Anselm got back to Larkwood late that night having left Kester to struggle with his conscience. He was exhausted by so many things: the trial, the substance of the trial, the obligation to unsettle people who would otherwise look to him for understanding, the effort involved in maintaining confidence in Edmund Littlemore; and more. Kester had unnerved him: he’d kept things simple, believing a child’s credible allegations. Anselm was out on a limb, believing a man with a complex history and an implausible explanation. On pushing open the arched door at reception, he made a deep sigh of relief. There was a very particular aroma at Larkwood, impossible to describe or name, but unforgettable: a blend of incense, warm wax, flowers, old wood, fresh air, bleach and history; the history of men on their knees: that too, left a certain something in the air. On opening his eyes, he saw Sylvester. He was in his dressing gown – a tattered thing from his youth without a belt, held in place by frayed garden twine.
‘You’ve got a visitor.’
‘Now?’
‘I didn’t like him at first. But he’s a good lad. Knows his knots. He’s got something to show you. This time the Weaver’s gone too far.’
Anselm wouldn’t have called Robert Sambourne a lad, any more than he’d have called Carrington shifty. He was a serious and composed young man. Perhaps Anselm had been looking at the Brandwells for too long, but he also detected suppressed sorrow. It marks the mouth and eyes.
‘You’re about to get Littlemore off this charge,’ he said. ‘He’s played this very cleverly – the not-talking routine. He’s outwitted you … and Carrington.’
The journalist had taken a folder out of his rucksack. Opening it he removed a letter and began to read: ‘“Why have you given up? Victims always need help to speak out. Otherwise they get silenced by private agreements. Don’t let that happen. The American is hiding at Larkwood Priory. Do not delay. If he leaves, you’ll never find him again.”’ Robert passed over the single sheet of paper. ‘That’s the original. I’ve made a copy for you.’
Anselm studied the indentations more than the words: the misaligned stamp of an old typewriter. Like Dunstan’s. Anselm handed the letter back, declining the duplicate. Its contents had been etched into his memory.
‘I’m fairly sure Carrington wrote it,’ said Robert. ‘He certainly sent Littlemore these.’
Robert produced a number of enlarged photographs: pictures of news cuttings. Anselm glanced at a marked passage: I venture to call him naive and he agrees, almost happily. I ask why help the perpetrator? Sadly, our conversation ended there. And then another: I wonder if his capacity to trust is almost blinding. Over the page: A disciple of the fifties trad jazz revival … a horror of mobile phones. Further down: A sort of guestmaster for the homeless.
‘There’s a page of notes on jazz history, too.’ Robert leaned back. ‘I imagine he researched West End musicals to get near Emily Brandwell. He learned the words to the songs.’
‘Where did you get these?’ Anselm was barely able to speak. He was staring at the cuttings.
‘They were hidden at Littlemore’s place. You’ve been targeted.’
Robert explained: Littlemore must have confessed to Carrington, aiming to use the sacrament as a shield. Carrington, finding himself silenced, sent Littlemore to Larkwood planning to expose him afterwards. Littlemore? He must have thought Carrington was helping him to protect the Order’s reputation. But he also …
Anselm had ceased to listen. He was totally absorbed by the cuttings. Or, to be precise, the border. He recognised the album in which they’d been preserved. It was shelved in the library downstairs. For a long while he just stared at Bede’s handiwork. Robert’s voice finally broke through:
‘… so Carrington used me to get maximum press coverage and he used you to make sure Littlemore went down. Unfortunately, you’ve—’
‘The letter was written by Dunstan.’
‘Sorry?’
Anselm looked up. ‘I know who wrote the letter. He’s a member of my community. He’s dying thirty yards or so from where we’re sitting.’
‘Postmarked Glasgow?’
Anselm nodded. ‘His brother Evelyn lives there. He sent the cuttings, too – I assume to Carrington who then faxed them to Littlemore. There’s no other explanation. Carrington must have contacted Dunstan … told him about Littlemore and then asked his advice.’
‘Told him he was guilty?’ ventured Robert. ‘Broke the Seal?’
‘No.’
‘How then?’
‘There are ways of saying you’ve got a problem on your hands; ways of asking for help.’
But Carrington had told Dunstan enough to get his warped imagination going. This entire scheme was evidently Dunstan’s invention.
‘How does this Dunstan know Carrington?’ asked Robert.
‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’
And it didn’t matter: the evidence was there on the table before Anselm; it was there, in his memory, recalling Dunstan’s performance in the Scriptorium. He’d urged Anselm not to take the trial in the full knowledge that Anselm would do the opposite; knowing that Anselm didn’t want to be like him, unable to trust. Anselm felt a fool. And naive, only this time he wasn’t happy about it. Robert cleared Anselm’s mind by returning to the trial.
‘Littlemore is going to walk free. You’ve found someone else to blame.’
‘No. I’ve found evidence.’ Agitated, Anselm came to his feet and began pacing the room. ‘Something happened to Harry Brandwell in North Wales before he got home. He was with his uncle. And that uncle—’
‘Haven’t you considered that Littlemore and Justin could be in this together?’
Anselm had explicitly rejected the possibility. With uncharacteristic petulance, he snapped back: ‘What do you mean?’
‘I followed your cross-examination; and I agree: Harry was attacked at Harlech by his uncle. But these people often work in groups. They help each other. And it looks like the uncle passed his nephew on to Littlemore six months later.’
Anselm was shaking his head. Perhaps he was out of his depth. Perhaps he’d been out of court too long. But he refused to accept what Robert was saying: it was unimaginable … and it would mean that Littlemore’s plea for the Silent Ones, all that stuff about ‘changing how we’re seen’, his longing to claim back some integrity – it would mean that the entire speech had been a cynical move to lure Anselm on side.
‘I’ve been contacted by a man called George Timbo,’ said Robert.
‘Who?’ Anselm felt like a man who’d tried to run away only to find that the door was locked. He sat down.
‘He’s a career civil servant from Sierra Leone. I traced him because I found out that Littlemore had been kicked out of the country. I wanted to know why and he told me.’
‘And?’
Robert produced another glossy sheet: this time a print of a postcard. It showed children dancing in the sea. Anselm couldn’t make sense of the writing and he didn’t try.
‘It’s Krio,’ said Robert. ‘It’s an accusation. Basically it means you can’t hide who you are for ever. It’ll come out eventually.’ He took back the picture. ‘Littlemore didn’t get the chance to commit an offence because they stopped him first. He was travelling around, playing the same game he played here in England, getting near children he had no cause to meet or know. They put him on a plane. Didn’t take any chances.’
Anselm glanced at a copied cutting, saved reluctantly by Bede: For a man who has confronted extreme evil he remains surprisingly buoyant about the human condition.
‘What was I thinking?’ he murmured.
‘The best of people, I imagine,’ said Robert. He collected his papers and put the folder back in his rucksack. Then, rising to his feet, he placed his business card on the table. ‘If there’s anything you think I can do, give me a call. I’ll let myself out.’
Anselm didn’t move: his memory was turning back the pages. He’d sat like this, numbed, after Carrington had gone; he’d been thinking about John Joe Collins the wanderer from Boston, Massachusetts. Eventually, he’d left the parlour concluding that his life was about to become a little complicated. His naivety had been stratospheric. Humiliated, Anselm switched off the light. Rather than retire to his cell, he went to the infirmary.
Dunstan lay perfectly still in bed, his thin arms lying on the white top sheet and tartan blanket. His dark glasses were on a side table. His eyes were closed. The sockets were black. His chest rose slowly and fell again. He was a few steps ahead of Father Tabley: the sand had almost gone from the timer. It was slowing now, as it does, just before the end. Anselm sat down on a chair.
‘Why not tell me, Dunstan?’ he said to the sleeping man. ‘Why make a fool of me – if only in your eyes? Couldn’t you have told me what you knew? Wouldn’t that have been a better way to die – to have worked with me, rather than against me? We could have handled Littlemore together, openly, simply, decisively. Now, I’ve raised a doubt in the jury’s mind.’
Anselm stood and opened the door. But as the handle turned, Dunstan made a sigh, and then he spoke in his sleep, his face creased with pain.
‘I shared an office with Blunt, you know,’ he whispered. ‘Always knew he was bent.’