They found a wine bar and took two stools by the window Mr Lachaise ordered half a bottle of Brouilly 'I trust you are well?' he enquired paternally.

'No.'

'Neither am I.'

'Cheers.'

They sipped a disconsolate communion. Lucy said: 'I simply cannot understand Mr Bartlett's last remark - about saving one child and therefore not choosing to harm another. It's rubbish.'

Mr Lachaise turned his gla.s.s in small, tight circles, bringing the wine up to the rim. 'It is rhetoric, not logic. Words well used. It is also deliberately ambiguous. To save a child means opposition to the system of killing, at least in that one instance. But it also means knowledge of the system that claimed the lives of all the others - and, given his partic.i.p.ation in what happened, that should be enough to convict him. Mr Bartlett, however, is gambling that the ambiguity will tilt in his client's favour. '

'But why should it? If The Round Table knew what "resettlement" meant, so did Schwermann,' said Lucy 'I know. And so does Mr Bartlett. That is why he has done what every advocate does with a strong point that can't be refuted.'

'What's that?'

'He's ignored it, as if it wasn't there. In its place he's planted a seed of pity for an unsung hero.'

'But the jury can't fall for that.'

Mr Lachaise shook his head. 'Sometimes, we all like to think the right answer can only be found by making the most difficult decision, the one we're at first inclined to reject. It shows we took the matter seriously. My dear old mentor, Mr Bremer, used to say nothing more than pity serves to tip the balance.'

'I hope he's wrong.'

'So do I.'

He expressed agreement with such feeling that Lucy looked up, and she was shocked to see the awesome distress upon his face.

4.

By early evening DI Armstrong had still not returned Anselm's message. Idle waiting seemed an offence against the circ.u.mstances. He fidgeted anxiously in his room, rehearsing the future. What if Agnes' being alive made no difference to Victor Brionne ... and he refused to go to the police voluntarily? A yawning hole seemed to open before him, all the more frightening because Anselm had already decided to fall into it. It was not helpful to see the expanding dimensions beforehand. Without thinking, Anselm picked up the telephone and rang Salomon Lachaise.

They met at the same restaurant as before, sat at the same table and were served by the same waiter. The repet.i.tion of the past had the mark of ceremony and under its weight Anselm disclosed to his companion everything he had concealed on the last occasion: including his own role in finding Victor Brionne.

'I am deeply sorry - I presented one person to you when in fact I was another.'

'That is true of all of us,' replied Salomon Lachaise. 'Sometimes it cannot be avoided. You do not need my forgiveness, but you have it.' He fixed Anselm with a piercing gaze and said, 'Are you really prepared to go to the police and bring down your own life, the reputation of your church, your community?'

'Yes.' He was embarra.s.sed by the simplicity of his reply.

Salomon Lachaise removed his heavy framed spectacles, revealing the vulnerable skin kept behind thick gla.s.s. He said, 'Anselm, go to see Victor Brionne, by all means. And deliver the message to Agnes Aubret. But promise me two things.'

'Of course.

'First do nothing else until after the case is over-'

'But-'

'Promise me.' His voice ground out the words.

'All right.'

'And secondly,' he said, 'please put your habit back on. To me you're a monk to the core ... and appearances matter.'

Anselm got back to St Catherine's to find a message pinned to his door: DI Armstrong had rung and would meet him on Thursday evening at 5 p.m. on the steps of St Paul's. She could see him no earlier because of a murder enquiry. Anselm entered his room and immediately lifted his habit off the bed and smuggled himself into its folds. He then tiptoed down to the oratory on the first floor. Sitting in the dark, he could not escape the sensation that Salomon Lachaise had already known a great deal of what he had said, but one question in particular returned again and again: why had he forbidden Anselm to act to his detriment when it was required by what he had done and what he knew? Anselm's imagination was perhaps too easily excited, but he sensed his mysterious friend was about to cast an appalling light upon the tragedy that had engulfed him.

Chapter Forty-One.

1.

Mr Lachaise rang Lucy and suggested they meet for lunch in Gray's Inn Gardens at half past one. He did not propose to attend the end of the Summing-Up. Neither did Lucy at least not all of it. The slow treading-over of the evidence was an unbearable form of waiting.

The gardens lay off Theobald's Road, neatly circ.u.mscribed by mansions of the law, elegant screens of pale magenta brick with regular white-framed windows like rows of pictures. Lucy strolled along a narrow pa.s.sage into Field Court, a tight enclosure adjacent to an ornate pair of wrought-iron gates, resting between two pillars. Surmounting each was a fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle. She paused to study the strange, seated guardians. They threatened to suddenly move, relinquishing stone; to slink, warm-breathed, off their pedestals and wreak wrath and mercy upon High Holborn. What did they protect? Nothing. Whom did they save? No one. When would the day of reckoning come? Never. What were they other than dismal protestations at the absence of angels?

Lucy pa.s.sed between them into the gardens. A lane of polished gravel unrolled between short trees, plump courtiers on afternoon parade. Benches, set well apart, secured leisure with privacy. Upon one of them sat Mr Lachaise, talking earnestly to Max Nightingale.

They did not hear her approach. Lucy sidled to the edge of the path, in line with the bench, reducing the chance of being seen. She harboured a not altogether irrational suspicion that Mr Lachaise had met Max first on purpose. As she drew near, she heard his distinctive, appealing voice say: 'Regardless of what you have said, do as I ask. Do nothing. Rest a.s.sured, there is no need.'

Then, unfortunately she was seen. However, the conversation ran on in an entirely innocent fashion, which rather disappointed Lucy. She had liked the idea of consecutive meetings, up-turned collars and secret conversations. Mr Lachaise continued talking as he beckoned Lucy with his hand: 'You might think your paintings are not especially good, but I'm confident my colleagues will come to another conclusion. As I have said, leave it all to me. The University will issue the invitation; after that it's all very simple. Ah, Lucy do join us.

Lucy shook Max's hand. Seeing him outside the courtroom lit his absence from the trial as a sort of failure, as though he'd left her and Mr Lachaise on the front line. How peculiar, she reflected. He's from the other side.

'I've brought along some very Jewish provisions, said Mr Lachaise, opening a large plastic bag. 'It's always bitter or sweet ... I'll explain as we go along.'

They ate sitting in a line, pa.s.sing curious things from one to the other.

'It's rather like Waiting for G.o.dot,' said Lucy.

'Except this time,' announced Mr Lachaise, 'he might come after all, just when he's not expected.'

2.

At 2.30 p.m. the gardens closed and, politely expelled, they strolled back to Field Court. Mr Lachaise left them standing at the gates between the two indifferent protectors.

In the absence of their intermediary, Max shifted: not clumsily, but though a refined guilt. Lucy saw its trim, its shine, the self-loathing that came from an organic relation to evil. A giddy sense of authority unsettled her balance, like a rush of blood. She could leave him bound, if she wanted. A delicious splash of something wholly foreign touched her lips. Her tongue tasted malice. She recoiled from herself and said, 'Max, to me you are Nightingale, not Schwermann. There's a big difference.'

'It's just paper over cracks.'

Lucy winced at the deliberate use of her words. 'I should never have said that. I'm sorry.'

'Don't say that to me, of all people.'

'I mean it. We're all cracked, covered in paper. I'm no different. There's nothing wrong with being ordinary.'

As they walked out of Field Court, away from the ornate garden protected by myths, Max said, 'I won't be coming to the rest of the trial.'

'Why?'

'I know he's guilty.'

'How?'

'I suppose I've known all along,' he said, 'but I never suspected that he'd entrusted me with the proof of his guilt.'

Lucy understood that elaboration would not come and that it lay in the past - given to Mr Lachaise while she stood contemplating the avenging, lifeless stones.

'I'm glad you liked the picture,' he said, backing away.

'I love it,' replied Lucy.

A half-smile broke his face. Something had been achieved. Lucy held out her hand. 'I'll be off then,' said Max as they shook. It was as much goodbye as a settlement of the past. Lucy watched him leave, threading his way against a stream. Symbolically self-consciously as in the final cut of a film, she waved at the back of his head as he vanished among a mult.i.tude.

3.

Lucy arrived at the Old Bailey, just in time to catch the learned judge's final remarks. There was standing room only.

'It should be noted,' said Mr Justice Pollbrook evenly, 'that for fifty years no student of the times knew that Jacques Fougeres had a child. This is now admitted by the family and perforce by the Crown. Why it should ever have been concealed in the first place escapes my imagination, but that need not trouble you. The important fact is that the detail came from Mr Brionne.' He examined the jurors dispa.s.sionately 'If you are satisfied that having told one significant truth the rest of his evidence can also be believed, then you are ent.i.tled to infer the boy in fact, survived solely because of the conduct of the Defendant. If that is your conclusion, then you are left with the anomaly upon which Mr Bartlett seeks to rely - that it would indeed be strange for the Defendant to have pledged himself to an enterprise that involved the death or serious harm of other children. However, ladies and gentlemen, let me say this.' Mr Justice Pollbrook stared hard at the jury. 'In my long experience, people can be very strange indeed. Look at your own families. How many of them leave you baffled at every turn? No, you must ask yourselves a different type of question altogether: if you are sure of what the Prosecution allege, you must find the Defendant guilty. If you are not sure, you acquit.'

The judge then went through each count on the indictment, giving a series of questions designed to determine whether or not the Defendant was guilty - of the 'if you decide A, then 13 must follow' variety. When he had finished, the judge closed his red book and removed his gla.s.ses, saying, 'Down whichever avenues your reflections may lead you, please remember this. The ground of suspicion belongs to the Defendant.'

The jury then retired, bound by a promise to consider what justice was required according to the evidence. Mr Justice Pollbrook said at this stage he only wanted a verdict upon which they were all agreed.

There was no mistaking it, thought Lucy as she left the court. Whatever the judge had said about the abstract requirements of the law, Schwermann's innocence or guilt was going to turn on what the jury thought about the strange story of a child, believed by them all to be still alive, known by Lucy and Agnes to be dead.

4.

As arranged, Anselm met DI Armstrong on the steps of St Paul's.

'Coffee?' asked Anselm.

'No, thanks. How can I help?'

Anselm could not but note the perfunctory, professional courtesy.

'I would like to speak to Victor Brionne.'

'So I'm told.'

'It's important.'

'You said as much last time. "In the interests of justice, in its widest sense", I think you said: 'I did.'

'That's not what happened in the courtroom.'

'I know'

'Father, don't you think your meddling has done enough damage? There's a chance that rubbish from Victor Brionne could lead to an acquittal. Are you aware of that?'

Anselm blazed with humiliation. 'I promise, I had no idea what he was going to say.

'Your promises are not entirely straightforward, I'm afraid.'

'But this time I know what I'm doing. Before I was in the dark.'

'As was I, and still am. I don't want to be enlightened. Here's the address and telephone number.' She handed him a piece of paper. It had been written down in advance.

'Thank you.

'Father, I'm sorry to say this but I'm giving it to you not because I trust you, but because it's a matter of public record. He's in the telephone book.'

Anselm put the note in his pocket, his head bent, unable to face his accuser. When he finally did so, DI Armstrong had already turned around. He stood, emptied, watching her walk down the steps away from him.