The Discourtesy of Death (Father Anselm Novels) Read Online Free PDF Page A

worked on each of the cases in question.
    ‘I read about you in the
Sunday Times
,’ replied Anselm. ‘I thought we might tie up a few loose ends.’
    After the second trial, concerning the alleged theft of £174,189.84 from a previous employer (by identical means), Anselm had never set foot in Mitch’s club again. He’d let their friendship whither without saying why. Professional etiquette had prevented him from speaking plainly, as friends must. He couldn’t say that he’d blushed at the improbability of his closing speech, when he’d twice blamed missing secretaries and the honourable dead (juries like to think the upright had merely concealed their corruption). He couldn’t say that he’d never accepted either of the rogue verdicts.
    ‘Where do you want to start?’ teased Mitch. ‘Where we left off?’
    ‘No. To put our parting in context, I need to go back to the beginning … to when I first came to the bar. Will you bear with me?’
    Mitch gave a willing nod. He had the worn look of a man who lives by nights, not altogether caring what happens during the day. His hair was silvered, cropped close to the scalp. He was dressed in black: a rumpled T-shirt and faded jeans: the uniform of musicians and vendors of
Socialist Worker
, devoted acolytes of art and protest. His face was lined from too much frowning. All those high notes, fancied Anselm. Or maybe it was the worry. He was pale, too, from only working when the sun went down. Brown eyes flickered with curiosity. Anselm said:
    ‘When I first entered a courtroom, I thought that winning a case was all that mattered. If I lost, well, it was just hard luck; or maybe I just needed to learn a few clever moves … you know, the tricks of the trade. It took me years to realise that winning had nothing to do with finding the truth. More often than not I went home pretty sure the jury had got it right. But sometimes, especially during a winning streak – like with you – I was convinced they’d got it wrong. And these were golden moments, because I’d pulled off the impossible. I’d persuaded twelve decent people that in the exceptional circumstances of this most difficult case, two and two make five. I’d done nothing wrong. I’d followed the rules. But I’d ended up as part of the crime. I went home with a taste of ash in the mouth. This wasn’t why I’d come to the Bar. Not to win a game. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?’
    Mitch gave the matter careful consideration. Then he reached for his trumpet and played an Ellington refrain,
forte
: ‘I’m Beginning to See the Light’. He was a cautious man. Even now he wasn’t going to incriminate himself.
    Anselm continued:
    ‘You, Mitch, belong to the ash. That’s why our friendship ended. But I’ve come back because I’ve selected you for a special role. On the scale of criminals I helped along the way, you are roughly in the middle. You’re an average player. And that makes you a fitting symbol for the rest … for all the people who walked free but should have been sent to Wormwood Scrubs.’
    Mitch couldn’t think of a rejoinder so he just worked the valves. In a way, it was a gesture of appreciation; and sarcasm.
    ‘I’ve got a proposal for you,’ said Anselm. ‘But first I need to ask a few questions, starting with the obvious. Why steal the money? You needed nothing.’
    ‘There Was Nobody Looking’. Mitch had blown another Ellington line,
pianissimo
this time.
    Anselm persevered: ‘The police couldn’t trace a penny. Will you tell me where it all went?’
    Mitch gave a shrug and played ‘Undecided’, a Dixieland standard, but Anselm cut the tune short: ‘Have you gone clean? I need to know for sure. No fooling around this time.’
    Mitch thought about the question long enough to persuade Anselm that he was being serious, and then he began ‘Keepin’ Out of Mischief Now’.
    It was one of Fats Waller’s funny promises. And an appropriate note to end on.
    Broadly