It struck Anselm that the last observation belonged to the category of things that need not be said, even though true.
‘Would you mind writing that down for me?’ asked George appreciatively as if he’d received complex travel directions. ‘I’ll need to remind myself in the days to come.
With a frown of concentration, he tapped his blazer pockets, not quite sure where he’d left his notebook.
Anselm had foreseen that the lateness of the hour might preclude a return to Larkwood. Accordingly after Inspector Cartwright had gone, George was left in place poring over a table, and Anselm was directed to a narrow storeroom with a camp bed that snapped shut when he sat in the middle. Surprisingly — and in the morning, he thought, indecently —Anselm fell asleep easily He began compline, but didn’t get beyond the first verse of the opening psalm. When daylight came, he knocked on George’s bedroom with all the worry and regret that he’d thought would keep him awake. The door was ajar and swung a little at his touch. Entering, Anselm found the bed unused and the jigsaw completed.
David George Bradshaw had gone.
PART FIVE
of beginnings and ends
1
Anselm joined Father Andrew in the cloister. They sat on a low wall beneath one of the arches, looking onto the garth. At the insistence of an MCC benefactor the square had been laid with turf from Lord’s cricket ground — ‘Father, we’ll lay a sand-based, fast-draining outfield’ — but rank disobedience to the maintenance regime had permitted this corner of the English soul to be eaten by moss. The square was now a deep emerald sponge that held on to water.
The Riley business was, they both concluded, a sorry affair. Their involvement left the bitter aftertaste of shared failure: as if they might have done something to prevent the outcome — the dereliction of a dead woman’s hopes. She had set out to alter the appearance and effect of the past. That her entire project should founder on a mistake of law was unfortunate. That the correct legal analysis should have come from her mouth in the first place was a tragedy.
Learning of Elizabeth’s background ought to have surprised Anselm, but it did not (he said, letting his eyes rest on the crisp, frosted lawn). The manner of her living now made sense: a life in compartments, the zeal for prosecuting and, like an arch, her inventiveness. In retrospect, Anselm could see her quietly working out the knots of her history, as when she, who had lost her father, had drawn from him the loss of his mother. They’d discussed its manner and meaning, but she’d applied its lessons elsewhere. From the outset childhood grief had bound them together, though he’d never known it. Perhaps that’s why she turned to him — instinctively — when she saw ‘Riley’ typed on the front of the trial brief, when she read the name of David George Bradshaw on the witness list. She must have seen what Riley was hoping to do: that he might well succeed; that he could do so only if Elizabeth sacrificed the identity she had so carefully constructed. Professionally speaking, in that one trial, unseen by the public and her peers, Elizabeth had committed suicide: she should have withdrawn from the case; she should probably have gone further, and revealed what she knew of her client, ‘this wounded instrument’. There were lots of shoulds, but they were not enough when weighed against her need for self-preservation. Or — to be just — was it yet another murder that could never be laid at Riley’s door? As he had been from the beginning, Anselm was linked to Elizabeth by a kind of grieving that he didn’t fully understand. Her dying words to an answer machine seemed preposterous, now: ‘Leave it to Anselm.’
‘What was I supposed to do,’ asked Anselm, drawing breath, ‘sweep up the pieces? Explain to George the limitations of the law — as if he didn’t know already?’
‘No,’ said the Prior patiently ‘the message related to a project she knew had failed, otherwise she wouldn’t have called the police. They’re words of hope, urging Inspector Cartwright to remain confident, despite appearances.
‘The point remains,’ said Anselm, with mock testiness, ‘what is it that I’m meant to be doing?’
‘It sometimes helps to shift tenses,’ said the Prior, nudging his glasses. ‘What are you meant to have done?’
‘Find George,’ replied Anselm smartly for there he had succeeded, before he’d lost him again. (Before coming home, he’d checked Trespass Place, left messages at homeless shelters in London and written a letter for the kind attention of F Hillsden Esq.)
‘What else?’ asked the Prior routinely He seemed to be slipping away drawn by adjacent thoughts.
‘Visit Mrs Dixon.’
Anselm pondered these twin duties while the Prior fiddled with the paperclip on his glasses. Slowly like water clearing in a stream, Anselm began to understand Elizabeth’s last wish. Answering the Prior’s questions had placed George and Mrs Dixon side by side. And, seen like that, their link grew strong.
Mrs Dixon, with her drawn-out rogue vowels, hailed from the north of England. She’d lost her son. She’d remarried. She was utterly extrinsic to Elizabeth’s scheme of retribution.
George had run from a good northern home, leaving behind a truth that wouldn’t go away But George’s father may well have died by now. The burden of loyalty on the mother would have been lifted. Perhaps she’d built a new life with another man. That woman could be Mrs Dixon … it had to be.
Leave it to Anselm, he thought excitedly gratefully.
Who better to bring George back to that place of first departure, than Anselm, whose question had reached so deep into the Bradshaw history? Elizabeth had prepared the means by which Anselm could reclaim his own regret.
Leave it to Anselm.
Why say this to Inspector Cartwright? Because Elizabeth foresaw that this tireless policewoman would be devastated —because she was a servant of the law that would once again disappoint an honourable man.
Leave it to Anselm.
‘Can I visit Mrs Dixon?’ said Anselm keenly turning to the Prior.
‘Yes.’ He’d taken to examining the garth, as though the benefactor had demanded a written report with several appendices. ‘What were Elizabeth’s stipulations?’ he asked, rising.
‘To call uninvited and to listen rather than speak.’
‘Sound advice,’ replied the Prior. He smiled benignly and then shuffled through the cloister, hands thrust behind his belt.
Anselm went to check for mail in the bursar’s office, expecting to find some fresh tobacco, obtained by stealth at the hands of Louis, who’d had business in the village. On the way Anselm fell to thinking about Nicholas Glendinning. There was no need for him to know what Sister Dorothy had disclosed. It all happened a long time ago. And since then Elizabeth had become someone totally different. The truth need not be told, he thought awkwardly.
Brooding on this conundrum, Anselm reached into his pigeon-hole. There were two items. One was a manila envelope from Louis wrapped in tape. The other was a letter from an unknown hand, postmarked London. He opened it and read:
Dear Father Anselm,
Please bring George home as soon as possible.
Yours sincerely
Emily Bradshaw
He folded up the paper and mumbled a prayer — giving God several options, like a multiple choice — that George would make his way to Mitcham, or that someone would read Larkwood’s address in his notebook, or that Mr Hillsden would strike lucky once more. All the same, Anselm felt uneasy when he should have been edging towards jubilation. It was the image of the Prior staring at the garth, thinking tangential thoughts.