A Whispered Name by William Brodrick

evidence. The court
will now retire.’ Glanville checked his pocket watch and noted the time: 10.28
a.m.
    The
sentry, sullen-faced throughout the trial, marched forward and escorted
Flanagan from the room. Boots crashed upon the tiles, the outside steps, and
the flags of the playground, and Herbert (with his ears) followed the accused
down more steps to the cellar beneath.
    … and
Father Maguire looked after that poor kid …
    ‘We’ll
go next door,’ said Glanville to Chamberlayne, implying that he could stay put.
He shuffled his papers into a neat pile and plopped them on the red book.
    Silencing
the voices in his head, Herbert went down the room, to the chair used by the
accused. Turning on his heel, he looked to the place he himself had occupied.
To the left (over what had been Herbert’s right shoulder) was the cracked
mirror in the Greek temple frame. Glanville and Oakley both appraised him as
though he’d lost his senses. But Herbert was gazing elsewhere. The cracked
mirror was angled such that he could see through a window whose lace curtain
was missing. Herbert’s eyes watered with a longing for a world that had passed
away A reflection of its loveliness remained as a most awful reminder: between
the Doric pillars he picked out a low bank of distant trees, a blue sky and
scudding pink clouds. The morning mist had completely disappeared, burned away
by the one sun that had illuminated his childhood and left Quarters astride a
mule.

 
     
     
     
    Chapter Twelve
     
    1
     
    Anselm read the evidence
of the trial in ten minutes. He’d studied it in fifteen. It had been delivered
— according to the record — in twenty-four. That was some going. He’d felt like
he was leaning over someone’s shoulder because the transcript, written in
pencil, had been scored here and there with brown and red crayon. These, he
assumed, had been added by two different people involved in the review process —
perhaps the lawyer (brown) checking for irregularities, and the
Commander-in-Chief (red) who would make a decision on sentence. Each colour was
like a window on to a different level of indignation. The most excited effort
had been reserved for ‘alcohol’, ‘wine’ and ‘drunk’. Each word had been
underlined twice, each time in red.
    And
indignation settled upon Anselm.
    Flanagan
was on trial for his life, unrepresented, before amateurs. Decent folk with the
awesome powers of a king. That had last happened in the Middle Ages. The
prosecution evidence wasn’t tested: no defence witnesses were called; no plea
of substance was made for leniency The only cross-examination of any force was
Herbert’s questioning of Private Elliot, the person who’d last seen Flanagan in
the reserve trenches. And that was a waste of time, because while the account
was inadmissible anyway (repeating the order of the Medical Officer that sent
Flanagan back to his unit) Flanagan cured the irregularity by accepting what
had been said — and that demolished whatever value might have been attached to
Herbert’s assault.
    Testily
Anselm reached for the additional documents ordered by Martin and strode to the
Donk Shop. Phrases from the trial whirled through his mind. One in particular
baffled him: And cold I was and wet. It was a strange way to talk …
    Beginning
with the Battalion War Diary, Anselm photocopied every entry between January
and September 1917, hoping that within the pages he’d find a route into
Flanagan’s mind. It was while leafing through the War Diary of the Adjutant and
Quartermaster General, however, that Anselm came to a surprised halt, knowing
that he must have stumbled upon something of significance. There, on the 17th
September 1917, like a bookmarker, was a yellow ticket. This one had Kate
Seymour’s name printed on it. She’d left it behind by accident.
    Anselm
studied the page with growing confusion.
    A
post—war censor had cut a square hole beneath the title ‘113. Courts Martial
— Desertion. ’