Dead Against the Lawyers

by Roderic Jeffries

  She garaged the car and they walked round the side of the house and entered through the front door, beneath the massive porch.

  ‘There’s nothing for supper,’ she said in a lifeless voice as he closed the door.

  ‘Not expecting me home, darling? Don’t say you’d already ordered the sackcloth and ashes?’ He kissed her without noticing her lack of response. ‘I’ll go down to the cellars and get some champagne to celebrate.’

  He drank most of the champagne. At the meal, she ate little of the food.

  ‘Have a brandy?’ he said, once they were back in the sitting-room.

  ‘I don’t want anything.’

  ‘Betty, my darling, stop worrying. It’s all over and done with. Try to forget I was ever in danger.’

  ‘How can I forget anything when you keep on and on about it?’

  He looked quickly at her and then away. He crossed the room and poured himself out a very generous brandy. She had these moods and when she was in one it was a long time before she could escape it. She had naturally been very shocked by his arrest and trial and had plainly expected him to be found guilty. Now that he was innocent and back at home, it was going to take her time to readjust her ideas.

  He sat down, warmed the glass in the palms of his hands, and drank.

  ‘I’m tired,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  ‘All right, darling. I shan’t be long.’

  She stood up, hesitated, and came across to him. She sat down on the arm of his chair. ‘I’m sorry I keep snapping at you, Radwick, but I feel in such a muddle.’

  ‘Of course you do.’

  ‘I expect I’ll soon be better.’

  ‘How about going abroad for a holiday as soon as we can? Would that be fun?’

  ‘Anywhere with you is fun.’ She kissed his cheek and stood up.

  He watched her leave the room. Once more, it came to him how impossible it was to think of her age in terms of being half his. She was young and vibrantly alive, but between them there was no suggestion of the mental gap that was supposed to exist between people of disparate ages. He and she thought alike, lived alike, and loved alike. He finished his brandy, had another and smaller one, and went upstairs.

  When he entered their bedroom, Charlotte was stripped to the waist.

  He shut the door. ‘God, you’re beautiful!’ His voice was suddenly hoarse.

  She turned and faced him. ‘Am I, Radwick? Do you really mean that? You know, I try to be beautiful for you.’ She came forward and took hold of his hands in hers. ‘Darling, you never really doubted me, did you?’

  ‘You know I didn’t.’

  ‘When you asked me to say I’d been in that room, I was terrified you’d begun to think it was the truth?’

  ‘You’re so silly.’ He drew her to himself and began to slide his hands down her smooth flesh. Now it was he who no longer wanted to discuss the case.

  Chapter Sixteen

  TRAYNTON LOOKED up from his desk. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said, as Holter came into the clerks’ room.

  ‘ ’Morning, Josephus. How’s life been?’

  ‘Very, very sad, sir. I have had to return at least two thousand guineas. One brief from London was marked at five hundred.’

  ‘When was that for?’

  ‘Next week, sir.’

  ‘Then why did you return it?’

  ‘The circumstances being what they most unfortunately were, sir, I felt quite unable to guarantee you being able to conduct the case.’

  ‘I should have thought you’d have had more faith in me than that.’

  ‘However faithful, sir, I had to observe the etiquette.’

  ‘To hell with etiquette. Your trouble is, you’re just a professional pessimist.’

  ‘I do no more than work to my best judgment, sir,’ replied Traynton, deeply hurt.

  Holter crossed to the mantelpiece and looked down at the briefs. When he next spoke, his voice was grave. ‘What’s the verdict going to be, Josephus? Will they keep on briefing me?’

  ‘The view has been expressed to me, sir, and I venture to quote the exact words, that if you were such a cunning old bastard as to get yourself off that clear a murder charge, you were the cleverest counsel at the Bar and worth briefing if you’d murdered half a dozen Corrys.’

  ‘This person didn’t doubt I was guilty, then?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, sir.’

  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t go around asking that question?’

  Resse came into the clerks’ room and he was closely followed by Marriott, who was carrying some books.

  ‘ ’Morning, Radwick,’ said Resse. ‘Is it in order to congratulate you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ replied Holter, defensively.

  ‘They tell me Proctor has had some kind of seizure and keeps on muttering that Dickens was quite right.’

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ said Marriott. ‘I’m very pleased to see you back.’

  ‘Very heartfelt words,’ jeered Resse. ‘He couldn’t think of anything but all the shillings in the pounds he was in danger of losing.’

  The telephone rang and Traynton answered it. Without any sense of transition, Holter was swept back into the life of chambers and it was as if there had never been a break.

  He went to his room. As he sat down at his desk, he noticed the bare top. Was Traynton right when he said the briefs would keep coming? Solicitors were notably conventional and rarely briefed counsel whose name had been touched by scandal. Was it scandalous to have been charged with a crime someone else committed?

  Traynton stepped just inside the room. ‘You’re leading at Canterbury next Monday, sir. And there’s another set of papers coming in for an opinion.’

  When alone, Holter leaned back in his chair. The wings of poverty had almost touched him, but now they were flying away. A counsel without briefs was a man without a career: trouble could reduce an income from thousands to hundreds, or even tens, in less time than it took to realize the fact. He could have withstood many things, but never poverty. His life had to be the life of a large and luxurious home, good food and drink, lavish entertainment, expensive holidays abroad, and the ability to give Charlotte whatever she wanted.

  The door opened and Traynton came into the room once more. He shut the door.

  ‘Well?’ said Holter. ‘What’s the latest? A thousand clinking golden guineas for my services?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Holter noticed Traynton’s expression. ‘What?’

  ‘The Under Treasurer of your Inn has just been in telephonic communication with me, sir.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘There’s to be a hearing before the Benchers on Friday next week, sir.’

  ‘I’m being charged?’

  ‘I fear so, sir, with conduct unbecoming a barrister and a gentleman. The Under Treasurer said that the Benchers wish to inquire into your conduct and the means you employed in your defence and to judge whether they were such that a Queen’s Counsel should have employed them, or not.’

  ‘Goddamn it, did they expect me to fight with kid gloves on?’

  ‘I fear, sir, that it may be alleged that you have tended to bring discredit upon the profession.’

  Holter stood up and crossed to the window. Barristers guarded the reputation of their profession with the fierce jealousy of a mother guarding her daughter’s virginity. The controlling body of each Inn of Court was the Benchers: ironically, he was a Bencher of his Inn. Now, he was to be tried in the case of the murdered Corry for the second time. Nemo debet bis vexari, si constat curiae quod sit pro una et eadem causa, but if the cause was the same, the form was not. He had been found not guilty of murdering Corry. Now, he was to be tried for the means he had used to escape conviction and because he had admitted in court to moral responsibility for Corry’s death.

  He almost shouted when he next spoke. ‘Did they expect me to worry about being a gentleman rather than clearing myself of a murder charge? Aren’t I allowed to be as
energetic in my own defence as in defence of anyone else?’

  ‘Caesar’s wife, sir.’

  ‘Neither he nor his wife was above suspicion. What did you expect me to do?’

  ‘I’d rather not answer, sir.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My position, sir.’

  Holter returned to his desk and rested his hands on the top of it. ‘You’d rather I’d abided by the rules, wouldn’t you, even if that meant I was found guilty of a murder I didn’t commit? Admiral Sahib going down with the ship in full dress uniform.’

  ‘So many things have changed over the years, sir, and I am too old to understand them.’

  Holter sat down. The wings of poverty were back, beating more strongly than ever. The jealous Benchers had the right to disbar him and that meant his income would drop to nothing.

  ‘Sir,’ said Traynton, ‘I shall be retiring that Friday. Would it be in order for Marriott to accompany you to London for this hearing?’

  ‘You don’t want to end your connection with the law with my public disgrace?’

  Traynton turned and, walking as though he were a very old man, left the room.

  After the clerk had gone, Holter reached down to the bottom left-hand drawer and pulled it open. Inside was a half-bottle of whisky and two glasses. He poured himself out a strong drink.

  How was he going to defend himself? How was he going to convince the Benchers, ready to be sanctimoniously shocked, that although innocent he had had falsely to admit to being morally responsible for Corry’s death in order to escape actual responsibility for it? His troubled thoughts were interrupted by Marriott, who came into the room.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, sir, but Detective Inspector Brock would like to see you.’

  Holter shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry about the hearing in London, sir, but I know everything will be OK.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, George. Josephus doesn’t want to come to London with me as it’s his last day in chambers, so you’ll have to.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have to work out my defence. Ironic, isn’t it? Having to defend myself against proving my own innocence!’ When next he spoke, he did so far more briskly. ‘All right, let’s see the detective.’

  Marriott went out and several seconds later Brock, carrying two small paper parcels, came in. ‘Good morning, Mr Holter,’ he said, in a flat voice.

  ‘What’s it this time?’

  ‘I’m returning your property, sir.’ Brock made it clear that because it was an unwelcome duty he had undertaken it himself.

  ‘Property?’

  ‘A photograph of your wife and a revolver.’

  ‘Sit down and have a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You’re still very certain, then?’

  ‘Of some things.’

  Holter poured himself another whisky. He lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to crime.’

  Brock put the two parcels on the desk.

  ‘My wife was never near here that Tuesday,’ said Holter.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And neither was I, not after I had left with Corry. For God’s sake, man, with that evidence against me, what chance did I have?’

  ‘A very good chance, it seems.’

  ‘The murderer was a casual thief. Corry came back later because he’d left something behind and whilst he was inside he surprised the thief, who shot him,’

  ‘You’d locked both doors.’

  ‘The thief picked the locks.’

  The locks weren’t picked.’

  ‘You could have made a mistake.’

  ‘Could I?’

  ‘You’re not infallible.’

  ‘No, I’m not. Will you please check the revolver and photograph, sir, and make certain they’re in order.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it.’

  ‘Have you a licence for the revolver?’

  ‘No. Are you going to charge me?’

  ‘I suggest you apply for one. There are no cartridges in the chambers.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘I would advise you to keep that cabinet locked in future.’

  ‘I’ll remember your recommendations.’

  Brock left the room. He slammed the door shut behind himself.

  Holter poured himself out a third whisky.

  *

  On the following Monday morning, after a week-end during which he had worked at his own defence, Holter rang the central police station as soon as he arrived in chambers. He asked for Detective Inspector Brock.

  ‘Brock,’ said Holter, ‘I want your help.’

  ‘I doubt there’s anything I can do,’ replied the other coldly.

  ‘You owe me something.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You saw to it I was charged with murder.’

  ‘I did no more than hand the evidence to others.’

  ‘Maybe, but let’s not argue the point. I’ve got to appear before a hearing in London in connection with the trial. I want you to appear, if you will, and testify to the strength of the evidence against me.’

  ‘You’ll have to speak to the chief constable. If he tells me to attend, I will.’

  ‘I’ll speak to him. I’ll pick you up in my car and we’ll go to London by train.’

  After he had replaced the telephone receiver, Holter stared out of the window. Brock did not bother to hide his feelings in the matter and such feelings were likely to be echoed in the Bencher’s minds. If they were convinced of his guilt, a guilt he had escaped from solely by admitting to moral responsibility for the death, they would use his moral turpitude as the excuse for their punishment by disbarment of his guilt.

  Chapter Seventeen

  CHARLOTTE, ON the Friday, went with her husband to the garage. He swung one of the counterbalanced doors up and was about to go inside when she stopped him by putting her hand on his elbow.

  ‘Good luck, my darling,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll need all that’s going.’

  ‘Don’t dare to start being pessimistic. I know you’ll be quite all right because you’re so clever.’ She kissed him. ‘You don’t seem to realize what a brilliant husband I’ve got.’

  He was not a fanciful man, but as he drove very rapidly towards Hertonhurst he wondered whether this would be one of the last times he would enjoy driving a Bentley? Suppose he had to sell it, and everything else, how much capital could he find? Two thousand for the Bentley, fifteen hundred for the Mercedes, fifteen thousand for the house and two thousand for the furniture, etc., and perhaps another three or four thousand from other sources, including her jewellery. In these circumstances, most people would have said it was utterly ridiculous to talk about the wings of poverty since he and Charlotte were clearly never going to starve, but to him it would be poverty because it would be failure. He would no longer be able to buy her jewellery or clothes specially designed for her, he would no longer be able to give her whatever she wanted.

  As he entered the town, he drove across lights that had turned to red and narrowly missed a mini-bus. He cursed the other driver. Then he cursed the fools who never named roads so that drivers could tell where they were. It was only when he saw Marriott standing on the pavement that he realized he had reached the right place.

  With Marriott to act as navigator, Holter was able to find Brock and Wallace within ten minutes. He drove from Hertonhurst to Ashford at speeds of up to eighty.

  *

  The Inn of Court had been built when Elizabethan architecture was flowering most luxuriously and the intricately carved hammer-beams in the roof were as magnificent as any in the country. At the north end of the rectangular hall was the dais on which the Benchers dined and at the south end was the gallery and underneath this the carved screen which was reputed to have been made from the wood of shipwrecked ships of the Spanish Armada. On the panelled walls there hung the armorial shields of past Treasurers.

  Tables an
d benches had been pushed against the walls, leaving only two in the centre which faced the dais. The robing-room attendant, acting as usher, led Holter and the others across to these two tables. Holter sat down and motioned to Marriott to give him his brief-case. Although he refused to admit it to himself, he was more nervous now than he had been when on trial for the murder of Corry.

  The door at the back of the dais was opened by the butler, in his brown fur-lined robes, and seven men, each of whom was wearing black coat and striped trousers, came on to the dais. Holter, as he stood up, recognized three high court judges and four QCs. With very heavy irony, he thought that justice in the courts must also have been brought to a stop so that he could be tried, a man who had been found not guilty by his own peers.

  The Benchers sat down with the Treasurer, in the centre chair. He had a long, narrow face in which every line suggested autocratic authority, fostered over the years in which he had been a judge.

  ‘Mr Holter,’ said the Treasurer, ‘you have been asked to attend this hearing in order that we may decide whether your recent conduct has been contrary to that standard which is expected from a member of the Bar.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Holter.

  ‘You have recently been tried at Brackensham Assizes on a charge of murder. The verdict was “not guilty.” You are reported as having made the following admissions at the trial: that you were present in the room with Corry, the deceased, that he picked up a revolver which he believed to be empty but you knew to be loaded, that he jokingly threatened to shoot himself, and that you made no effort to inform him of the true condition of the gun — indeed, you carefully explained how the gun could be fired — so that when he, pulled the trigger he shot and killed himself. Did you make these admissions?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Are you proposing to ask this hearing to allow you to call witnesses in support of your case?’

  ‘I am, sir. I should like to call Detective Inspector Brock and Mr Edward Wallace.’