The Gardens of the Dead (42 page)

‘Well,
it might be,’ said the Prior simply ‘But it might not. When I first went into
the confessional, I believed that all evil, at root, was a wound and never a
choice — and I still hold on to that, when I can. But I’ve met charming people
who tell me they’ve done unconscionable things, quite freely without the
benefit of yesterday’s misfortune. And I believe them. The wounded and the
free: they both break windows. But there’s one narrow piece of ground upon
which they have an equal footing. It might seem unfair, but forgiveness is
available to each — not because they can prove they deserve it, but because
they can both say sorry. I used to think it scandalous that each could be
reprieved on the same basis, just as easily when the deserts of one so
outweighed the other.’

‘What
changed your mind?’

The
Prior’s eyes twinkled. A little knowledge of myself.’ He stood up and brushed
the back of his cloak. As for Mr Riley who knows where he stands? We can’t
discern who’s truly free, and who isn’t, or where the difference might lie. We
have to muddle along, all of us, remembering, I think, that in the end, the
giving of mercy is not our lot.’

Resolutely
Father Andrew followed the track away from the aspen trees towards Larkwood. He
had a meeting organised by Cyril. Gazing at graves, he’d said, was an excellent
means of preparation.

The
winter sun was low and clouds were moving over St Leonard’s Field. The air was
charged with precipitation, and the light curiously pink.

The
court system, thought Anselm, would handle the question of Riley’s intentions
and deserts with bracing clarity. He would receive censure, a certain amount of
sympathy and a lengthy custodial sentence, which, on reflection, would be merciful
to Nancy But despite his many crimes, Anselm felt pity for Graham Riley He
could not easily dismiss the image of a boy collecting coloured stones and
bottle tops; of such a boy casting a poker into a lake that it might never be
seen again. In a sense, he thought, Elizabeth had successfully recreated
herself; and so had George. They’d run away and started again. But Riley had
failed hopelessly He’d never left Dagenham. The courts could no longer punish
him. It would just be window-dressing, however severe. He was, in several
disquieting respects, beyond the reach of the law But not Nancy’s …

That
ruined instrument, Elizabeth had said of him. She, too, had finally settled on
pity.

Anselm looked up, his
attention caught by a small, roundish figure hurrying along the track. He wore
a brown overcoat with the collar up and a red woolly hat with a bobble on top.

‘Frank
Wyecliffe,’ muttered Anselm, astonished.

The
solicitor bowed, shook hands, looked around warily and sat on the railway
sleeper. He wanted to raise a delicate matter, he said. He’d asked for Anselm
and a monk had given him faultless directions to the graveyard, which, given
the errand in hand, was a most appropriate location. He sat blinking at the
aspen trees.

‘So …
is this how you spend your free time these days?’

‘Some,
but not all,’ replied Anselm.

‘Very
nice.’

Mr Wyecliffe
rubbed his hands, blowing into them. His head had almost vanished below the
high collar. He said, ‘Our mutual friend Inspector Cartwright is of the opinion
that my old client, Mr Riley could not have devised his harebrained scheme without
contemporaneous informed assistance. She thinks it came from me. But I don’t
give that kind of help — not on legal aid … ‘He glanced over the collar. ‘That’s
a joke … all right?’

‘Yes,’
replied Anselm.

‘I
could do without another complaint to the Law Society,’ he said, wincing at the
cold. ‘Would you explain to the good Inspector that I’m not responsible for the
workings of Riley’s mind? That I limit myself to its effects?’

‘Of
course.’ Anselm considered the huddled figure with warmth and something like
admiration. For thirty years, Frank Wyecliffe had represented Graham Riley’s
interests — from conveyancing to homicide; he was that most adroit of guides:
a scout in the maze of the law If there were a turning he could take to his
client’s advantage, he’d take it, with a bow He was a necessary man, a
dedicated man; a good man, though, inevitably such work leaves its mark.

‘Frank …’
Anselm began to smile. At last, he’d worked something out. ‘Did you post
letters to me and Inspector Cartwright on Elizabeth’s behalf?’

The
hairy head appeared above the collar again. The narrow eyes were asking if this
matter was on the record or off. ‘Consider this a species of confession,’ he
said, to cover both alternatives.

It
transpired that Elizabeth had come to Cheapside not long after she’d visited
Larkwood for the last time. Just as Anselm had been entrusted with a key so Mr
Wyecliffe had been given two letters. They’d each been asked to act in the
event of her death. They’d both of them delayed (in Mr Wyecliffe’s case,
because he’d lost them in his office. It was the phone call from Nick that had
him on his hands and knees).

Anselm
could not suppress a smile. There can be a grim humour among lawyers. And he
saw wit in Elizabeth’s allocation of duties:

‘You
ought to know,’ he said, ‘that you posted to me the means by which your client
now stands charged with murder —for that was how I met Mrs Dixon. And if
Elizabeth hadn’t made a mistake about the law, you’d have posted to Inspector
Cartwright the evidence to convict him of living off immoral earnings.’

Mr Wyecliffe
blinked at the aspens, and said, ‘I wonder what the Law Society would make of
that one?’

‘Don’t
worry, Frank,’ said Anselm. ‘We’re all in the same boat. She gave everyone a
part to play depending on what they’d done: me, George, you, even Inspector
Cartwright. We were all meant to get what we deserved. Especially your client.’

Mr Wyecliffe
hurried back along the track, a figure so very different to the Prior, and
perhaps, in his own way just as important.

The branches trembled and
snow began to fall. Instantly the whole valley of the Lark became speckled. The
greens of winter began to fade and the woods turned white. There was so much
activity and so much silence. Pensively Anselm thought, What will grow in the
space I leave behind? Something for the delight of others, or pain? He didn’t
know; and, he felt, he ought to. ‘Now is the time to decide,’ he said out loud.
On that note of homage to Elizabeth, he rose and sought refuge in the small
tool-shed propped against the enclosure wall. As he rattled free the door, a
yellow butterfly skipped past him and left the grove. It vanished as quickly as
it had appeared.