‘First, he talked about his disease, saying that he feared not death but dying slowly and painfully. He was not prepared to accept that, he said, and now he had the means to accomplish what he wanted. I asked what he meant, and he replied that soon I would see – and here he tapped the apparatus with the tube strapped to his chest and the machine with the syringe on the table beside him. “There’s enough here to do what I want,” he said. He then spoke of the past – of his mother’s love affair with my father, of his regret at what he had done with his life after he had left the army, of the failure he had become. “The war,” he said, “that was the time, the summit, the peak of my existence. Then I was a hero. When it was over, everything turned to ashes.”’
Jonathan paused. Graham saw the beads of perspiration on his white face and that he was gripping the ledge of the witness-box in front of him as Nurse Langley had done the day before. The court was very quiet.
‘He next spoke of his envy of me, of the success I had made of my life compared to his. It had begun to obsess him, he said, and created within him what he described as a devil which had driven him to prey on me. He did it, he said, more to injure me than to get money for himself – although, he added grinning, the cash had been useful. But now he was tired. He’d had, he said, a good innings and he knew the cancer was going to kill him. He was not going to face treatment in hospital which would only postpone what he knew was inevitable. “The chemotherapy,” he said, “will make my hair fall out and I shall become as bald as a coot and none of the nurses will look at me.” So he joked in his old way, the way I remembered so well. Then he repeated how sorry he was about his past behaviour towards me, and he spoke of what he called our salad days. He said he hoped I would forgive him for his bitterness and jealousy.
‘As I have said, when I had entered his room I hoped to find he was dying, but now I was moved by what he was saying. So I told him that the treatment might cure him; that he might have more time than he thought. But he said, no. He’d made up his mind. He was going to die and he would not be sorry to go. But before he went he wanted us to end as we had begun, when we were boys seventy years ago. When he said this I also thought of our childhood, of his family and mine before my father had gone with his mother. Suddenly his body jerked and he gave a half-cry and said he was in great pain – would I help him with the apparatus and the tube at his chest, He said the strapping had slipped and he didn’t think the syringe was feeding in the drug properly. He showed me where the dial was and asked me to adjust it slightly and shift the position of the syringe and the tube taped beneath his left breast. I did as he directed, and went back to my chair.’
Jonathan passed a hand over his face and Graham thought to ask him if he wanted to rest, but Jonathan had begun again. ‘He got me to do that so that my fingers touched the apparatus and the syringe.’ He paused once more. ‘I then asked about the letters he wanted me to have and he replied they were from the girl I had known since childhood, the girl he knew I’d loved all my life. “You ought to have them, Jonathan,” he said. “They will make you happy, for you will see from them whom it was she really loved.” And when he said that, he meant me. She had really loved me. “Where are they?” I asked. He said they were in an envelope in the box on the dresser, and he held out to me a key. “Open it and take the envelope, but don’t look at them now, not in front of me. Take them home,” he said, “read them at home and keep them.”
‘I opened the box, and from it I took a large, sealed envelope. While I was doing this I had my back to him on the bed. “Don’t open it until you’re home,” I heard him say again. I turned with the envelope in my hand and saw he was now smiling. Then he opened his pyjama jacket. He had his right hand on the apparatus on the table beside him and I saw him lift the syringe and press the plunger. “What are you, doing?” I said. “What I told you I was going to do,” he replied. “What I want to do. End it peacefully.” I watched, unable – no, unwilling – to move. Then, after almost a minute of silence, his manner changed. His smiling ceased. Suddenly he said savagely, almost in a snarl, “You’re very pleased with yourself, aren’t you? You’re bloody smug, aren’t you? But you won’t be for much longer. I’m teaching you a lesson, Master Jonathan. I’m showing you how a brave man dies, Mister Lawyer.”
‘I thought this change in him must be because of the drug he had injected into himself, and I couldn’t entirely follow what he was saying, for his words had become slurred. But I understood that suddenly, inexplicably, he had turned on me. “Why do you say that?” I asked. “Why are you speaking like that?”
‘Then he changed again and smiled and spoke as he had before, gently, “Just a tease,” he said. “Just a joke, just one last joke. You’ve never understood my jokes, have you, Jonathan? But this one you will. One day soon you will see how good a joke it is. Goodbye, Jonathan,” he said, “You won’t forget me. You’ll never forget me.” I had crossed the room and was standing by the bed, looking down at him and he up at me, and suddenly I saw a look of hatred and derision come into his eyes. I still thought it was the drug which was causing these sudden swings of mood. Then he closed his eyes and was silent and soon I suppose he sank into the coma, what Dr Mitchell called the irreversible coma, and I knew he had accomplished what he had wanted. To kill himself in front of me, when I was alone with him.’
Jonathan stopped and sipped again from the glass. For several seconds he remained silent. Then he continued: ‘I knew I should do something, telephone for the doctor or an ambulance – but he had done what he wished and I decided I would let him be, let him sleep until he died. I went back to the chair and sat listening to the sounds of his breathing, waiting for the nurse to return. After a time I opened the envelope. Inside were several folded pages of writing paper. They were blank. All of them. All blank. Nothing.’
Again Jonathan lifted the glass of water and sipped, his hand shaking. ‘There never had been any letters. That, I supposed, was part of what he had called his tease, his final, cruel joke, the pretence which he knew would bring me to him. But why, I thought, why had he wanted me to witness his death? Then I thought I knew. He had wanted to teach me a lesson, a lesson which he thought I needed to be taught. He had wanted me to see how a brave man dies. He had wanted to show me that he was not afraid of death, as he knew years ago I had been so afraid.’
At these words Graham raised his head and stared at the witness. Afraid of death, years ago? Jonathan looked at him. Then looked away, back to the jury.
‘But I was wrong,’ he went on. ‘I had not understood what he had planned for me. I had not reckoned on the extent of the contempt he felt for me, nor of his plan for revenge. As I sat in the room while he was dying I thought only of what he had said before those last bitter words after he had injected himself with the drug. I thought of what he had said about our childhood, when we were young and life lay ahead of us. I thought of how he was then, and of his gallantry in war; and I thought of our other friend, Rory Connor, the friend who grew up with us who had been killed in the battle when David Trelawney had saved my life. And I thought of how all the threads of my life had been interwoven with the threads of his. Now he was gone, and despite what he had taken from me over the years, and despite his lies about the letters, I was sorry I had wanted him dead, although I knew it was for the best that he was. Best for him; best for me.
‘I must have sat there for an hour or so, still waiting for the nurse to return. But she did not come. His breathing had long since ceased and finally I went over to the bed and took a last look at the face I had known from boyhood to old age, and I thought of what I owed him – my life. And of how much thereafter he had made me pay. I did not then know how bitterly he had hated me for what I had become and what he was. Suddenly I had the urge to get away from him. I cannot explain it, but I felt as if driven by another’s will, not my own, and I went from that house without a word to anyone. By doing that, by running away from his deathbed, I helped him achieve what in his hatred he had p
lanned. By doing that I helped bring upon myself all that is now happening to me.’
He put his hand to his head and stopped speaking. Graham saw that he was swaying and his eyes were closed, as though he was on the verge of collapse.
‘The witness needs a rest,’ Graham said loudly. ‘I shall rise early for the mid-day break. The court is adjourned.’
As the judge swept from the court Jonathan sank back into the chair, his head between his hands.
17
IN the conference room Bracton stared out the window. Graves, seated at the table, his wig on his notebook in front of him, pushed aside the plate with the uneaten sandwich and the empty plastic cup of coffee. It was not yet two o’clock but already the pale February sunshine seemed to be fading; soon it would be dusk.
‘He impressed the jury,’ Graves said.
‘He impressed me,’ Bracton replied.
Graves fiddled with the tail of his wig. ‘London wants a fight to the finish,’ he said. Bracton swung round and sat at the other side of the table. Neither spoke. Bracton broke the silence. ‘There’s more to the story than he’s telling. But what it is I don’t know.’
‘More about what happened that afternoon?’
‘No, not what happened. But why. Something in the past.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘No, but it interests me, although it may not be my business to find out.’
‘It is if it provides a reason for murder.’
‘Playfair has admitted he had reason. He’s said so repeatedly. No, the issue remains: if it was Playfair who emptied that syringe, it was murder; if Trelawney, it was suicide.’
‘What if Trelawney asked Playfair to help him?’
‘Aiding and abetting suicide; or manslaughter. But, if you believe Playfair, his evidence rules that out.’
‘But the jury might think that’s what happened.’
‘They have no evidence of it. No, it comes to this. If what Playfair says is true it was suicide; and if his story is a pack of lies he has some reason for lying, and the most likely reason is that he’s a murderer. Either you believe him or you don’t.’
‘I think quite a few in court did.’
* * *
Leslie Bramley was in another conference room with a young in-house lawyer whom the management of the Globe had sent down from London when they’d heard about the subpoena. She was in her late thirties with short dark hair and large horn-rimmed glasses, in a black suit and white blouse. She looked as nervous as she felt. They could’ve sent a more senior lawyer, not this kid, Bramley grumbled to himself when he saw her. He had a large whisky-and-soda before he took her into the conference room.
‘Why should they want me as a witness?’ he said when the door closed behind them. ‘Of course Johnson hates Playfair just as much as we do, and of course he fed me the story. It doesn’t need me for the jury to see that.’
‘Sources have to be protected and—’ she began. He interrupted her. ‘I know all that crap. They haven’t sent you down to tell me that, have they? What I need to be told is what happens when the old bugger, Playfair, asks me who leaked the story and I tell them to get stuffed.’
‘The judge will warn you that in law,’ she recited, ‘you have no privilege which allows you to refuse to answer and that accordingly you must.’ She had rehearsed that in the train on the way down.
‘And when I tell the judge to stuff it, what then?’
‘He could threaten to send you to prison if you won’t answer.’
‘And if I still don’t?’
‘He could send you to prison.’
‘They’d love that in London! Make a great front page. Judge jails Globe reporter. Liberty of the press threatened. The right to know! All that balls. Not a word about the right to know how the press got the story.’ He lit a cigarette. She looked pointedly at the No Smoking sign on the wall but he ignored her. ‘And the bloody foreigner who owns us will fly in from Palm Springs in his bloody private jet, hold a crappy press conference and fly back to the beach-house, while I’m in the Scrubs eating porridge and sewing mailbags. Thank you very much.’
‘The judge can’t send you to prison without giving you warning and hearing counsel on your behalf—’
‘Are you counsel?’
‘No.’
‘Then why the hell haven’t they sent counsel? No offence, I’m sure you’re very bright, but I want someone who knows the ropes, someone who’ll frighten the balls of that kid of a judge. And I want him quick. I don’t fancy a spell in the clink. So tell them in London to get their finger out and get a heavy down here.’ He opened the door.
‘Perhaps the old buggar’ll crack under cross-examination.’ He stamped out. Where’s Virginia, he thought. But she was nowhere to be seen.
The newspaper lawyer went off to telephone London, but it wasn’t until the evening that a heavyweight silk was on the road to Bramley’s rescue. By then he was no longer needed.
* * *
The jury had been led to their own room; a great crush was expected in the canteen. One of the younger men was the first to speak. ‘What do you think?’
‘I believe him,’ replied the man in the dark blue blazer with brass buttons. ‘I think it was wrong they ever brought it to court.’
The other older man in the suit said, ‘It certainly looks a bit different now. But he’ll be cross-examined when we go back. That might change it.’
‘If it doesn’t,’ said the man in the blazer, ‘I know what we ought to do. At least I know what I’ll do.’
‘It’s the usual cover-up,’ said the young man who had been nearly late the morning before. ‘All the toffs looking after each other. But I didn’t fancy that policeman.’
‘Well, then, what are you on about?’ said the young woman who had worn pink on the first day of the trial.
‘He’s very old,’ said an older, motherly woman. ‘He looked all in when the judge left the court.’
‘Perhaps he’ll kick the bucket and then we can all go home,’ said the same young man.
‘That’s not funny,’ said the man in the blazer.
* * *
Graham Harris had stayed in his room during the adjournment. Priestley came in. ‘The Lodgings have been on the telephone. There’s been a message from your son. The school want to talk to you.’
As if he hadn’t enough to worry about without this! What could be wrong now? He’d told the headmaster that the children’s grandmother would collect them tomorrow. He looked at his watch. ‘We’re due to start again in a minute. I’ve no time now,’ he said.
Colonel Basildon came through the door. ‘High Sheriff,’ Graham said awkwardly. ‘Could you do something for me, something personal?’
‘Of course, judge. What is it?’
‘I’ve had a message from my children’s school. It’s probably about the arrangements for their half-term which begins tomorrow. I’ve got to get back to court. Could you telephone and find out what they want?’
‘Of course.’ Graham gave him the number.
* * *
During the adjournment Virginia had stayed in the court watching Jonathan. Throughout the break he had sat on a chair in the witness-box, looking calm but very pale. He had refused coffee and was sipping from a glass of water. Once he glanced up and caught her eye.
Either he’s been telling the truth or he’s pretty smart, she thought. Listening to him she sensed that the story of the judge who was a murderer might be drifting away, unless they rocked him in cross-examination. Still, she had enough to make a story out of it either way. Last night she’d learned from Bramley some of what had gone on between the police and the Globe. She thought about Hugo Shelbourne. An acquittal wouldn’t do him much good, but she couldn’t worry much about him. He’d served his purpose.
* * *
In his chambers in London Shelbourne was reading the newspaper reports of what had happened in court the day before. The newspapers, except for the Globe, reported fully the evi
dence about the tape, of how the nurse had been misled, and the behaviour of Detective-Inspector Johnson. He flung down the newspaper and began to prowl around the room. He understood now. Playfair had held all this back so that when he took over his own defence it would make a greater impact. Playfair had set him up.
At lunch he telephoned a news editor on one of the broadsheets to ask how the trial had gone in the morning.
‘Our fellow’s just called in,’ the news editor replied. ‘He says Playfair’s still giving evidence and is doing pretty well. Playfair’s story is that Trelawney had been blackmailing him, then killed himself and made it look as if Playfair was implicated, helped by a particularly nasty policeman with a grudge. He was feeding the Globe, which old Playfair had once caned for massive damages for contempt.’
Shelbourne hung up and rang for Isles. ‘I feel I’m getting a bout of flu. I’ll go to the country to lie up. Cancel everything, will you.’
Isles was not fooled. And there was nothing to cancel.
* * *
In the court, Harold went up to Jonathan. ‘Le Quesne is here. He arrived this morning.’
‘Good. See he’s ready to come into court when I call for him.’
‘Is there anything I can get you?’
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