Jonathan was dozing now, and his sleep was untroubled by nightmares.
6
NEXT morning there was a foot of snow in the garden of Pembroke House.
‘The lanes are almost impassable,’ Mason said when he brought Jonathan his tea. ‘They telephoned from the lodge. The drive’s very bad. Better stay indoors today, Sir Jonathan.’
‘I’ll need some fresh air so I’ll have a walk in the afternoon. I’m expecting the lawyers this morning.’
‘I doubt if they’ll make it.’
‘I shan’t be sorry if they can’t,’ Jonathan replied. ‘It’s not important.’
Mason paused by the bedroom door. ‘I hope all’s going well, sir,’ he said. ‘The way you want, that is.’
‘It’s going as I expected, Mason. Just as I expected. Will you see the fire’s lit in my drawing-room.’
In the kitchen, Mason’s wife, the cook, was preparing the breakfast for James and Mary.
‘How is he?’ she asked.
‘Looking very old. I don’t think he could’ve slept much.’
‘It’s a disgrace what they’re doing to him. Ever since those police last summer banging on the door at that hour of the morning and taking him away like a criminal. Poor old man. Now it’s all those lawyers. They’ve no right to do what they’re doing to him. As for the newspapers and the cameras, I blame them, them and the police. Fancy running alongside the car to get pictures.’
‘It’s their job,’ said her husband, as he picked up the tray to take to the dining-room. He looked out the window. ‘The papers’ll be full of it, so if we don’t get them, at least he’ll be spared that. Not that he often reads them.’
‘Who was the man in the white hat walking with Mr Benson on TV last night?’
‘He’s the top lawyer, from London. Sir Jonathan’s expecting him this morning. But I shouldn’t think he’ll turn up – not if he’s got far to come.’
Later Harold Benson telephoned Jonathan. He sounded as agitated as ever.
‘Shelbourne’s snowed in and can’t get to the conference this morning.’
‘Never mind,’ Jonathan replied.
‘He should never have gone home, but he says he’s certain he’ll get out by Sunday evening. There’s a tractor, he said, which would pull him out. But the forecast is the snow’ll stop soon and thaw tomorrow.’
‘Then that’s all right. Our talk today was not important.’
‘But it is important, Sir Jonathan. The evidence begins on Monday.’
‘I know, Mr Benson, I know. But the first witnesses will be the formal ones and then there’ll be the nurse and the doctor. There’s no conflict over their evidence.’
‘Shelbourne asked again about Major Lightwood and Mr Symes. He wanted to know if you’d changed your mind about not wanting them. He said if you had, I must let the prosecution know today.’
‘No, I have not changed my mind. Their statements can be read to the jury.’
‘I’m coming to see you,’ said Benson. ‘I’ll be with you in an hour.’
Jonathan sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said.
Harold Benson, in his shabby duffel coat and Wellington boots, arrived at half past eleven. He had left his car by the gate and walked up the drive.
In his drawing-room, Jonathan stood waiting. ‘It is good of you to make the effort, Mr Benson. Come and have that glass of sherry I promised you. The decanter is on the table by the chair.’
Harold, his nose red and his grey hair still tousled from when he had pushed back the cowl of his coat, so that it stood straight up around the crown of his head like a halo, poured himself a glass and then sat in the chair by the fire. He pulled his papers and a notebook from his inside pocket, then patted his pockets and began going through them.
‘I’ve mislaid my pen,’ he said apologetically.
‘There’s one over there.’ Jonathan pointed to the desk.
As Benson went to fetch it he dropped his notebook. When he returned he began to search for it among his papers.
‘It’s by your feet,’ said Jonathan. Benson picked it up and tried to write.
‘My hands are still too frozen.’ He put his hands out to the fire to warm them.
‘There’s no hurry. Drink some more sherry.’
They both sat for a moment in silence. Then Benson said, almost pleading, ‘Mr Shelbourne asked that I should go through with you once again what was said between you and the nurse.’
‘We know what she will say from her statement. She seemed a very pleasant young woman.’
‘I’m sure she is, but is what she says in her statement all that was said? I have it somewhere.’
He began to search through his papers, but without success. Jonathan watched him, smiling faintly. ‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I think I remember. What she says is generally correct. We may have said a little more, but nothing important.’
‘Mr Shelbourne says we must know so that when she gives evidence he can, as he calls it, put it to her.’
‘Yes, that is what counsel should do, if there’s any disagreement.’
‘Well, is there?’ Then Harold added plaintively, ‘I’ve been asking you this, Sir Jonathan, for weeks.’
‘I know you have, Mr Benson. I know you have, and you’ve been very patient.’ He paused. ‘But, as you can gather, I’m not at ease with Mr Shelbourne.’
‘That may be so, Sir Jonathan, but he says he can’t defend you if you don’t tell him exactly what happened in that house with Colonel Trelawney.’
‘Mr Benson, I have spent a lifetime in the courts. I know what counsel has to do, but I have my reasons why I shall not say more just at present. The time will come, and then I’m sure you’ll understand. Mr Shelbourne enjoys this kind of trial and I fear he may want to probe into matters which are not relevant. That is why I have told him so little.’
Benson sighed. ‘He is your counsel,’ he said weakly. ‘If you won’t tell him everything that happened, how do you expect him to defend you?’
Jonathan reached for the poker and stirred the logs on the fire. ‘The facts which the early witnesses speak to are not disputed, so there is no challenge to the greater part of the prosecution evidence and no scope for the kind of performance in which Mr Shelbourne excels. Now, is there anything else?’
‘After the nurse, they’re to call the doctor and the technician who checked the apparatus on the next day; after that there’s the autopsy result, the fingerprint evidence, and finally the police evidence.’
Jonathan had risen and gone to the window, where he stood looking out at the snow. ‘Ah, yes, the police,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I am still pondering about the evidence of the police.’
‘Still pondering, Sir Jonathan, when the trial has already begun!’
Jonathan turned back to Harold Benson, who was now standing in the centre of the room. He looked so forlorn and woebegone that Jonathan smiled and took him by the arm. ‘You’d rather be talking to me about first editions and early folios, wouldn’t you?’ He patted Harold Benson’s shoulder. ‘You must trust me, Mr Benson. Your task is to handle, or at least to distract, Mr Shelbourne – whom, I remind you, I hope not unfairly, you chose.’
When Harold began to protest, Jonathan went on, ‘But come. The snow has stopped. It is growing warmer. There will be a thaw. Monday is thirty-six hours ahead, and the sun is shining.’
* * *
At about the same time on that Saturday morning as Jonathan was with Harold Benson, Richard Bracton, the prosecuting counsel in the trial of Regina v. Playfair, was walking in the ploughed field behind their house with his wife, Joan. The children, the ten-year-old twins Thomas and Eleanor, had run on ahead. The snow was quite deep, and they all wore boots and were well wrapped up against the cold. But the sun began to shine and soon Bracton grew warm. He stopped to unbutton his oilskin jacket. ‘It’ll thaw soon,’ he said.
‘Have you finished all your preparation?’ Joan asked.
‘Yes, although I kee
p thinking up fresh points.’
‘When will the evidence begin?’
‘Mid-morning Monday, with statements by two witnesses. For some reason the defence doesn’t want those two witnesses called, which surprised me.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, what they swear to is damaging for Playfair. The first, a Major Lightwood, got a letter from Trelawney which shows Trelawney was pretty scared of Playfair, who had insisted on visiting him. The other is a lawyer, Symes, who speaks about the money Playfair has lost. I expected the defence would want them called so as to cross-examine them. But they don’t. That means that they don’t challenge what Lightwood and Symes say. It’s rather mysterious. I suppose Shelbourne’s up to something.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘You saw him on television. An actor, but effective with a jury. I’ve never been in a case with him before.’
It was important for Richard Bracton to do this prosecution well, for he was in line for an appointment to the circuit bench which he much wanted. There was a vacancy on the bench in the city and it was expected he would fill it.
They walked on in silence until Joan said, ‘Could anyone except Playfair have caused Trelawney’s death?’
‘The nurse who was looking after Trelawney – but that’s inconceivable. I can’t imagine they’ll suggest that. No, the real question is: was Trelawney’s death murder, accident or suicide? The defence don’t have to show their hand until later.’
She took his arm. ‘It’s all very sad,’ she said.
‘It is. Sad for Playfair – and, because of what he was, sad for the law.’
‘And it’ll be the last case you’ll ever do as a barrister?’
He laughed. ‘It isn’t definite I’ll be appointed.’
‘Will you have to travel when you’re a judge?’
‘No, I’ll only sit here, in the city.’
‘What do you think of Graham Harris?’
‘He’s said to be very clever. He had a large commercial practice.’
‘Does he know much about criminal law?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He probably thinks being in a criminal court surrounded by all of us criminal hacks is slumming. In fact, criminal law is more difficult than the commercial boys think.’
He picked up a stick and threw it for the Labrador, which had left the children and come bounding back to them, his black mask covered in snow.
‘But they had to find a High Court judge who didn’t know Playfair. So they chose him, the newest and the youngest. He’ll handle it all right.’
They had reached a stile at the end of the ploughed field. The children had knocked most of the snow from the top rail where they had clambered over, but at its foot the snow was deep. Joan called to the twins not to get too far ahead. She and Richard started to skirt the next field along the hedgerow.
‘I shall be glad to be finished with barristering, if they do make me a judge,’ Bracton said as they set off again. ‘Simon Templar, the Presiding Judge of the circuit, has a considerable influence and he seems to think that I ought to get it.’
If I do the case right, he thought to himself.
She put her arm through his. ‘You’ll make a very good judge. You’ll be your own man, as you always have been.’ But that, she thought, might be a problem. He was often too much his own man. Once he’d made up his mind, no-one could get him to change it. And he had never been deferential to those older and senior, and sometimes wiser. But he was a good man, she loved him dearly and she hoped he’d get what he wanted. He deserved it.
‘There’ll be less money,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she said.
She saw the children flinging snowballs at each other at the far corner of the field. ‘Do you think you’ll get a conviction?’ she asked.
‘Yes, unless Playfair has some very convincing explanation, which so far he’s not given.’
‘When I first read about it I thought it had all been blown up by the papers.’
‘Well, Playfair’s fingerprints are on the medical equipment which pumped into Trelawney the drug that killed him. What was Playfair doing touching that? Then there’s the letter Trelawney wrote about Playfair coming to visit, which came to light after Trelawney was killed; and there’s the money. While Trelawney was alive, quite a lot of money was kept from Playfair and Playfair needs it. He’s been ruined by Lloyd’s. Then he left the house without telling anyone Trelawney was dead. He has a lot to explain.’
They trudged on in silence. Then he said, ‘But before it’s all over we’ll have some fireworks from Shelbourne. This is the kind of case he enjoys. But then, he’s counsel for the defence. I’m only the prosecutor. What I have to do is present the facts – fairly.’
She took his arm again. ‘Which you will do, and when it’s over you’ll be His Honour Judge Bracton—’
He laughed. ‘And we’ll live happy ever after.’
‘We’re happy now,’ she said.
In the afternoon, despite what he had said to Joan, Richard Bracton went back into his study to work on the final part of the opening statement he had begun on Friday afternoon. It was the most important case he’d ever done and he was conscious of his responsibility. What was more important than securing a conviction was to show to the world that Playfair had received no favours. So he had to prosecute hard. But prosecuting counsel, as he had said to Joan, was not like defending counsel. The prosecutor was meant to be more an officer of justice, fair and impartial, and that part of his duty Richard Bracton took very seriously. He was determined to do the case well, and be seen to have done it well. Then, when it was over, he could expect to get what he wanted, a seat on the circuit bench in the city in which he had lived all his life.
* * *
Jonathan lunched with James and Mary in the dining-room. Then they walked on the snow-covered terrace so that he could get some fresh air.
‘It’s going to thaw tonight,’ James said, ‘and tomorrow there’ll be the devil of a mess. Slush and mud, epecially on the path to the church.’
‘I won’t be going to church,’ Jonathan said.
Mary knew why. The photographers would be there. ‘Neither shall we,’ she said.
She and James set off into the park and Jonathan went into the house. He sat at his desk making notes for what he intended to say to the court – what he had told neither Shelbourne nor Benson. To check a date he opened a drawer, looking through a bundle of bank statements. When Mason brought a tray of tea and drew the curtains, he said without looking up, ‘I won’t need any supper tonight.’
‘Are you sure, Sir Jonathan,’ Mason said. Then he repeated what Mary had said the evening before: ‘You must keep up your strength.’
But Jonathan waved him away and went back to his notes. After a time he rose from the desk and went to his chair by the fire. He could not get out of his mind his dream of Nicola and the ostrich feather.
He had only heard from her once after she had left for the States just before the war had broken out. It was only much later that he learned she had gone across the border to Canada and after the fall of France, in the summer of 1940, got a passage to Liverpool. By then he was at Dover, his battalion living above and around the castle in the tunnels and redoubts built to defend the coast from Napoleon. The town and the heights were shelled daily by the German long-range guns in Calais, the harbour strafed by dive-bombers until the Royal Navy’s Dover Patrol was driven from the port to shelter in harbours farther down the coast. He was in Scotland when his mother wrote and told him Nicola had joined the Wrens and that her grandmother had moved to Shropshire. Then, early in 1941 when the bombs were still falling on London, he saw her again.
He had gone to a flat in Old Church Street in Chelsea, to a wedding party of a Cambridge friend with a snug job at the Ministry of Information. The sirens had not yet gone. It’s a clear night, people were saying. So perhaps the bombers won’t be coming tonight. But they had, a little later.
There were
so many crushed into the small flat, with people sitting on the stairs and on the landing outside the sitting-room, that he hadn’t noticed her at first. He was talking to a woman who was already rather drunk and who was swaying and pushing her body against his, and he had looked up over the woman’s head and seen Nicola at the other end of the room in her dark blue uniform. He shouldered his way across the room. She saw him and smiled. But there was a tautness around her eyes and the corner of her mouth.
‘I heard last autumn that you were back,’ he said. ‘It’s been such a long time, I must hear all your news. Are you doing anything this evening?’
She shook her head. ‘Let’s get out of here then,’ he said.
The guns had begun, but the bombs were falling away to the east in the City. They found a taxi in the King’s Road and were driven to Soho, the old taxi-driver talking over his shoulder, unconcerned by the difficulty of driving in the black-out amid the noise of the guns. When they found a table in the second restaurant they tried, Nicola told him how she had got back to England and joined the Wrens. She spoke rapidly, hardly letting him say anything, not eating, drinking only water, although in those early wartime days there was still some wine. The bombing had now moved nearer. The Cypriot proprietor wanted to close and went from table to table urging people to leave and go to the shelters or the Underground. Some did, but most stayed. When a bomb fell a few streets away Jonathan asked, ‘Do you want to leave?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I’d rather be above ground, and I like to talk during a raid.’
‘If I can hear anything you’re saying,’ he said as the doors and walls rattled. By now the proprietor had abandoned his attempts to shift the remaining customers and, shrugging his shoulders, he went to the little bar near their table and took down a bottle of brandy from the shelf.
‘Bring us some,’ Jonathan called out. The man came over and poured some into their glasses. His hand was shaking. ‘Why don’t you go away?’ he said to them. ‘You ought to go away.’ He disappeared through a curtain and down the steps to the cellar, calling to his wife. The lights flickered each time a bomb fell, but Nicola sat quite still, both hands now around her glass of brandy.
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