A Dark Devotion

by Clare Francis

  He wasn’t quite there.

  I grasped his arm. ‘If you’re charged there’ll be no going back. Do you understand what I’m saying. Will? No going back. The charge will hang over your head for months. There’ll be a trial. You’ll be dragged through the trauma of a long case, day after day in court, terrible things being said, every detail of your personal life dragged through the tabloids, people pointing their finger at you for ever. ‘

  He was looking frightened, but not so frightened that he was quite at the point where he was going to give in.

  I played the emotional card. ‘And there’ll be Charlie, you’ll have to explain things to Charlie. You’ll have to tell him why everyone thinks you killed his mother. You’ll have to tell him that you may not be around for him in future.’

  Will shot me a blazing look, as though I were playing foul.

  ‘This is my best advice, Will, and I urge you very strongly to take it.’ Then, absurdly, desperately: ‘It’s the best advice you’ll ever get.’

  I walked away again to give him time. I looked out at a line of black rainclouds lying across the northern sky. The bay snorted and pushed his head further over the stable door, trying to nudge my arm. I ran a hand down his nose and over the velvet of his nostrils.

  ‘You should get another opinion anyway,’ I announced without looking round. ‘In fact, you’re going to have to.’ I voiced the realization that had been growing on me ever since I’d heard about Edward’s involvement. ‘I should stand down, you see. I won’t be able to represent you in the future.’

  ‘Why?’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘Because I want to tell it my way?’

  I walked back to him. ‘It has nothing to do with what you decide to say or not say. It’s because of Edward.’

  He made a gesture of incomprehension.

  ‘Whatever else Edward may be, he’s still my brother. There’s a conflict of loyalties,’ I explained. ‘Technically speaking, I shouldn’t even—’

  ‘You’re not serious? You can’t be serious?’

  ‘Standing down is the correct thing for me to do. In any other circumstances I wouldn’t dream of it, believe me, but Edward could be a crucial witness. It would create an impossible situation—’

  ‘But you’re not even close to Edward,’ Will argued indignantly. ‘You hardly ever see each other. He’s not even nice to you!’

  This argument was so disarming, so irrelevant that at first I couldn’t think of anything to say. ‘Maybe not. But that’s not quite the point. The point is, if it came to court, if it came to a trial, then it would be my job to look for ways of discrediting his evidence, even of discrediting him personally. It would be—’

  ‘What do I have to do to make you stay?’

  ‘It’s not that simple. Will.’

  He grasped my shoulders. ‘But I can’t get through this without you, Ali. I can’t!’ His eyes were very dark and very intense. ‘Don’t give up on me, please! Please!’

  He could see I was weakening.

  ‘I can’t do this thing without you! I can’t! Look—all right!’ He dropped his arms abruptly, he screwed up his face with misgiving. ‘I’ll…think about what you say. I’ll…’ Another internal battle. ‘I’ll say what you want me to say!’

  ‘It is the right thing. Will. Believe me.’

  He looked at me pleadingly. ‘But you’ll stay, won’t you, Ali? You will stay?’

  Drained of argument, I couldn’t fight him any more, and perhaps a part of me didn’t want to. ‘For the moment, then.’

  He embraced me as he’d embraced me on the marsh that first day, suddenly and overwhelmingly, but this time he held on to me for a long time.

  There was a message from Dave Adamson on my answering service. His mobile didn’t respond, so I tried his office, then his home before tracking him down to a gym in South London. I had to pass myself off as a colleague before the staff would call him to the phone.

  ‘Trying to lose ten pounds,’ Dave explained, panting hard. ‘It’s the second five that doesn’t want to shift. D’you think it’s the beer?’

  ‘Which answer do you want to hear?’

  ‘There’s a lawyer speaking.’

  ‘You have something for me, Dave?’

  ‘News. Russell was charged with Munro’s murder a couple of hours ago. It’s not quite as satisfactory as nabbing our Ronnie, but tomorrow’s another day, you know what I mean?’

  ‘And Hans Place, Dave?’

  ‘Ah! Got a name for you.’

  ‘Dave.’ I breathed his name like a lover’s, and at that moment he could have been my dream man, I felt such affection for him.

  ‘19D Hans Place is owned by something called the Esme Aubrey Family Trust, but the people who actually pay the bills are called Hampton.’ When I was silent, he called, ‘Alex? Hello? You still there?’

  ‘Hampton. ,

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Got a first name?’

  ‘Just an initial. Hell—it’s in my notebook, but going by memory, I think it’s a J. Yes, J. Hampton. Any good to you?’

  Ringing off, I sat in the car for some minutes before driving slowly into the village. I wasn’t sure which took more getting used to, the fact that Grace had fallen for the restrained charms of the patrician Julian Hampton, or the convincing display of indifference that the doctor had managed to put on when I’d questioned him about Grace. But then, some people were born to lying and concealment, while others spent a lifetime giving themselves away.

  A heavy drizzle was falling as I parked outside the surgery. I declined the receptionist’s invitation to join Anne Hampton for coffee in the house, and waited beside a hugely pregnant woman with two small children and a numbered green disc in her hand. After ten minutes a door with a matching green light above it opened and an elderly woman shuffled out, closely followed by the elegant shirt-sleeved figure of Julian Hampton, gold-rimmed spectacles perched halfway down his nose, a fistful of papers held high in one hand.

  The receptionist directed his attention towards me. He peered at me and without blink or hesitation called out my name like a patient’s. As he led the way down the passage to his room I noticed his height again, and the way he stooped slightly from a lifetime of low door frames.

  The room had a new window which looked out onto the dark shrubbery where as a small child I’d built a secret camp. The shrubbery had been pruned or thinned out: you could see right through it to the town beyond. There was a large desk in front of the window, an examination area with a couch and a curtain against one wall, and, opposite, a lighted alcove with a number of framed photographs of Julian and Anne and their children—two boys—one group posed in the drawing room, another in the arbour my mother had installed at the bottom of the garden and covered in climbing roses. In the various pictures everyone was smiling confidently. Happy families.

  Julian Hampton waved me to a seat and settled his rangy frame behind the desk. His hair looked a little less immaculate today, his eyes rather watery, and I noticed a distinct kink in his long nose, as though in his distant youth it had keen knocked off-true on the rugby field.

  ‘You said it would only take a minute?’ The quick professional smile, attentive but distant.

  ‘Hopefully. I was wondering if you could tell me about Grace Dearden’s visits to Hans Place?’

  He turned his head slightly as though he’d misheard. ‘Visits?’

  ‘Her regular weekly visits.’

  He went through a show of puzzlement, a drawing together of his brows, a ranging of his eyes. ‘Weekly visits? But she didn’t.’ He gestured mystification. ‘I think there’s a mistake.’

  If he was lying, then once again he was making a good job of it.

  ‘It is your flat, number 19D?’

  ‘A family flat, not mine. Left to us by Anne’s grandmother.’

  ‘You use it regularly?’

  ‘Hardly ever.’

  ‘Once a week or so?’

  He laughed outright. ‘I don’t manag
e to get anywhere once a week, let alone London. A GP in an overstretched practice! Ha! That’ll be the day! No, I suppose we use the flat once every six or eight weeks. When there’s some events when we go to the theatre.’

  ‘Does anyone else use it?’

  ‘One batch of cousins, but they’re living in France, hardly ever come over. But tell me…’ He made a neat steeple of his hands, he narrowed his eyes in an expression of solemn enquiry. ‘What makes you think Grace went to the flat? And once a week?’

  ‘She used the phone number there. She left it with restaurants.’

  Frowning, he reached for his address book and flipped through it. He read out a phone number that matched the one given to the Brasserie.

  When I’d confirmed the number, he closed the address book very slowly, he pulled his mouth into a tight line, his long fingers fluttered in agitation. ‘I can only think…’ He cast me a glance that contained both realization and displeasure. ‘I think you’d better talk to Anne,’ he announced finally.

  Now he had taken me by surprise. ‘Anne?’

  ‘She ran the flat. She was in charge of it. If anyone’ll be able to answer your questions it’ll be her.’

  Staring at him, I began to appreciate the extent of my mistake.

  He stood up briskly and moved towards the door, the disquiet still apparent in the pucker of his mouth.

  I got up more slowly. I spoke my thoughts aloud. ‘Who could Grace have been meeting, then?’

  Raising a sharp eyebrow, he said with dignity, ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t me.’

  There was a transparent honesty in his face, an obvious distaste for the situation, which confirmed his words.

  I made a gesture as if to take back my original suspicions. ‘So you have no idea…?’

  ‘None at all! You will really have to ask Anne.’

  I started up the path to the house, wondering how I could have let myself jump to such careless conclusions, how I could have missed what now seemed so obvious. Anne Hampton may have liked Will, may even have hungered after him a little, but her overwhelming loyalty and devotion had always been to Grace: to the Grace she had admired, the beguiling magical creature without fault or flaw, the accomplished hostess who had positioned herself so triumphantly at the heart of local life. Anne had been honoured and flattered to be Grace’s friend, had been in awe of her too, no doubt, and a friend who lives in another’s shadow can never do enough to please.

  And what tokens of friendship Anne had been able to offer! The perfect meeting place for Grace and her lover, a place Anne had made available, so it appeared, as often as required, the arrangement sealed by a commitment to secrecy, a secrecy Anne had been prepared to maintain after Grace’s death. Such loyalty. Such generosity. And, I couldn’t help thinking, such power too. For the other side of the coin of loyalty was the potential for betrayal, a possibility that would have been unvoiced and probably vehemently denied, but nonetheless real. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed to me that Anne’s silence had been her most potent offering of all.

  Approaching Sedgecomb House, it occurred to me that she might not feel bound to talk even now. Seeking ammunition, I walked on beyond the porch and, standing in the drizzle, pulled out my phone.

  Stephen Makim sounded strangely subdued, almost reluctant. Yes, the fax had arrived from Cellnet. Yes, he had it on the desk before him. Yes, it included a fully itemized list of calls.

  ‘Well?’ I demanded.

  Nine out of ten calls had been made to the same number, he told me. He relayed the number to me just as Anne Hampton came out of her door, car keys in hand, and, spotting me, uttered a small whoop of surprise.

  ‘Hello!’ she cried brightly. ‘Were you coming to see me? Would you like a quick coffee?’

  I stared at her, it was an effort to speak. ‘No,’ I muttered. ‘Thank you very much, but no…I don’t have the time.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The red Mercedes was nowhere to be seen, but Jilly’s Golf stood confidently in the centre of the gravel sweep in what I had come to think of as Edward’s parking place.

  Jilly appeared at the front door almost immediately, as though she had been listening for a car.

  She blinked in agitation. ‘Alex.’

  I said a breezy hello, and just as casually: ‘Edward around?’

  She searched my face keenly. She was trying to work out if I had spoken to Will yet, if he had told me about Edward’s visit to the police. ‘He should be back in the next half-hour.’

  I’ll come back later, then.’

  ‘No, stay!’ Her hand flew towards my arm, only to halt in mid-reach as though startled by her own impulsiveness. ‘I want to talk to you. Can I? Will you…?’

  Closing the door rapidly behind me, she led the way across the hall, glancing over her shoulder a couple of times to make sure that I wasn’t in danger of changing my mind.

  In the sitting room there were lamps lit against the drab morning light and an open fire. Jilly waited for me to choose a chair, then sat on the edge of the nearest sofa, hands clasped tightly on her knees. For once she was wearing almost no mascara, her eyebrows were hardly pencilled, and the blonde streaks in her hair seemed mellower. The effect was to make her look pretty in a pale elfin sort of way.

  Plucking up her courage, she confided in her wispiest voice, ‘Edward’s been to the police.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Ah! I wasn’t sure, you see! I wasn’t sure if Will had told you.’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘I’m so terribly sorry about it!’ she cried passionately. ‘I did try to stop him, you know. I did try to persuade him.’

  ‘Why?’ I wasn’t quite sure what had made me ask this, but now it was out I very much wanted to hear the answer.

  Her eyelids fluttered, she stared at me, not understanding, or possibly understanding too well. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why did you try to stop him telling the police?’

  She cast around, as if for outside assistance. ‘Well, I…because…’

  I gave her no help, I was past the point where I felt I had to save people’s feelings.

  ‘I thought it might be bad for Will,’ she offered at last. ‘And I thought it was a terrible responsibility for Edward. I mean, terrible. I thought he might live to regret it.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s quite right.’

  She said in an unsteady voice, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But she knew only too well what I meant, I could read it in her face.

  ‘You didn’t want Edward’s affair with Grace made public. You didn’t want the whole thing to come out.’

  Her thin smile froze on her face, she thought about denying it, then the presence fell away, she lowered her gaze and when she looked up again her expression had hardened.

  We eyed each other warily, gauging the next step.

  ‘Well…I did what I thought was right.’

  ‘Right for him, you mean?’

  Jilly pushed her chin out in rare defiance. ‘For everyone.’

  My exasperation got the better of me. I exclaimed hotly, ‘I don’t understand how you can let him walk all over you the whole time, Jilly! Why don’t you tell him to take a running jump, for God’s sake? Where’s your pride? Where’s your self-respect? He’s a bastard! And I say that as a sister—he’s a cold-hearted bastard!’

  ‘But you don’t understand!’ she argued vehemently. ‘You don’t understand at all! He’s never been able to get over his childhood! Never! He’s always been so tormented,’

  I gave a derisive laugh. ‘Jilly, really! Tormented makes cheating on you and having an affair with someone else’s wife all right all of a sudden? Please.’ I made as if to get up.

  ‘No! She tipped forward and, doubled over into a crouch, stretched out a hand as if to hold me back. ‘You don’t understand! You don’t realize!’ She settled back slowly on the edge of her seat. ‘He was so damaged! So angry! And he couldn’t make sense of it all, couldn’t find a way out.
Grace was just a way of freeing himself.’

  I was in no mood for this sort of half-baked psychological rubbish. I had spent too much of my life defending clients for whom damage and anger had real meaning after childhoods of abuse, neglect and abandonment. In my book Edward had long since run out of the few mild excuses he’d ever had for his selfish behaviour.

  I was about to voice harsh things when Jilly held up a trembling hand. ‘He never told you. He never told anyone. He kept it to himself for all these years. Bottled it all up! Feeling so desperate all that time, so full of misery.’

  ‘Never told anyone what? Look, Edward may have had his troubles, but they weren’t so terrible, believe me. He’s just never learnt to let go, never learnt to take responsibility for his own life. I know all about the problems with Father. The rows. I know Father didn’t deal with it too well. He was never a great communicator. Never good at heart-to-hearts. I know he used to walk away all the time. I know Edward used to seethe. I know all that! But really—compared to some…’