Lucy did retain, however, a small link with her past. It presented itself one morning when she was walking down High Holborn. Among the bobbing heads she caught sight of blonde hair and a stare of enquiry that turned rapidly into recognition. It was Cathy Glenton, a girl Lucy had known at Cambridge. She was one of the few people with whom Lucy had found any affinity. Their mutual attraction appeared to lie in sheer difference. Cathy was effortlessly brilliant and endowed with generalised talent, more like a machine that smoothly went to work on any activity she cared to assume. Between hot-air ballooning and acting in the drama club she discharged high marks in all her papers. She ate what she liked without putting on weight. She had it all, including a sublime boyfriend called Vincent. Even misfortune seemed toothless before Cathy’s exuberance. Shortly into her first year she had had an accident in a drunken bicycle race, striking a pot-hole on a narrow bridge over Hobson’s Brook, flying off her bike and landing on the railings, cutting her hands and face. She had been left with an almost insignificant scar, more of a twisting in the skin, situated upon her left cheek. For anyone else such an outcome would have teetered on the edge of psychological importance. But not for Cathy She couldn’t have cared less. When Lucy met her in High Holborn she noted the subtle presence of pink foundation, something Cathy had never used, and wondered why it should be needed now. After the preliminaries and the truncated histories, Lucy said, ‘Still ballooning?’
‘Nope.’
‘Acting?’
‘Nope.’
‘How’s Vincent?’
‘Gone with the wind.’
‘Oh.’
‘Just work. Nothing but bloody work. And Turkish baths for pleasure.’
‘Turkish baths?’
‘Every week,’ she laughed.
Cathy had gone into advertising, thinking up clever ways to persuade people that they wanted what they didn’t really need. ‘I’m a sorcerer,’ she said. They exchanged numbers and thereafter each of them lurched for the phone every once in a while. They met, had a laugh and parted without planning another meeting, which somehow felt right. For different reasons they were both alone, crossing different fields.
4
Lucy stepped out into the cool night air and made her way to her flat in Acre Lane, trying yet again to move around the various bits of history which put together properly might give a coherent explanation for her family’s broken ways. There was the war; the camps; a swift marriage; and the mystery that was Agnes. How did they all fit together? Was there something else? God alone knew.
Lucy’s persisting regret was that things could so easily have been different for everyone: Agnes needn’t have been lost to those around her; Grandpa Arthur needn’t have sacrificed himself so much; Freddie needn’t have felt rejected; Susan needn’t have been run down by someone else’s past; and Lucy could have had a childhood, at least for a while. They had all, to a greater or lesser extent, been unnecessarily damaged. Looking at the workings of the world and all therein, it seemed to Lucy that everything had been put together quite nicely at some point in the past, only now it didn’t work very well. And no one knew why But now that her gran was dying, explanations were of no consequence. If there was one, only Agnes knew it, and maybe it was better she take it with her.
When she got to her flat, Lucy switched on the television and drew the curtains, shutting out the night. On impulse she rang her grandmother, just as the news was about to begin.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course I am. Don’t worry’
‘Are you frightened?’ It was a personal question, the sort she’d never asked before.
The answer came smoothly: ‘No. There’s not much more in this life to be scared about, is there?’
‘I suppose not. Goodnight, Gran.’
‘Goodnight, Lucy’
Lucy watched the news with interest. She thought the monk handled the silly question about complicity rather well.
Chapter Three
Brother Sylvester, the Gatekeeper, escorted Detective Superintendent Robert Milby and Detective Inspector Madeleine Armstrong into the parlour at the main entrance of the Priory. At ninety-three years of age Sylvester’s memory was now best equipped to deal with his youth, the subsequent decades having become somewhat indistinct. His mind was often somewhere else, and most visitors were treated to forays into his past without the need for any particular enquiry.
‘You’ll be going back to Martlesham tonight, Detective Superintendent?’
‘No, no, I’ve got to go on to London. No rest for the wicked.’
‘Yes, there is,’ said Brother Sylvester. He leaned upon the open door, in contemplation of a distant glimmering. ‘The last time I was in London was with Baden-Powell…’
‘Brother, thank you.’ The Prior’s words were firm, with an undertone of familiar entreaty. Brother Sylvester, a little startled, reluctantly withdrew
The Prior, Anselm and Wilf were seated at a large table. Milby had changed a great deal since Anselm had last seen him. The days of flinging drug suppliers over the bonnets of their cars had ended and, through promotion, he had eased himself into a suit and a certain studied gravitas. As he sat down, Milby announced: ‘This is a matter for the Metropolitan Police, but conduct of the enquiry will be shared with us because the subject is in our area.’ He raised a large hand towards his colleague. ‘Detective Inspector Armstrong will be handling our involvement.’
Anselm regarded her pensively Her manner suggested self-containment, separation. Short jet-black hair made her stand out sharply from her surroundings, like an etching. Long eyelashes, also black, moved slowly as she scanned a sheaf of notes that lay on the table.
Milby said, ‘Madeleine, would you explain what’s come to light:
She nodded at Father Andrew, as if he were the one who had invited her contribution. Her voice was even, controlled, with a slightly hard edge.
‘His name is Eduard Walter Schwermann. It seems he was a low-ranking SS officer based in Paris during the war. He’s incriminated in the deportation of thousands of Jews to the death camps.’
Father Andrew sat with his hands joined, only the fingertips touching, a characteristic gesture known by Anselm to mean intense, troubled concentration.
‘He was captured in January 1945, disguised as a priest and with transit papers for England.’
‘A priest?’ repeated the Prior.
‘I’m afraid so. He was recognised on a train and subsequently arrested. At that point he appears to have informed the military police that he was travelling with someone else, a Frenchman named Victor Brionne. He too was arrested. Both men had false identities. Both were interviewed by a Captain Lawson. Both were released and their passage into this country went ahead.’
The Prior frowned. ‘Why were they released?’
‘We haven’t the faintest idea. I’ll be talking to the interviewing officer in a few days’ time. He’s now a Labour Peer. Back then he was a captain in Military Intelligence.’
‘Who provided the false identities, the travel papers?’
‘We don’t know. But the fact that Schwermann was caught dressed as a priest might suggest an ecclesiastical connection.’
‘And then again,’ interjected the Prior logically, not defensively, ‘it might not. There may be a diplomatic link, though I can’t imagine why or how’ The Prior drew a hand across his tight lips.
‘Of course. The strange thing is’ — her manner altered suddenly, becoming warmer, less analytical — ‘that the false identities appear not to have been recorded. It is as though they were let into the country and the trail to finding them was quietly brushed away’
‘By Captain Lawson?’
‘So it seems.’
A reflective pause ensued, until Anselm said, ‘So what happened for the next fifty years?’