v. Littlemore opened in Court Twelve at the Old Bailey on a Thursday in the first week of August. It was a warm day with clouds drifting carelessly across a cobalt sky. A crowd had gathered in the street behind a row of grey metal barriers. Police officers in fluorescent jackets stood on the pavement, keeping the entrance clear. Seeing the gathering as he approached on foot from Ludgate, Anselm lowered his gaze. For months he’d lived in dread of this moment. Now that it was upon him he wanted to turn round and go back to Larkwood; to deal with his bees and the other simple obligations of a quiet life. The clouds were drifting there, too. Bede’s parting words rang hoarsely in his ears:
‘Find out what really happened …’
Littlemore had been right about one thing. Anselm’s decision to represent him had placed the trial at the centre of a media storm. The coverage had been universally negative except for a cautious analysis in the Guardian by Robert Sambourne, the journalist who’d first broken the wider story. Reluctant to join the chorus of disapproval, he’d opted to await the jury’s verdict. The existence of an ally of sorts had given Anselm some comfort, because the upshot of public debate had been a steady flow of mail, some hateful and abusive but the greater part carefully worded testaments of profound disillusionment. They’d wondered how Anselm could be so insensitive to appearances. How, given the scandal of child abuse in the Church, he’d even contemplated giving an impression of solidarity with a perpetrator against his victim. The irony was sharp. It was precisely this impression that Anselm wished to change – and in the most public way possible.
‘Prove me wrong,’ Dunstan had said, demonstrably insincere. He’d been moved to the infirmary, his illness public now. On a side table stood his old typewriter. It was the only object he’d brought with him. ‘I tried to warn you but you wouldn’t listen.’ Dunstan had grimaced trying to find a comfortable position but the pain had got him cornered. He’d given up. ‘You’re making a huge mistake.’
Contrary to Dunstan’s intentions, these unpleasant declarations had given Anselm a sudden jolt of adrenalin. Leaving the infirmary, he’d abruptly perceived the obvious: he was one step ahead of everyone … the police, the courts and even Littlemore himself. Thanks to Fraser, Anselm already knew why Harry might blame an innocent man; and he had a name for the true culprit. All at once, Anselm’s objectives had fallen into place: if the evidence emerged, he’d incriminate Martin Brandwell; in the process, he’d look between the lines for the faint shadow of the Silent Ones, those exiles who’d chosen obscurity over their right to justice. It would be without question the most serious case he’d ever conducted.
And the most hopeless.
Having booked a room at Gray’s Inn, Anselm had knelt in the nave listening to the traditional Gilbertine prayer for those beginning a voyage: a request that Providence guide his going and coming, and protect him from harm in-between. Then he’d taken the train for London. He’d thrown his tatty wig and torn gown into an old carpet bag, along with the trial papers and a copy of Archbold, the bible of criminal procedure, borrowed from Roddy Kemble QC, his old Head of Chambers. He’d also brought Larkwood’s copy of the Code of Canon Law … he’d marked a number of paragraphs that had stirred his imagination.
‘No other decision was possible,’ Bede had huffed, out of breath. He’d driven Anselm to the station enclosed in a reproving silence; he’d dropped him off and pulled away without a parting word; but then he came back, running onto the platform, hot and bothered. ‘The moment you went into that garden and spoke to the boy, there was no turning back. Now you have to finish the job … find out what really happened. For his sake, and ours.’