Anselm was reading Athanasius' Life of Anthony when the Prior knocked on his door. Anselm had always enjoyed all that wrestling with demons for it struck him as a powerful metaphor for aspects of his own inner life whose battles were fought with fiends less easily discerned.

The Prior had come to say that DI Armstrong had dropped by and, since it related to Schwermann, would he deal with it. Anselm closed his book and went to the parlour entrance. She was walking to and fro, preoccupied. After greetings were exchanged, she said, 'Father, there's a couple of things I'd like to mention. First, we're going to interview Schwermann, I expect over several days. If the community doesn't mind, we'd prefer to bring all the kit and do it here rather than take him to a station. Here's a list of dates. We might not need them all. It depends on what he says.

'Of course, I'll raise it with the Prior,' said Anselm, taking the sheet of paper.

DI Armstrong hesitated. In Anselm's experience, the point mentioned last in a series was always the most important, and, if of a sensitive character, usually introduced with reticence. 'Would you like a short stroll in the grounds?' he asked. 'It's quite reviving to look at someone else's work.'

They pa.s.sed through an iron gate still swinging on one hinge since heaven knew when and entered the majestic wilderness of a wet, half-kept garden.

'So when are you going to take him off our hands?' invited Anselm, pointing the question at the source of presumed discomfort.

'That's the second thing. It's why I'm really here, as you've probably guessed. I could have sent the interview dates by letter.'

'Yes,' said Anselm knowingly, not having thought of it.

'Can I speak in absolute confidence?'

'Yes.'

'Schwermann is here to stay I know you were told it was only for the short term but nothing is being planned to move him. I also know you were told it was unlikely any charges would be laid but that was and is nonsense. Once the interviews are over a decision will be taken, but the idea that he'll just go home is fanciful.'

'So if and when he's charged,' said Anselm, 'the media will have another field day at our expense.

'I expect so, which brings me to what I really wanted to say'

They walked in silence towards a bench by an open sloping shed. Finches and sparrows skipped across the gra.s.s, their small heads jerking left and right, alert to every movement of the wind.

Sitting down, DI Armstrong said heavily 'I can't prove this, but I suspect the Priory has been set up for a fall and I don't know why'

'How?'

'Let me put the whole thing in a wider context. If there is a trial, there will be a colossal embarra.s.sment factor for the government. Schwermann was interviewed in 1945 by a young British Intelligence officer, Captain Austin Lawson. As you know, he went on to a life in politics and is now a Labour Peer. There is something alarming and mystifying about the record of interrogation. Hardly anything was written down. In fact, it contains no more than was repeated in the memo found by Pascal Fougeres - I get the feeling Lawson only filled out a report because he had to.'

'Maybe he didn't know what Schwermann had done.'

'That's possible. Not very much was known in the aftermath of the war, and Lawson was young, twenty-four, so he could have been a bit naive. But I seriously doubt it.'

'Why?'

'Because he deliberately left out vital information ... like the false names of Schwermann and Brionne, where they got them from ... and there's no record of an interview with Brionne at all, although he must have spoken to him. It's as though Lawson knew something and let them go. He wouldn't have made the decision, but it would have been upon his recommendation.'

'Is he a Catholic?' asked Anselm suddenly 'As it happens, he is. How did you know?'

'His first name ... it's short for Augustine ... just a guess.

'Why ask?' said DI Armstrong. The voice contained stealth, patience, the tip of a claw 'Nothing,' said Anselm, shrinking, clasping at levity. 'Idle, irrelevant curiosity. A particularly Catholic sin. Sorry.'

DI Armstrong seemed to wrestle with an unwelcome confusion. She cast an eye of longing around the peaceful enclosure. Checking herself, she said, 'The problem for the Home Office is that they have no control. We do the investigation and if there's enough evidence there's a trial. They couldn't stop it if they wanted to. So there's a risk the whole mess will be brought out into the open. And Schwermann wasn't the only one. There were others.'

'.Why do you think that Larkwood is being set up for a fall?'

'Milby has to brief the Chief Constable every couple of weeks, and together they have meetings with the Home Office because of the sensitivity of the case. Of course the politicians can't bring influence to bear, blah, blah, but I'm sure they're the ones who make "suggestions" about what is best for national security, public relations and so on. And without wishing to smear my boss too much, he's rather susceptible to fixing things if there's no other way'

'Drug squad realism?'

'Yes, he's never quite left the back alleys. Anyway, right from the outset he was encouraged, shall we say, to let Schwermann know we were on to him. Milby's got a few tame journalists - you know what it's like, favours for favours - so he tipped one of them off, a local hack. Then for some reason Schwermann came here. Once we were informed, Milby let one of the nationals know'

'What on earth for?'

'It's not his agenda. It must be the Home Office, and it seems to me they've done what they can to make it look as though Schwermann enjoys the support of the Church. It's as though they have something on you that could be relevant to the trial, but for political reasons they're keeping it under wraps.'

DI Armstrong paused. A fraction too long, thought Anselm, and he saw the ploy He thought: she senses the Church may be involved but doesn't know how, and she's hoping I'll offer the answer. This was the true reason for her visit: she had her own question and she'd slipped it in while making a disclosure, trying to get a monk to open up when he was probably most vulnerable. Anselm approved enormously of the technique and would have liked to crown it with success. But he would have to dissemble, for he now understood completely why the government were preparing to compromise Larkwood.

Schwermann was bound to disclose during the trial that a French monastery had protected him after the war and that British Intelligence had interviewed him and released him, and that this would never have happened unless he'd been believed to be innocent. And it was this very argument the government would adopt, with a twist, should a conviction nonetheless ensue. The Home Secretary would say those dealing with the matter at the time had been influenced, in great part, by the moral authority of the Church, who, as it happens, had protected Schwermann once more when his accusers named his crimes.

DI Armstrong had finished what she had to say; but her finishing was expectant. She looked at Anselm and he began his dissembling, impressed and saddened by his own adroit paring of the truth.

'It sounds as though the government would like a companion if, in the end, there's a public outcry, and who better than the Church. They would be the real target of interest. '

'That's what I thought,' said DI Armstrong as if closing a line of enquiry. Anselm sickened a little because her satisfaction presumed his honesty, and because he was now going to exploit her trust of him.

'How strong is the case?' he asked lightly by way of preamble.

'Difficult to say I've interviewed the former Captain Lawson and he says he can't remember a thing, which I don't believe. Most of the witnesses are elderly and susceptible. The bulk of the case rests on doc.u.ments and the interpretation of what they mean ... so it's pretty finely balanced. If we could find Brionne, a.s.suming he's still alive, then we might have some direct evidence, but he's vanished.'

Anselm said, 'When you came here, you asked if you could speak with absolute confidence.'

'Yes?'

'Can I now do the same?'

DI Armstrong scrutinised Anselm's face. '.Yes ...'

'First, don't ask me any questions, because I am bound not to answer them. Second, I promise that what I now ask can only serve the interests of justice, in its widest sense.'

DI Armstrong frowned, but nodded.

'I know Victor Brionne's new name. This is what I ask. If I give you the name, and you find him, will you tell me where he is before you do anything and allow me to talk to him first? After that he is all yours.

DI Armstrong stood and moved away Anselm followed her gaze towards the bare window arches of the old nave. Tangled streamers of vermilion creeper drifted lazily where fragments of gla.s.s had once conspired to trap the sun for praise. The swish of the leaves was like a faint pulse, or distant water on a beach of stones. Turning back to Anselm she said, 'All right. What's he called?'

'Berkeley, Victor Berkeley'

Anselm's bargain had come at a price he had not foreseen. She was taking not only him on trust but also the world he represented, its history, its old stones, once considered sacred without question.

Anselm walked DI Armstrong to her car. He said, 'Thank you for the warning. '

'It's nothing.'

They walked a little further and Anselm, suspicious, said, 'One other thing. Have you any idea how Father Andrew knew in advance of our first meeting that Milby had slipped a word to the Press about Schwermann?'

She stopped, smiling broadly, suddenly young and no longer a police officer, simply herself: 'Yes. I told him.'

Chapter Twenty-One.

Anselm frequently observed that the fears he entertained turned out, in the end, to be groundless; but he'd never learned the trick of disregarding new ones at their inception. Like the man in the Parable of the Sower, Anselm invariably found himself unable to protect the seeds from the rocks. A case in point was Victor Brionne, the mention of whose name had only ever caused him to stumble.

Yet again someone had come to Larkwood with something to say; yet again Father Andrew had summoned Anselm to deal with it; and yet again the person concerned had been brushed by the past, only this time it was simple. Delightfully simple.

'He's in his mid-fifties, I'd say' said the Prior. 'Altogether engaging. I've put him in the parlour.'

They walked down the spiral stairs leading from Anselm's room to the ground floor. Shafts of sunlight cut through slender windows like a blade. The monks pa.s.sed through light and dark in silence, to the low patter of their steps.

'He wants to talk about Victor Brionne. I didn't get his name.'

He had the poise of a relaxed subject before a sculptor. His short hair was silvered throughout, contrasting with vital and arresting eyes. He sat with one arm resting midway upon a crossed leg.

'Father, for reasons that will become clear, I'd rather not introduce myself. I'm in a delicate situation which forces me to sneak around on tiptoe. '

Returning a smile, Anselm said, 'I'm intrigued.'

'What I have to say is not particularly exhilarating, but it's probably worth knowing. You see, my mother knew Victor Brionne.'

Anselm's eyes widened. He focused afresh on the clean features, not unduly marked by life's capricious tricks, the black roll-neck pullover, the soft suede shoes.

'They were very good friends. From what she said I think he would have liked to marry her, otherwise I can't think why she would have kept his name in mind.' He laughed lightly easily 'It's one of our quirks, I suppose, that we all remember the people we might have married.'

'Yes, I know what you mean,' said Anselm.

'But it wasn't to be. He became a casualty of the war after all, through sheer bad luck. He was struck by a falling chimney stack weakened by the Blitz. I can't understand the divine arrangement of things whereby a man could survive a world war and then be killed by bricks tumbling out of the sky.'

'I know,' mused Anselm sombrely 'I've never yet been able to reconcile providence with experience. But I keep trying.' He moved on, 'Your mother met someone else?'.

'Yes, but she never forgot Victor. She can't have imagined what his past involved. It's strange to think that my father could have been Victor Brionne, a man who worked alongside a n.a.z.i war criminal. Even so, none of us really know our parents.'

Anselm warmed to the reflective modesty of his guest and said, 'Except, perhaps, when they've gone.

'Yes, and then it's too late.'

They smiled at one another as through opposite windows in parallel buildings.

The visitor said, 'I've told you this because I expect there must be plenty of people who would like to find Victor, and, to speak plainly, neither I nor anyone in my family particularly want to get involved. We live a peaceful life far away from those times. My mother's dead, so she can't make a statement to the police, and I wouldn't relish tabloid attention on the little we know made into a feast for the curious. Our link with the man was a very long time ago and we'd like to leave it like that.'

'That's most understandable.'

'I realise that keeping my name back must be unattractive,' said the visitor, '.but it's as an excess of caution, not distrust. Should anyone ever knock on our door, and that's possible, I'd like to know in advance that the Priory played no part in the finding, however accidental it might be.'

'Yes, I see what you mean,' said Anselm, thinking of Brother Sylvester whose progress towards sanct.i.ty had left the discretion of the serpent well behind.

'As long as you are obliged to house your guest, if I can put it like that-'

'You may; that's exactly the situation-'

'Then this could be the place where those with a legitimate concern will come. So do feel free to repeat what I've said, but I'd rather it was left unattributed.'

'I understand.'

In certain circ.u.mstances Anselm had a fondness for death. It tended to resolve all manner of complications for the living, especially in families, though few were prepared to admit it. But this was an example of the principle's wider application. The death of Victor Brionne might have caused grief elsewhere but it simplified things enormously.

The visitor stayed for Vespers and afterwards Anselm walked him to his car.

'I've a long drive ahead.'

'I won't ask where to,' replied Anselm. At that moment his eye latched on to the distinctive red lettering of The Tablet, a Catholic weekly lying by the back window Anselm always read it cover to cover, after which he feigned intimate knowledge of world and religious affairs. As the visitor slammed the car door, Anselm, unable to restrain his curiosity, stepped closer -he'd noticed the small white address label. He just caught Mr Robert B ... and then the vehicle crunched away across the gravel.

Anselm waved farewell. It had been one of those encounters, all too short, that could only end with pages left unturned. In the withdrawn life of a monk it wasn't every day that Anselm met someone like Mr Robert B. The vehicle moved slowly and Anselm noted the stickers on the rear screen: 'National Trust', 'Whitley Bay Jazz Festival', 'Cullercoats RNLI' - each a snapshot of a life's enthusiasms.

Walking back to the Priory, Anselm thought he wouldn't say anything to DI Armstrong just yet. Her research would confirm what he'd been told. The death of Victor Berkeley would become public knowledge and he could write to Rome and let them know that the old collaborator had been struck by bricks from heaven.

And while he was smiling to himself, the one peculiarity of his conversation with Robert B struck him. At no point had they mentioned the identifying feature of the dead renegade: his false name, the name by which he must have been known.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

1.

The idea of going to Larkwood Priory came to Lucy late at night after she had been grilled by Cathy about 'the Frenchman' - an expression that, for Lucy included Victor Brionne. The next morning Lucy forsook a lecture on the Romantic era and rang Pascal.

'I've had an idea. It's a one-off, but it might yield something.'