The Caverel Claim

by Peter Rawlinson

  In the robing-room he spoke to Welby, but Welby shrugged. He was, he claimed, totally ignorant about ‘the arcane devices of advocates’, and hurried away to confer with the Church Commissioners.

  The only other person with whom Percy might discuss the question was Michael Stevens, but Percy had never felt at ease with Stevens. His behaviour had been impeccable. He had prepared an excellent brief; he was deferential and candid about his inexperience in Chancery law and practice, and quiet and sensible when he had brought his client to conferences. Nevertheless there was something about him that made Percy uncomfortable. It may have been his manner. It was too ingratiating, too smooth. That might be due to the fellow’s experience in dealing with clients and lawyers in the criminal courts, but whatever it was, there was something about him that Percy felt was not quite straight.

  As he strolled to his chambers in Gray’s Inn in the warm late afternoon sunshine, he came to a decision: he would definitely call the grandmother as his first witness. But when he got to his chambers, his clerk said that Mr Stevens had preceded him; he was in the waiting-room.

  ‘Give me three minutes, then bring him in. I’ll ring when I’m ready.’

  Percy’s was a large, important room; the walls were lined with leather-bound volumes of the Law Reports and, above the books, some handsome eighteenth-century prints. He hauled up the sash windows to let in as much air as possible, changed out of his dark coat, and put on a fresh white shirt, dark tie and white linen jacket. He sat at his desk and rang the bell.

  As soon as Stevens was shown into the room he began. ‘The grandmother, Sir Percy, Senora Martinez, are you intending to call her as a witness?’

  ‘Of course. I have decided to call her as my first witness.’

  Stevens looked grave. ‘I thought you might, Sir Percy, and that is why I have come.’

  ‘Why? Is there a problem?’

  Michael Stevens cleared his throat. ‘I fear it is the Senora herself who has what is called a problem.’ He paused. ‘She drinks.’

  Percy leaned forward. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She’s a very heavy drinker. We have to be very careful with her.’

  ‘Do you mean she might turn up in court intoxicated?’

  ‘It is quite possible.’

  ‘I know I live in the rarefied world of the Chancery courts, but are you saying that she might be drunk at ten o’clock in the morning?’

  Stevens nodded. ‘I’m afraid she might. Her problem first came to my attention when she created a scene at a press conference before proceedings had begun –’

  ‘I’d heard about that, but I understood it was because she’d been outrageously provoked and insulted by some questions from someone in the audience and lost her temper.’

  ‘That was so but she was also, I regret to say, inflamed by drink. I understood that recently she’s got better – she’s been in a nursing home after a bad fall. But I don’t think we can altogether rely on her. I recommend that the case for the petitioner is firmly established before you call her to give evidence.’

  ‘Are you solemnly telling me that you cannot guarantee to keep one of our most important witnesses from getting at the liquor bottle on the morning when she’s due to be called as a witness?’

  ‘I have had a lady very experienced in these cases looking after her, but somehow or other she seems able to get hold of liquor. Alcoholics, Sir Percy, are notoriously cunning and resourceful in getting their hands on drink and when drunk they can be very unpleasant. I do not know what she might not say.’

  Percy fiddled with the papers on his desk. Ledbury had in effect challenged him to call the grandmother immediately. ‘We shall have to call her at some time,’ he said. ‘She’s the only member of the family supporting our case.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but I suggest it would be safest to hold her back until after Miss Caverel has given her evidence. It would be unfortunate if she was called at the start of our case and before Miss Caverel gave her evidence and she made…’ He paused and then went on, ‘made an unfortunate impression.’

  Percy was still thinking of what Ledbury had said and he remembered that Ledbury had also said something about somebody else.

  ‘What part in this case is Willoughby Blake playing?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Mr Blake has befriended the petitioner from the start. He was one of the first who was convinced by her story and he has been prominent in demonstrating his confidence in her claim.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By speaking widely to his many friends, soliciting their support. He is an influential man and he has been insisting that she is the rightful heir.’

  ‘Is he connected with the media?’

  ‘Not directly.’

  There was silence for several moments. Then Percy said, ‘Is he what they call a publicist?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. But the Caverel claim is for him a matter of conviction. He is convinced of its rightness and he is determined to see that Miss Caverel gets justice.’

  When, many months ago, Percy had been retained, he had wondered how the claim was being financed but his clerk had told him that Stevens had assured him he had ample funds. Was the publicist the source of those funds? He shifted a little uneasily in his chair.

  Stevens said, ‘I have never regarded Mr Blake as being a potential witness.’

  ‘No, but if he is, as you say, a publicist, I presume he’s been drumming up support in the press. Of all judges this judge is the last who would appreciate that, as he would be the most offended by a drunken witness. And God forbid that Ledbury should have the chance of getting at either of them. Especially at the grandmother when she’s not in a fit state to appear!’

  He rose and walked around the room, pausing to lean against the wall by the window, looking down on to the square below. The story set out in his brief was perfectly straightforward. Naturally it all depended upon the genuineness of the Claimant, and when he had met her she had seemed honest and truthful. He had liked her. But Blake? What exactly was his role? What was his relationship to her? Were there, then, some murky shadows being cast over the case which cross-examination might reveal? But Blake had not invented the Claimant. She, Percy was convinced, was genuine. It was her claim, not Blake’s nor the drunken grandmother’s, and it was hardly Fleur’s fault that the old woman was an alcoholic. As he stood looking down out of the window he kept telling himself that he believed in and trusted Fleur Caverel. He knew he could win the case for her. All he had to do this evening was to decide the best order of witnesses. And having heard what Stevens had said, he certainly could not take the risk of calling the grandmother before Fleur. He would ignore Ledbury’s challenge and revert to his first plan: to call at the start the formal witnesses to produce the certificates; and follow them with Fleur.

  He turned back to Stevens. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘I shall call the grandmother later. But it’s up to you, Mr Stevens, to see that, when I do call her, she’s sober and capable of giving evidence. And keep Willoughby Blake out of this. Right out of it.’ He pressed the bell on his desk. ‘Until tomorrow then. Good evening, Mr Stevens.’

  In the taxi on his way back to his office, Stevens thought of Braythwaite’s instructions to keep Willoughby Blake out of it, and smiled. As if that were possible! Nevertheless Michael Stevens was satisfied with the result of the interview. Presumably Ledbury must have had some information about the Senora’s drinking and that was why he had tried to get Braythwaite to get her into the box. And he’d nearly succeeded.

  Stevens had been told that the Vice Chancellor was a judge who made up his mind about a case very quickly and once it was made up, rarely changed it. What was necessary, therefore, was to prove the marriages and births quickly; then call Fleur who would make an excellent impression and captivate the judge.

  The first of the formal witnesses was an official from Somerset House and the Divorce Registry who would produce certificates proving the Senora’s marriage to Walter Caverel
, Julian’s subsequent birth, and the Senora’s divorce from Walter. After him came the vital witnesses – Jed Blaker’s men from South Carolina, who would produce documentation to prove Julian’s marriage and the birth of Fleur. Much expense and effort had been devoted to obtaining this evidence with the assistance of Richard Jameson, and it was on this evidence, Stevens reckoned, that the action would be decided. Unless the family could show the documents were forgeries or were able to cast doubt on their authenticity, he was certain that the claim would succeed.

  On their arrival in London he had lodged the Americans well out of the way in an hotel near Heathrow. Today he had brought them to an hotel close to the Law Courts and kept them on call but out of sight. When it had become clear they would not be needed today, they had been sent back to their hotel at Heathrow. After they had given evidence and been released from further attendance at the court, a part of their reward was three days in Paris before they flew home, to which he knew they were much looking forward. Once the evidence of marriage and birth was established, followed by a good performance by Fleur, Stevens was sure that victory would be theirs.

  * * *

  In the hotel in Kensington Willoughby was sitting with Fleur. They were alone. Willoughby had opened a bottle of champagne. ‘I thought Braythwaite’s performance today first-class,’ he said expansively. ‘He’s an attractive fellow, and he made an excellent fist of the story.’

  Fleur was perched on the sofa. ‘What were they quarrelling about at the end?’

  ‘Lawyers’ nonsense. The other fellow was a bit cheeky about the Senora –’

  ‘And about you.’

  Willoughby laughed. ‘I don’t care a fig what they say about me. I don’t matter. It’s you who matters.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to tomorrow, Fleur, the most important day in your young life. Stevens believes the case hinges on the American witnesses and…’ He rose and glass in hand came over and stood smiling down at her. ‘And on you.’

  He handed her a glass which she put untouched on a low table in front of her. Willoughby rested his hand gently against her cheek. ‘Scared?’ he asked.

  ‘A little.’

  ‘There’s nothing to be scared about. All you have to do is tell your story in your own words. Our man will help you along –’

  ‘And then the other one goes for me.’

  ‘What can he do? He can only suggest you’re not telling the truth, but as you are what’s there to worry you? I was watching the judge. I don’t think he thinks much of her ladyship. But you, I also saw him looking at you.’ He laughed. ‘I think he likes the look of you. Behind all that Scots Presbyterian gravitas, there’s a horny old man wanting to get out.’

  Fleur grimaced. Willoughby sat beside her and took her hand. ‘We’re nearly there, Fleur. It’s nearly over. Soon that toffee-nosed woman and her child will be out and we’ll be in.’ He patted her hand. ‘A great new life will start for all of us. You can do what you like with your share, raise the wind on the house and the estate, sell the silver and the pictures – or whatever you’re able to do. You’ll be rich. You can go where you like, over the seas, into the sun – although God knows it’s warm enough here at the moment.’

  He got up again and taking off his jacket hung it round the back of a chair. She saw the damp marks on his shirt round the armpits and thought of Paul and the night in Paris when he’d seen the advertisement and it had all begun. It had been hot that night too. She missed Paul. For all his grossness, he’d been kind and true. He should be here now, when it was approaching the climax.

  By the window Willoughby was on the telephone to Jameson at the hotel at Heathrow. Fleur was glad Jameson wasn’t with them. Paul had never liked him. He’s a gangster, Paul had said.

  ‘Are the Yanks happy?’ she heard Willoughby ask. ‘Well, make sure they’ve everything they want. But not too many mint juleps.’ He laughed his hearty, man-of-the-world laugh. ‘Stevens says they’ll be on the stand tomorrow, so see they get to bed early – if you can.’

  He replaced the receiver. ‘You’re a trouper, Fleur, you’ve been one since you were a child. Think of tomorrow as a performance, like the performances you’ve given so many times before.’

  She looked at him. ‘Stark naked?’ she said.

  ‘That would be a sensation! But you’re as pretty with your clothes on as I’m sure you are with them off. No, seriously, think of tomorrow as a show. You know your lines and –’

  ‘I’ve never had lines to say before.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but you’re used to standing up in public and having people stare at you and that’s half the battle. Think of the box as a stage. You’ll do fine. All you have to do is to tell them the truth.’

  She thought of how many lines she had, all those pages of large type in what Stevens called her ‘proof’. She had to remember them all, otherwise the man with the ugly face would try and catch her out. In the past weeks, as the date of the trial approached, she’d often lain in bed thinking about it, imagining standing in the box giving evidence. Some nights she got into a panic and wanted to run away and hide, abandon it as she had wanted to just after Paul’s death. And Greg, he too had suggested she chuck it. He’d asked her why she was going on with it, why it was so important, was it worth it? Did she have to go on? What would she do with that enormous place, living in the gloom and the rain with people turning up their noses at her?

  But by the time she’d met Greg, it was too late to turn back. He didn’t, he couldn’t, understand.

  She liked Sir Percy. That was her comfort. He was so polite and so reassuring. He’d told her that he had complete confidence in her. Just as she had in him. Paul would have liked him. He was the kind of English lawyer that Paul would have expected.

  Tonight she couldn’t get Paul out of her mind. She thought of all the times they’d had together, of his kindness and support. She thought of Paul’s wife, now his widow. She hoped she was all right. They’d only met once when she and Paul had been having lunch in a small restaurant on the left bank. She’d looked up and seen a worn, white-faced woman standing in front of their table. Paul had got to his feet and introduced her. My wife, he’d said, and asked her to sit with them and poured her wine. As the woman drank, she’d asked Fleur her name and where she came from, so many questions that Paul had become irritated and said they had to leave, they had to get back to the club for a rehearsal. That had been long before the advertisement in the Herald Tribune.

  ‘You’ll have that judge eating out of your hand, Fleur,’ she heard Willoughby say. ‘I know you will. And I know we’re going to win. Now have some champagne. It’ll do you good.’

  She sipped from her glass and thought of Greg. He’d been so good over the money. She hadn’t treated him well, but what could she have done? Willoughby was too jealous. She knew she’d have to wait until the case was over. Then she’d explain – about Paul and about how it had all begun. She knew what Greg felt for her. The sex hadn’t been for him as it had been for her, a release from the tension of the past months. For Greg it had been serious, important, and she knew he’d suffered when she’d forbidden him even to try to see her again until the case was over. She wondered if he would come to court. She hoped he would.

  ‘I’m going to bed,’ she said.

  ‘It’s still light,’ Willoughby protested. ‘You must have something to eat.’

  ‘Soup,’ she said, ‘just send up some soup later. And the sleeping pills. Tonight I want to sleep.’

  But not, she hoped, to dream.

  * * *

  Nicholas was waiting for Andrea and her cousin, Fay, when they arrived at Wilton’s for dinner. In his club he had looked up the judge in Who’s Who. He’d married Freda Baronby, he told them. Andrea had known the Baronbys, but not Freda although she knew about her. ‘She was crippled in a hunting accident,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why the judge was so mortified when he went for Ledbury.’

  Andrea shook her head. ‘No, he just kne
w he shouldn’t have said what he did. He’s not a kind man. I saw him looking at the woman. She’ll fool him. I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Ledbury won’t let her. He’ll show her up. That’s what he’s best at, Oliver says. He’ll frighten the life out of her. He’s ugly enough.’

  ‘Not when he smiles,’ she said.

  In the taxi back to Egerton Gardens with Fay, Andrea said, ‘When I found out about Robin’s affair in Rome, I thought I could never again feel such unhappiness and despair. But I did, when he died. And I do tonight.’

  ‘You mustn’t. It’ll be all right. They won’t win, they can’t.’

  ‘If they do, I’ll have to go to Nicholas until I find somewhere. Where that’ll be, I don’t know. I’ll have very little money.’

  ‘Won’t you have what Robin left?’

  ‘There wasn’t much, in fact hardly any. They’ll have to disentangle the little of his from what he inherited. All the entailed property, Oliver says, will be the woman’s. His father left all his free property and his money to the Frenchwoman. What Robin had was very little. So I shall be very poor.’

  ‘It won’t happen,’ Fay said. ‘I know it won’t.’

  I think it will, Andrea thought.

  * * *

  Before he went to bed, Sir Robert Murray took several turns around the gardens of Lincoln’s Inn. He had a flat at the top of one of the eighteenth-century houses beside the Hall. He walked briskly, striding along like the athlete he had once been. He watched his weight and he was careful with his diet. A little malt whisky in the evening was all the liquor he allowed himself and he kept in good shape. He was still angry with himself for having snapped at Ledbury. He had not realised how crippled the man was. He shouldn’t have spoken as he had. Tomorrow he’d make a point of being especially polite.

  As he marched round New Square, he thought also about the two women: on the one side the bonny lass, the Claimant, so quiet and modest; and on the other the woman of the kind he’d encountered when he was in love with Freda, before he knew about the gin. There’d be some startled English faces, he thought, if, or rather when, as he was presently inclined, he decided for the Claimant.