Cornered in the robing room, Anselm could only nod while Grainger lamented the outcome, lamented the investigation and lamented modern youth. Softening, he lamented sex cases in general. They were so damned delicate. So bloody unpredictable. Then, with a sigh, he apologised for any unfounded imputations: ‘All part of the job, I’m afraid … but if I was that boy’s father I’d string him to the ceiling.’ Thus reconciled, Grainger let Anselm pass. Taking his bag, he went straight to Court Twelve to find Littlemore, only he was Edmund now, because he was innocent. The distance between them had vanished. Many questions remained to be answered, but some were more urgent than others. They left the Old Bailey, nudging their way through the photographers and news crews, away from the couple with their accusing banner, and made for the Viaduct Tavern on Newgate Street, the pub that had once been a prison. A boy on the far side of the road followed them for a while, giving up when he realised they weren’t that famous. Anselm ordered a couple of whiskies and went straight to a small round table in a far corner. Sitting down, he said:
‘What’s going on, Edmund?’
‘I can’t tell you. I’ve made promises.’
‘You don’t always have to keep them.’
‘These aren’t that kind.’
Anselm took a large mouthful, leaned back, groaned and closed his eyes. ‘Have you been silenced by your Order? Has Carrington?’
‘I’ve made promises.’
‘Did Carrington inherit a nightmare from Murphy?’
‘I’ve made promises.’
‘How the hell do you know Dunstan?’
‘Carrington?’
‘Dunstan was his tutor at Cambridge. Pushed him towards a career in the Foreign Office but he joined the Lambertines instead. Dunstan remained a guide. Irascible, I’m told … frequently unpleasant, often insulting, unpredictable, but above all a friend to anyone whose life has fallen apart.’
So, in this confusing drama, Carrington was the first to have been compromised. He’d turned to the one man likely to understand, an embittered, disappointed outsider with a fertile imagination. Anselm could still hardly believe it: Edmund’s coming to Larkwood had been dreamed up by Dunstan. But it hadn’t been to trap Edmund. He’d known Edmund was innocent all along. So who’d been his target? Who was the man he wanted to trap … for himself and for Carrington?
‘You’re almost there,’ murmured Edmund, leaning over the small table. ‘You’ve found out everything you need to know … at one point, I thought you’d cracked it there and then, in court … the answers are all within your grasp. Just reach out.’
‘Why did you track down Justin Brandwell? Why did you try to become his friend?’
Edmund shook his head. This was the territory of promises again. He, like Carrington, had been compromised. They’d both been silenced.
‘Why did you collect all those reminiscences on Father Tabley?’
Another shake.
‘Does the memoir exist?’
Edmund leaned forward, elbows on the table: ‘Yes.’
‘Can I see it?’
‘It’ll tell you nothing you don’t know already. It’s a book of stories.’
‘What were you doing in Sierra Leone?’
‘The same thing I was doing in England.’
Anselm couldn’t join the dots. He couldn’t make the connection between Justin Brandwell and … these others, like Harry. People who’d chosen silence, or had silence imposed upon them, somehow … because they’d made promises. What was the point of contact between Justin and the Lambertines? There had to be one, otherwise Carrington wouldn’t have turned to Dunstan and Dunstan wouldn’t have devised his crazy scheme. Anselm felt like giving up. ‘Where do all the roads meet? What’s the one answer to all the questions?’
Anselm all but saw Dunstan rise from his deathbed, hollowed eyes wide, a hand clutching at Anselm’s sleeve before those final grains landed at the bottom of the hourglass. ‘Les extrêmes se touchent,’ he gasped. And then the vision was gone. Anselm was blinking at Edmund who, seeing the fright in Anselm’s face, had been unnerved, too.
‘Go to Larkwood and wait for me there,’ said Anselm. ‘Bring George Carrington with you.’
‘Do you now see what’s happened?’
‘Not fully, no. Ask me again after I’ve spoken to Justin Brandwell.’
Edmund nodded with exhausted satisfaction. It was as though the end was almost near. His work almost done. For a brief second, Anselm thought Edmund might break down: the strain had finally got too much; but he didn’t. And Anselm knew why: because his concern was for the others … who were now, at last, within reach.
On leaving the Viaduct Tavern Anselm stopped in his tracks. On the far side of Newgate Street stood the boy who’d followed Anselm and Edmund from court. He was watching the pub entrance and now, seeing Anselm emerge, he beckoned with his hand like a pupil trying to attract the attention of a teacher. He had something important to say. He had the troubled look of someone about to break a promise.