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.’
Anselm kicked a few pebbles, wondering how to make his request. There was no easy way. An ambulance flashed by without its siren blaring. Help on the way in silence.
‘I’d like you to open the secret archive.’
‘I knew you were going to say that.’
‘I need to know what it contains. You might not believe this, but there may be a link between this trial and historical complaints against members of your Order.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘No, I’m merely feeling my way. I’m on the trail of a cover-up – the sort of thing you tried to leave behind.’
‘Where did you get that from?’
Anselm couldn’t say: if Littlemore was innocent, then so was Carrington; and Carrington wanted Anselm to work in the dark. He’d have his reasons.
‘Here’s the combination,’ said Anselm, holding out a folded piece of paper. ‘You want to keep things simple? You trust Harry Brandwell? I’ll accept that. But you accept this: if Harry sticks to his story on Monday, throw that paper in the bin. But if he retracts his evidence, open that safe. And you can do it for the sake of men like Dominic Tabley.’