‘Nothing, until Pascal Fougères, a young Frenchman and foreign correspondent for Le Monde, found a declassified memo in the United States setting out the information I’ve just given you. It turns out he has a personal interest, because Schwermann was responsible for the deportation of his great—uncle, Jacques Fougères. Apparently he’s a Resistance hero.’
‘So what did he do?’ asked Anselm.
‘He wrote an article — this is about a year and a half ago —alleging that two war criminals had found a safe haven in Britain. It caused a big splash on the Continent, but only a ripple over here. And then another peculiar thing happened. Fougères received an anonymous letter giving him the name under which Schwermann had escaped: Nightingale.’
‘The number of people who knew that can’t be very large,’ said Father Andrew pensively
‘No, but Fougères hasn’t pursued that angle. I have to say I find that puzzling. Anyway, what he did do was contact Jewish and former Resistance organisations in France. They quietly started putting together the case against Schwermann—’
‘And Brionne?’
‘No, not against him, which is even more puzzling. When they had the outline of a case they presented it to the Home Office. Somehow Schwermann found out before we could arrest him and the next thing we know he’s here, claiming sanctuary.’
She glanced at Detective Superintendent Milby who added quickly, with a studious frown, ‘We find that a little odd, sanctuary.’
‘A right granted by Clement III. It has no legal force,’ Father Andrew said dismissively
Anselm caught Wilf’s eye — he had been an historian in the world — and read astonishment at the hidden erudition of his Prior.
‘But what gave him that idea?’ asked DI Armstrong.
‘Father Anselm will enlighten you.
Anselm recounted to the police officers what he had told his Prior the previous night just before Compline, when the Great Silence would fall on Larkwood and the chances of reproach were least likely to blossom. On the day of Schwermann’s arrival Anselm had been on the afternoon confessions. No one had come. When he’d left the confessional there had been only one other person in the nave, an old man sitting at the back, as still as a painted figure in a frieze. As Anselm had walked past he’d suddenly moved, grabbing Anselm’s habit, saying, ‘Father, what does a man do when the world has turned against him?’
Anselm had paused, disconcerted by the tight grip on his clothing rather than the question posed. It was one of those ponderous enquiries, he’d thought, which is the lot of the monk to answer.
‘In the old days,’ he’d replied, pulling at the cloth, ‘you’d claim “sanctuary”, the protection of the Church, if the accusation was unjust.’
‘And would you be safe?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Truly?’
‘I promise you.
‘Thank you,’ the old man had said, with a quiet calm that Anselm had later recognised as the threshold of decision. At the time he had simply walked away reflecting carelessly on the eccentricities of the faithful and the curious things that troubled them.
‘Therefore,’ Anselm said to Milby and DI Armstrong, ‘I fear he took words lightly spoken as an invitation.
Father Andrew turned to Brother Wilfred and said, ‘Now is a good time to tell us what happened next.’
Wilf was the sort of gentle, reflective man who could not talk to the police without feeling as if he had committed a crime. Nervously, he said, ‘I was talking to Brother Sylvester at reception about a news item I’d just heard to the effect that a local man accused of wartime atrocities had vanished from his home. Then in he walks and says, calmly as you like, he’s claiming sanctuary. I told him it had been abolished. I asked him to leave and he refused, so off I went to call the police.’
‘And then,’ said Father Andrew, musing, ‘the troops of Midian arrived at our gates with their panoply of cameras.’ He waited for a response, his silver eyebrows slightly raised.
The Detective Superintendent said, ‘The Press. They’re always one step ahead.’
‘Indeed,’ said Father Andrew dryly ‘What happens now?’
‘There will be an investigation, and then we’ll review the evidence,’ informed DI Armstrong.
‘That isn’t quite what I meant,’ said Father Andrew gently ‘I meant how do you propose to remove him?’
DI Armstrong looked at her superior officer with, to Anselm’s judgment, a hardening of expression. Milby leaned across the table in a sort of sprawl. In a confiding way he said, ‘We’ve given that some thought. If at all possible, we think he should stay here, as a short-term measure at least, if only for his own protection.’
‘Detective Superintendent, this is a monastery, not a remand home for the elderly’ The words were strangely familiar to Anselm.
‘I appreciate that, but—’
‘And our first duty is to our common life.’
‘Of course— ‘And we have the peculiar sensation of having been deliberately compromised.’
Springing unforeseen from pliable courtesy, the accusation stung the Detective Superintendent. From Anselm’s point of view there followed that delicious silence upon which he had often dined in the past. The embarrassment of the police is every defence barrister’s illicit pleasure and years of committed monastic life had done nothing to diminish his appetite. And, curiously, on this occasion it seemed the delight, ill—suppressed, was shared by DI Armstrong.
Unconvincingly, but ready for a tussle, Milby said, ‘I’m not sure I follow you.
Father Andrew smiled benignly He never engaged in useless arguments. In the absence of an admission where one was required he abruptly closed a conversation down. It was a powerful, unnerving tool. Returning to his former gentility, he said, ‘I’ll let you know our position a week from today’ He turned his attention to DI Armstrong — ‘I’m very grateful for all you have told us.’
The meeting over, Anselm walked the police officers to the courtyard in front of Larkwood. The gravel crunched underfoot as the question came from the Detective Superintendent:
‘Haven’t we met before?’
‘Yes. I used to be at the Bar. I’m sure we had a few courtroom squabbles. I moved on.’
He laughed and said, ‘Well, you did the right thing. Wish I’d become a monk: He slumped in the back of an unmarked car and slammed the door.
DI Armstrong seemed to hesitate. She glanced around as if not wanting to leave and said, ‘This is a lovely place. Goodnight, Father.’
Anselm returned to the parlour to join Father Andrew and Brother Wilfred. Brother Sylvester had shuffled into the room and was laying out a selection of leaflets on the sideboard. He said:
‘When Wilf told that chap sanctuary had been abolished, he said he’d done it before.’ He continued arranging neat piles of pink and green paper.
‘What?’ said Father Andrew quietly
‘After Wilf left to find Anselm, he said he’d done it before, a long time ago.
The Priory bell rang ponderously, slow, deep chimes echoing around Larkwood, calling the brothers to prayer. Sylvester turned obediently to get himself ready — ‘I’m off. Don’t want to be late.’ — and slipped out of the room, leaving the other monks to digest the implications of his words.
‘I’m glad he kept that to himself,’ said the Prior judiciously
So was Anselm. He was thinking ahead, catching sight of a shifting shadow ‘Why here? Why come to us?’
‘Good question,’ said the Prior pensively The ringing had come to a close. A busy shuffling of feet came from the cloister. ‘Come on. Time for quiet.’
Anselm entered the long dark nave and found his place in the choir. Sylvester’s space behind him was empty. He would, as usual, be late. Leaning against his stall and leafing through his Psalter, Anselm smiled to himself about the Prior — his sally about Clement III and the remand home remark. Father Andrew always listened carefully to everyone with whom he spoke, and used what he heard at some future point as if it was fresh to his mind. Like the Lord, he reaped a harvest from fields he had not sown. He mulled over how it was that the Prior was so sure the police had informed the Press, and had done so in order to force Larkwood to keep their guest. Someone, of course, must have told him.