Read Online A Whispered Name by William Brodrick - Free Book Online

wholly foreign spirit of confidence.
The melody was unbearably beautiful … it spiralled into the very place where
Herbert’s soul grovelled when the shells came screaming towards him. Without
deciding to do so, Herbert fled from a new kind of fear, back to the world he
hated and understood. By the time he reached the lane, the singing had stopped.
Herbert looked right, towards the tents and huts. On either side were the
ordered dispositions of three brigades. There were officers galore, but Duggie
had called on Herbert. He’d brought him back from Boulogne to ‘do his duty’.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Seven
     
    Far from being the depot
of Anselm’s imagination, the Public Record Office was a modern structure rather
like one of those pillboxes in Normandy only it was immense with a plentiful
distribution of tinted glass. A great weeping willow by a lake bruised Anselm’s
sensibility. The branches hung so low that the fronds trailed in the water
like an act of veneration. At the reception desk Anselm asked for Martin Reid.
Presently approaching quietly from behind, Anselm heard a soft Scottish voice. ‘Good
morning, Father. Welcome on board.’
    The
joke was more self-conscious than clumsy While Martin had been a confident,
even commanding, presence on the telephone, face to face he was somewhat shy
Anselm placed him in his late forties. He was immaculately turned out: polished
black shoes, pressed grey trousers and a blue blazer with silver buttons — an
appearance wholly fitting a man who’d served under a naval ensign. It was a
uniform of sorts, the only delinquent attribute being the open-necked checked
shirt, though Anselm suspected a tie bearing a dolphin motif was neatly folded
in one pocket. His eyes were dark brown, showing reserve, absorption and a
friendliness more easily expressed from a distance. On entering his office,
Anselm smiled. The room was in savage contrast to the character of its
occupant. Books and papers were heaped on his desk among photographs in various
garish frames. Four children smiled out with the exuberance — Anselm presumed —
of their mother.
    ‘Remember,
I was a submariner,’ said Martin, scratching his head as if someone else had
wrecked the room while he was out. ‘After you’ve lived in a bicycle pump you
don’t quite know where to put things once you get the space.’
    The
disorder was entirely superficial, Anselm was sure. A controlled reaction to
the extraordinary discipline of his former professional life. His attire, tone
and manner communicated his defining qualities: seriousness of purpose,
respect for the subject of his work, and the utmost reliability.
    ‘Given
the nature of your enquiries, I’ve managed to secure some special arrangements:
a room of your own, quick access to a photocopier and a telephone if you need
help. You mustn’t hesitate. Just dial forty—eight.’
    Anselm
took a facing chair, quite certain that Martin was at least fascinated by his
presence. He was, after all, a link to the past, however slender; a thread into
a troubling court martial that had escaped any simple classification.
    ‘I hope
you can find a clue to the meaning of this trial,’ said Martin. He rested his
square jaw between cupped hands, letting his pessimism drift across the room. ‘For
it has a meaning, of that I’m sure. I just have no idea of what it might be:
    Anselm
blinked as if a shaft of light had shot through the canopy of aspens over
Larkwood’s cemetery. Those phrases belonged to Kate Seymour. She’d been here.
She’d dialled 48 from a private room. That’s how Martin had discovered that
Herbert had been a member of the court martial.
    ‘I can’t
make any promises,’ admitted Anselm. He waited politely to see if Martin would
confirm the intuition but they were both observing the same discretion: respect
for another’s confidentiality. But Anselm wasn’t really bound. He’d been told
no secrets. And an open conversation, now, about Kate Seymour,