Free Pilgrim Soul by Gordon Ferris Page A

at Duncan. Getting soft in his old age? Or didn’t fancy the paperwork? Another question occurred to me.
    ‘Why did you come and tell us all this, Ellen?’
    She stared, big-eyed, at me, then at Duncan. ‘Because this is wrong.’ She poked at the golden tablet. ‘Dead wrong. And Ah’m feart. Feart Ah’ll be next.’
    ‘Why would anyone want to kill you?’
    ‘Cos they’re annoyed? Or they think Ah’ve still got some gold? Who knows? But it’s a’ too close for ma liking.’
    ‘Have you told anyone else about this, Ellen?’
    She reached out and picked up the ring she’d made. She rolled it through her fingers.
    ‘Ah told ma rabbi. Maurice Silver. Yesterday. He telt me to speak to you.’

TWELVE
    T here was no doubt Isobel Dunlop knew how to punish dirt. Every surface was scoured. If I took a long enough lie-in I’m sure I would have
been ironed and starched where I lay. We didn’t talk much. I called her Mrs Dunlop. She called me Mr Brodie. She came in on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and did three hours each time.
Hitherto I’d sent my shirts off to the cleaners, but now, without any overt transaction that I was aware of, that duty had been taken over by Isobel. The costs seemed to balance out. And it
was nice to be relieved of porridge-pot cleaning duties. However, in a stupid, guilty, little-boy way, I was glad Sam wasn’t around so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed at Izzie finding
two dents on my pillow.
    On 4 December, the day before the start of the trials, Sam fought her way through the international call system.
    ‘You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel.’
    ‘You’ve just been slow to recognise my talents.’
    ‘I’ve been ploughing through these dossiers on the defendants. I keep finding reports by a certain Major Brodie. Any relation?’
    ‘My alter ego.’ I’d been waiting for this. I’d recognised the names of some of the Nazis on trial in Hamburg. I had been their first-line interrogator in the summer and
autumn of 1945.
    ‘Iain says they’re models of clarity.’
    ‘I’m amazed you’re amazed, Sam.’
    ‘Big head.’
    ‘Good luck tomorrow.’
    ‘It’s terrifying. But we’re well prepared. My brain is gowping with details. Horrible details.’
    So was mine. I kept trying to switch away from the subject but it was like sticking your fingers in your ear and going
la la la
to block out a brass band in your bedroom.
    The first snow of the year hit us on 6 December, a day after the start of the trials. It proved a false harbinger. By mid-month the weather softened again and we were all
beginning to think we’d get away with a mild one. I was roundly thanked by the Garnethill elders for catching the thief and for the return of at least some of the valuables. I held on to the
few items hand-crafted by Ellen Jacobs. It didn’t feel like the end of this tale.
    My life fell into a routine through December, with Isobel’s visits punctuating the passing of time. Sam phoned every so often, on each occasion sounding wearier as though she was adding a
brick a day to the hod she carried. In my mind I was pacing through the trial with her, wishing I were there to help, but guiltily glad I wasn’t. I missed her. Missed the smell of her neck
and hair. One time she called, a little accusatory:
    ‘You never mentioned you were at Lüneburg,’ said Sam. ‘For the Belsen trials.’
    ‘It never came up. And it wasn’t something to chat about over the porridge. It was all part of my post-war secondment.’
    ‘But I thought you were only involved in the interrogations.’
    ‘One thing led to another, Sam. It was quicksand.’
    ‘So you know exactly what I’m doing out here?’
    ‘I know, Sam. I know.’
    And in my dreams each night I was reliving it, so that each morning was like crawling from my grave.
    Ellen Jacobs phoned every few days to see if there was any news. About anything. She was still fearful, and she and her mother had gone to stay with a cousin for a