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

for justice, once you’ve seen how we need rules to protect and save, you’ll answer for yourself without hiding behind a trumpet. I’m hoping you’ll tell me why you stole the money and what you did with it. I’m hoping you’ll hand yourself in and face the consequences.’
    ‘As a symbol for all the others?’
    ‘No. For your own good.’
    The grooves along Mitch’s forehead buckled and Anselm wondered if there wasn’t an element of bitterness in those crooked shadows; a deep and abiding disillusionment. Mitch’s brown eyes rose inexorably, settling onto Anselm with a kind of livid pity. Or was it frustration? An exasperation with do-gooders who don’t understand their own rhetoric? He seemed to accept a challenge: there was tension in his voice, born of the longing to be proved right:
    ‘Maybe at the end of this expedition into joint atonement, you, too, will learn something about law and the complexity of life, and how rules don’t always protect or save.’
    Anselm held Mitch’s gaze: there was fire in there, and resistance. The spat and the insults weren’t that far away after all. Anselm said, lightly:
    ‘I take it you accept my offer?’
    Mitch’s anger subsided. He slumped back in his chair, regarding Anselm with an old familiarity. They’d spoken like this about bop and be-bop. They’d said hard things to one another; unforgivable things. And then Mitch had got charged. They’d spoken politely about the evidence, never once exchanging a cross word. Everything had gone smoothly. Smiling mischievously, he reached for his trumpet. Assenting to Anselm’s proposal – and looking forward to the rewards of conversion – he closed his eyes and belted out ‘Oh When the Saints’.
    Anselm was jealous. He coveted the wherry and its place on the Lark. He’d always been drawn to rivers and the sea and their shared element, water. It was cleansing but dangerous, sure but unpredictable. At night, listening to ‘Sailing By’, he rode imagined waves, feeling the swell of the deep, wondering what tomorrow might hold. Humming the tune, he followed Mitch on deck to a bench on the prow. The morning glow had vanished off the fields. Cattle tugged at the grass. Fish snapped into the air.
    ‘I have a case already,’ said Anselm, watching ringlets spread and vanish. ‘There’s no evidence of any crime. Finding out what happened will require both grit and imagination.’
    ‘What do you expect from me?’ said Mitch, uncertainly. ‘I’m just a musician.’
    ‘And I’m just a monk. Perhaps you could improvise with the facts.’
    They watched the cows slowly eating, sticking close together as if they might get lost.
    ‘But you’re not just a monk, are you?’ qualified Mitch, to distinguish the conductor from the player. ‘You’re a detective.’
    This time Anselm was the one with a lined brow, shadows cut into skin that had once been smooth and free from cares. He almost felt the Lark lift with anticipation.
    ‘I’m not sure the term meets the demands of the moment,’ he said, rather quietly. ‘Think more a solver of puzzles. A troubled explorer in a wilderness of moral problems.’

5
    Michael moved resolutely down the stairs of the guesthouse, past the dining room and out through the front door. A cold wind struck his face like a wave on a desolate beach. Orange-rimmed cloud, violet to black, smeared the vast expanse above the complaining sea. Michael didn’t linger. He had a job to do. He’d picked his target during the previous days’ dawdling, after confirming that the corner shop was still there, flanked by a pub and lighthouse. He’d checked the opening and closing times. He’d found out when the streets were deserted. The informer had told Michael to practise.
    Look into the eyes of someone you love. Turn out the light with a flick of a switch.
    Someone you love. There was no one to hand. But Michael had a loved memory of a loved place. A tiny shop two hundred yards from the shore.