A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  He cast his eye critically over the reception room, which was also a waiting area. Valerie Caldwell’s word processor under its cover was precisely placed in the middle of her desk. The two-seater sofa, the two armchairs and the two upright chairs for visitors were in place, the magazines on the table neatly arranged on the highly polished mahogany. All was as he had expected to find it, with one small difference: it looked as if neither Mrs. Carpenter nor Mrs. Watson had vacuum-swept the carpet. The office machine, bought six months previously, was as formidable in power as it was in noise, and usually left telltale lines on the carpet pile. But the floor looked clean. Perhaps one of them had run the carpet-sweeper over it. It wasn’t his job to oversee the cleaners and, with women from Miss Elkington’s admirable agency, no supervision was normally necessary, but he liked to keep an eye on things. The reception room was a visitor’s introduction to Chambers and first impressions mattered.

  Next he looked briefly into the library and conference room, to the right of the front door. Here, too, all was in order. The room had something of the atmosphere of a gentlemen’s club, but without its comfortable intimacy. Even so, it had its graces. To the left and right of the marble fireplace the leather spines of books gleamed behind the glass of the eighteenth-century bookcases, each topped with a marble bust, on the left of Charles Dickens and on the right of Henry Fielding, both members of the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple. The fitted unglazed bookcases on the wall facing the door held a more utilitarian library of law reports, bound statutes, Halsbury’s Laws of England and books on various aspects of criminal and civil law. Ranged on the lower shelves were red leather-bound volumes of Punch from 1880 to 1930, a parting gift from a previous member of Chambers whose wife reputedly had insisted on their disposal before moving to their smaller retirement home.

  The four leather armchairs were placed about the room with an eccentric disregard for the conveniences of intimate conversation. Much of the floor space was occupied by a large, rectangular table in old oak, almost black with age, with ten matching chairs. The room was seldom used for Chambers meetings; Mr. Langton preferred to hold them in his own room and, if there were insufficient chairs, colleagues would carry in their own and sit informally in a circle. But occasional suggestions that the conference room should be given over to a new member of Chambers in the interest of productive use of space were always resisted. The table, which had once been owned by John Dickinson, was the pride of Chambers and no other room could suitably accommodate it.

  There were double doors opening from the reception room into the clerk’s office, but they were seldom used and the normal entrance was from the hall. As he entered he could hear the occasional bleep of the fax machine spewing out yesterday’s judgements. He went over to read the messages, then took off his coat and hung it on the wooden coat hanger bearing his name on the peg behind the door. Here in this cluttered, over-furnished but ordered space was his sanctum, his kingdom, the powerhouse and very heart of Chambers. Like all clerks’ rooms he had ever seen, it was cramped and over-furnished. Here was his desk and the desks of his two junior clerks, each with its word processor. Here was the computer to which he had at last become accustomed, although he still missed the early-morning walk over to the Law Courts, the chat with the listing officer. Here was his wall chart, setting out in his small meticulous handwriting the court appearances of each member of Chambers who worked from Pawlet Court. Here, tied up in the large cupboard against the wall, were the rolled briefs, the red ribbon for defence, the white for prosecution. The room, its smell, its organized clutter, the chair on which his father had sat, the desk on which his father had worked, were more familiar to him than his own bedroom.

  The telephone rang. It was unusual for anyone to want him so early. The voice was unfamiliar to him, a woman’s voice, high, anxious and with a faint note of incipient hysteria.

  “It’s Mrs. Buckley speaking. I’m Miss Aldridge’s housekeeper. I’m so glad there’s someone there. I did try even earlier. She always told me that you opened the office just after eight-thirty, if there was something important.”

  He said defensively: “Chambers are not open at eight-thirty but I am usually here by that time. Can I help you?”

  “It’s Miss Aldridge. Is she there please?”

  “No one has arrived in Chambers yet. Did Miss Aldridge say that she’d be in early?”

  “You don’t understand.” The voice now held a definite note of hysteria. “She didn’t come home last night, that’s why I’m so worried.”

  He said: “Perhaps she spent the night with a friend.”

  “She wouldn’t do that, not without telling me. And it was ten-thirty when I went off duty—and up to my room. She wasn’t expecting to stay out all night. I did listen for her but she’s always very quiet coming in so sometimes I don’t hear her. I took up her tea at half past seven and the bed hasn’t been slept in.”

  He said: “I think it’s rather early to become seriously worried. I don’t think she’s here. There were no lights on in the front when I arrived, but I’ll go and have a look. Wait for a moment, will you please?”

  He went up to the front room on the first floor, which Miss Aldridge occupied. The heavy oak outer door was locked. This was not in itself particularly surprising; members of Chambers who wanted to leave important papers on their desks did sometimes lock their rooms before leaving. But it was more usual to leave the oak unlocked and to secure only the inner door.

  He went back to his own room and picked up the receiver. “Mrs. Buckley? I don’t think she’s in her room but I’ll just unlock the door. I won’t be long.”

  He had a spare key to each room, jealously guarded, tagged and kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. The key to Miss Aldridge’s room was there. It opened both the oak and the inner door. Again he went up the stairs, this time aware of the first prickings of anxiety. He told himself that it was unnecessary. A member of Chambers had chosen to spend a night otherwise than in her own home. That was her affair, not his. Probably even now she was putting the key in her front door.

  He unlocked the oak door and turned his key in the inner door. Instantaneously he knew that something was wrong. There was a smell in the room, alien and faint but still horribly familiar. He put out his hand to the switch and four of the wall lights came on.

  What met his eyes was so bizarre in its horror that for half a minute he stood rooted in disbelief, his mind rejecting what his eyes so plainly saw. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. For those few seconds of disorientated incredulity he was incapable even of terror. But then he knew it was true.

  His heart leapt into life and began a pounding which shook his whole body. He heard a low incoherent moaning and knew that this strange disembodied sound was his own voice.

  He moved slowly forward as if drawn by the inexorable pull of a thread. She was sitting well back in the swivel chair behind her desk. The desk was to the left of the door, facing the two tall windows. Her head was slumped forward on her chest, her arms hung loosely over the curved arms of the chair. He couldn’t see her face but he knew that she was dead.

  On her head was a full-bottomed wig, its stiff curls of horsehair a mass of red and brown blood. Moving towards her, he put the back of his right hand against her cheek. It was ice-cold. Surely even dead flesh couldn’t be as cold as this. The touch, gentle as it had been, dislodged a globule of blood from the wig. He watched, horrified, as it rolled in slow spurts over the dead cheek to tremble on the edge of her chin. He moaned in terror. He thought: Oh God, she’s cold, she’s dead cold, but the blood is still tacky! Instinctively he clutched at the chair for support and to his horror it swung slowly round until she was facing the door, her feet dragging on the carpet. He gasped and drew back, looking appalled at his hand as if expecting it to be sticky with blood. Then he leaned forward and, stooping, tried to look into her face. The forehead, the cheeks and one eye were covered with the congealed blood. Only the right eye was unsullied. The
dead unseeing stare, fixed on some far enormity, seemed, as he gazed at it, to hold a terrible malice.

  Mesmerized, he slowly backed away from her. Somehow he managed to get out of the door. With shaking hands, he closed and locked both doors behind him carefully and quietly, as if a clumsy move could wake that terrible thing within. Then he pocketed the key and made his way to the stairs. He felt very cold and he wasn’t sure that his legs could support him, but somehow he staggered down. And at least his brain was clear, miraculously clear. When he picked up the phone he knew what he had to do. His tongue felt too swollen and unyielding for a mouth grown suddenly taut and dry. The words came, but the sounds were harshly alien.

  He said, “Yes, she is here, but she can’t be disturbed. Everything’s all right,” then he put down the receiver before she could answer or ask any further questions. He couldn’t tell her the truth, it would be all over London. She would know all about it in good time. Now there was a higher priority; he would have to telephone the police.

  He reached again for the receiver and then hesitated. He had a sudden vivid picture of police cars racing up Middle Temple Lane, of loud masculine voices, of members of Chambers arriving to find the court cordoned off. There was a higher priority even than the police; he had to ring the Head of Chambers. The phone was answered quickly by a male voice. Mr. Langton had left for Chambers fifteen minutes earlier.

  He felt an immense weight lifted from his shoulders. It would only be about twenty minutes before the Head of Chambers arrived. But the news would be horribly shocking to him. He would need some help, some support. He would need Mr. Laud. Harry telephoned the flat at Shad Thames and heard the familiar voice.

  He said: “It’s Harry Naughton, sir, ringing from Chambers. I’ve just telephoned Mr. Langton. Could you come at once, please? Miss Aldridge is dead in her room. It isn’t a natural death, sir. I’m afraid it looks as if she’s been murdered.” He was surprised that his voice could be so strong, so steady. There was silence. He wondered for a moment whether Mr. Laud had taken it in, or whether shock had rendered him speechless, whether he had even heard the message. He began again tentatively: “Mr. Laud, it’s Harry Naughton …”

  And then the voice answered. “I know. I heard you, Harry. Tell Mr. Langton when he arrives that I’m coming immediately.”

  He had telephoned from the reception room, but now went back into the hall and waited. There were footsteps, but heavier than those of Mr. Langton. The door opened and Terry Gledhill, one of his junior clerks, came in, carrying as usual a bulging briefcase which contained his sandwiches, a thermos and his computer magazines. He took one glance at Harry’s face.

  “What’s up? You all right, Mr. Naughton? You look as white as that door.”

  “It’s Miss Aldridge. She’s dead in her room. I found her when I arrived.”

  “Dead? Are you sure?”

  Terry made a move towards the stairs but Harry moved instinctively to block his path.

  “Of course I’m sure. She’s cold. No point in going up. I’ve locked the door.” He paused and said: “It wasn’t … it wasn’t natural, Terry.”

  “Christ! You mean she was murdered? What happened? How do you know?”

  “There’s blood. A lot of blood. And, Terry, she’s cold. Ice-cold. But the blood is tacky.”

  “You’re sure that she’s dead?”

  “Of course I’m sure. I told you, she’s cold.”

  “Have you rung the police?”

  “Not yet. I’m waiting for Mr. Langton.”

  “What can he do? If it’s murder you want the police, and we ought to ring them now. No point in waiting till all the staff arrive. They could muck up the scene, destroy clues. The police will have to be called, and the sooner the better. It’ll look pretty odd if you don’t ring them at once. And we’d better warn security.”

  The words were an uncomfortable echo of Harry’s own misgivings. But he heard in his voice the note of obstinate self-justification. He told himself that he was Senior Clerk, he didn’t have to explain his actions to his staff. He said: “Mr. Langton is Head of Chambers. He ought to be told first, and he’s on his way. I rang his flat and I’ve rung Mr. Laud too. He’ll be as quick as he can. It’s not as if anyone can help Miss Aldridge.”

  He added, more sharply: “You’d better get into the office, Terry, and start the day. No point in holding up the work. If the police want us all out when they arrive, no doubt they’ll say so.”

  “More likely to want us all here for questioning. Look, shall I make a cup of tea? You look as if you could do with it. Christ! Murder, and in Chambers.”

  He put his hand on the banister and looked up the stairs with a horrified, half-curious fascination.

  Harry said, “Yes, make some tea. Mr. Langton will need something when he arrives. Better make it fresh for him, though.”

  Neither of them heard the approaching footsteps. The door opened and Valerie Caldwell, the Chambers secretary, closed it behind her and leaned against it. Her eyes settled first on Harry’s face and then on Terry’s with what seemed like questioning deliberation. None of them spoke. It seemed to Harry that the moment was frozen in time: Terry with his hand on the banister; himself staring in horrified dismay, like a schoolboy caught out in some juvenile mischief. He knew with an appalling certainty that nothing needed to be said. He watched while the blood drained from her face and it changed, grew old and unfamiliar, as if he were watching the very act of dying. He could take no more.

  He said: “You tell her. Make that tea. I’m going upstairs.”

  Harry had no idea where precisely he was going or what he was going to do. He only knew that he had to get away from them. But he had barely reached the landing before he heard a soft thud and heard Terry’s voice.

  “Give me a hand, Mr. Naughton. She’s fainted.”

  He came down and together they lifted Valerie into the reception room and lowered her onto the sofa. Terry put his hand on the back of her neck and forced her head down between her knees. After about half a minute, which seemed much longer, she gave a little moan.

  Terry, who seemed to have taken control, said: “She’ll do now. Better get a glass of water for her, Mr. Naughton, and then I’ll make that tea—good and sweet.”

  But before either of them could move they heard the sound of the front door closing and, looking up, saw Hubert Langton standing in the doorway. Before he could speak, Harry took his arm and gently led him across the hall and into the conference room. Surprised into acquiescence, Langton was as docile as a child. Harry closed the door and spoke the words which he had already mentally rehearsed.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I have something very shocking to tell you. It’s Miss Aldridge. When I arrived this morning her housekeeper rang to say that she hadn’t been home last night. Both doors of her room here were locked but I’ve got the spare key. I’m afraid that she’s dead, sir. It looks like murder.”

  Mr. Langton didn’t reply. His face was a mask betraying nothing. Then he said: “I’d better look. Have you rung the police?”

  “Not yet, sir. I knew you were on your way so I thought it would be better to wait. I’ve telephoned Mr. Laud and he said he’d come immediately.”

  Harry followed Mr. Langton up the stairs. The Head of Chambers held on to the banisters but his feet were steady. He waited calmly, his face still expressionless, while Harry took the key from his pocket and unlocked the doors, then held them open.

  For a second, as the key turned, he had been seized with an irrational conviction that it would all prove to be a mistake, that the blood-bloated head had been a sick fantasy and that the room would be empty. But the reality was even more horrible than on the first sight. He dared not look at Mr. Langton’s face. Then he heard him speak. His voice was calm, but it was the voice of an old man.

  “This is an abomination, Harry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And this is how you found her?”

  “Not quite, Mr. Langton. She was
facing the desk. I touched the chair, inadvertently really, and she swung round.”

  “Have you told anyone else—Terry, Valerie—about the blood and the wig?”

  “No, sir, just that I found her dead. I did say it looked like murder. Oh, and I did tell Terry that there was fresh blood. That’s all I told him.”

  “That was sensible of you. Keep the details to yourself. The media will make a meal of this if it gets out.”

  “It’s bound to get out sooner or later, Mr. Langton.”

  “Then let it be later. I’ll ring the police now.” He moved towards the desk telephone, then said: “Better do it from my room. The less we touch in here the better. I’ll take charge of the key.”

  Harry handed it over. Langton turned out the light and locked both doors. Watching him, Harry thought that the old man was taking the shock more calmly than he had dared to hope. This was the Head of Chambers he remembered: authoritative, calm, taking control. But then he looked at his companion’s face and knew with a rush of pity what this calmness was costing him.