“How are you doing, Tom?”
“Look, Miss Silverstone, I am going to plead guilty. That way I may be able to avoid hanging.”
Her jaw dropped. It made no sense. Alice was missing something. Was this a charade for warders or microphones? Yes, Tom was shaking his head, countermanding his words. She pulled the folded paper from her pocket as surreptitiously as she could, then reached into her brief bag as if for a file folder and slipped the note into one. Then she brought the folder up and opened the still folded note.
I fear we can’t talk freely. Someone must have been listening to our interviews. My cell was searched again during my exercise periods. This time the warder made me leave the books in my cell. They didn’t get anything. Everything I wrote was gibberish. Are the books I wrote for you secure?
Alice looked from the note at Tom, pressed her fingertip to her lip, and nodded her head in agreement. Pulling two new composition books from her bag, she opened one and began to write:
There’s still only one theory that makes sense to me: someone wants to both discredit you and keep you behind bars or to hang for reasons that have nothing to do with Trevor Spencer.
And you’re right about the spying. Someone is listening or at least being informed about our conversations. They’ve searched my office for the composition books. But the books are secure for the moment.
It’s a good sign. It means someone is worried about what you know. If we can find out what it is, we’ll have a chance.
We’ll have to find a way to prevent the eavesdropping. I’ll be back when I figure one out.
Tear this page from the books I hand you and give it back.
When she finished the note, she passed the two new books across the table. He pushed them back.
“Still working on the ones you gave me last week. I don’t need new ones.”
“I see. Well, I’ll get in touch with the crown prosecutor and see if they are prepared to recommend a lesser penalty than hanging.”
Tom and Alice both rose. He knocked on the door for the warder. As she opened the door, she looked back at Tom. “You’ll have to call me Alice, or I’ll go back to calling you Mr. Wrought.”
He smiled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“Liz, I have to be frank with you. I’m worried.”
“What is it?” Was Alice going to explain the track marks up her arm? Tell her she was giving up the case? Liz waited.
“All along, this has not looked like your garden-variety murder case. Now I’m getting the feeling the people who’ve put Tom in Brixton will start closing in on us. It won’t scare me off, but you have kids to think about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Whoever we’re up against, they killed an innocent man to frame Tom. Then they managed to gag the tabloids when the story could have made the name of a reporter or two and sold a lot of papers.” Alice stopped for a moment. “Whoever these people are, they have a lot of power. And they’ve even been able to pervert the course of justice.”
“Pervert the course of justice? What does that mean?”
“The relations between a defendant and his solicitor are strictly protected by the courts. Anyway, they’re supposed to be. But someone has reached into Tom’s cell in Brixton, violated his judicial rights, and now they’ve broken into my office.”
“What were they looking for?”
“The composition books, almost certainly. But these people won’t stop there. So far, they haven’t paid you any attention. But that could change.”
“How about you? They’ve already gone after your . . . office. Why not you too?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t matter so much. I don’t have kids. You do.” That wasn’t the only reason Alice was not going to be scared off. I’m beyond their reach. She rather relished the thought. You can’t threaten someone who’s already dead. But she wasn’t prepared to tell Liz. “If they begin to think you’re a threat, I don’t think they’ll hesitate to . . .”
Liz finished the thought that Alice could not complete. “Kill me too?” Alice said nothing, and Liz continued, “Look, Alice. I appreciate the warning, but I won’t be scared off.”
“You’re making a decision that affects other people—two young children, Liz. Do you have that right?”
“Alice, that decision may already have been made for me by these people, whoever they are.”
“Any sign you’re being followed?” Alice recalled the sudden feeling, suspicion, sixth sense that had overcome her the morning after the break-in at the firm’s offices.
“Not yet. But it doesn’t matter, Alice. I’m in too deep already. And I want a life with Tom. My children need a father. Tom will be a fine one. There’s a risk, a big one if you’re right. But my kids and I’ll just have to take it. We need Tom.” She stopped. Did she need to tell Alice that the word need hadn’t begun to convey the truth? She had to say aloud what she had known for months. “Having a mother without joy, or worse, would harm them, badly. Having a father who cared, well . . . that’s worth almost any risk.”
Alice was watching her client’s—no, her friend’s—face. “Very well, Liz, contra mundum!” Having won a smile, she went on, “It looks like you are going to have to go to America. There are leads there. We can’t afford professional investigators, and in a matter like this, I wouldn’t trust them anyway.”
“I’ll go, of course. But what am I looking for?”
“We need to know more about the name that keeps coming up in Tom’s narrative—Folsom. He’s a villain, and how many times does he cross Tom’s path—three, four?” It was a lead Alice wanted dearly to follow to America. But she couldn’t, and she couldn’t tell Liz why. Focus on the practicalities, Alice! she silently enjoined herself. “Can you leave your kids?”
“I can send them to Birkenhead, to Trevor’s brother, for a few days. He’ll take good care of them.”
“Your job?”
“I travel for Abbey National so much, they won’t miss me if I’m gone for a week. Beatrice Russell, my assistant, is a brick.”
“Have the police questioned her yet?”
“Once. She played completely dumb. Never heard the name Tom Wrought at all.”
“Good. Now here is all I have about your target. Can’t even be sure it’s right, comes from a Who’s Who in America I found in the solicitors’ law library: Vincent Folsom, University of Mississippi, BA, 1930, law school, 1933, admitted to bar, 1934, lieutenant colonel, Mississippi National Guard, US Army, served 1941–1945, FBI, 1945–1954, staff of Senator Eastland (D) Mississippi, 1954–1957, assistant chief counsel, Senate Internal Security Subcommittee, 1957 to present. Address: Shoreham Hotel, Washington, DC.” She passed a newspaper cutting across the desk. “This is a photo I got from a clipping service. It’s Senator Eastland grilling a witness before his committee. The man behind him is Folsom.”
Liz looked at the clipping. She thought for a moment. “I have an idea where to start. We need to find people who know Washington and who will be on Tom’s side for sure. There is only one person I can think of who might fit that bill.”
“Who?”
“The Negro professor who hired Tom when he lived in Washington, John Hope Franklin. If Tom is right, Franklin’s in New York now. I am going to see him first. I can’t think of any other way.”
Alice was pleased. “It’s a good start. How soon can you leave?”
“As soon as my banker gives me an overdraft to cover the flight. I’ll book for day after tomorrow. The new BOAC comet jet to New York.”
Alice replied, “Good. I’m going to start by talking to Tom’s editors.” Then she realized it wouldn’t work. “But you gave in your passport, didn’t you, Liz?”
“I did, my United Kingdom passport. Trev made us all get them a year after we moved here. Should have realized then it was a signal he wouldn’t go back.” She smiled. “But I still have my Canadian passport in the name of Jarvis.”
Fleet Street wasn’t far from Red Li
on Square. Alice thought she’d be able to talk to several of Tom’s editors in one afternoon. As she walked down the Aldwych towards Fleet Street, she could feel the street exuded an air of authority she’d always wanted to subvert. The silent, anonymous office blocks were designed to look formidable and permanent. The proprietary air of the commissionaires at each entrance kept the gates against anyone not wearing the uniform of the ruling class—a bowler, a rolled umbrella, and most of all trousers. Looking up towards the massive columns holding up the façade of Bush House, she felt a chill. The establishment was palpable, concrete, impregnable here. Might Tom Wrought’s case be one that could subvert it, even a little? Alice shrugged and turned left onto Fleet Street.
The Times Literary Supplement, the New Statesman, the Observer, all fruitless. None of the editors particularly wanted to see a solicitor. She was fobbed on to assistants or business managers. “What exactly are you looking for, Miss Silverstone?” The assistant editors were willing enough to help. Talking to a solicitor was something to do besides proofread and fact-check. But each was equally frustrated. The conversations were all pretty much the same:
“Is there a specific question you want to put?”
“I can’t tell you anything more than that we invited Wrought to review and he did.”
“When you ask whether there was anything out of the ordinary about the matter, what exactly do you mean? He didn’t ask for more money, he wasn’t late with copy, we didn’t have any trouble getting him to accept the cuts. It was business as usual. I’m afraid there’s the end of it.”
Of course Alice understood. She was on a fishing expedition in which she couldn’t even bait the hook.
She arrived at the Tribune office no longer hopeful. But at least this was a chance to meet a celebrity, one she admired. She presented herself at the editorial office. “I’d like to see Michael Foot.”
“Whom shall I say?” the receptionist asked.
“Alice Silverstone. Tell him I am a solicitor, and it’s about Tom Wrought.” She thought a minute and lied, “Tell him Victor Mishcon sent me.” The solicitor was a Labour Party worthy Foot would know.
No intercom on the receptionist’s desk. Just one phone line. Nothing like the massive editorial infrastructure at the other papers. The woman rose and knocked on the door marked MR. FOOT. After a moment, out he came, extending a hand. “Miss Silverstone, come in.” He was of average height, but wiry, with a shy smile under the dark hair combed back from his forehead, his glasses sliding down his nose. The smile showed genuine pleasure. She wondered, Was it Mishcon’s name, or was it a pretty face?
Alice had asked the same questions enough times that afternoon to know how empty they sounded. Now she decided she’d have to try something else, take a risk, play some cards. He closed the door and motioned her to a chair, then went behind his desk—a study in disarray, just as any editor’s desk would look if he really ran the show. He sat down, lit a cigarette, and offered her one. She shook her head.
“Bad business Tom Wrought’s got himself into. You’re defending him? Seems open and shut, no?”
“Too open and shut, Mr. Foot.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think he was framed. The case was watertight within hours of the murder. CID hardly had anything to do at all. Someone just filled them in on means, motive, and opportunity. I don’t know who, and I don’t know how.”
“We don’t really do crime exposés, Miss Silverstone.”
“That’s another thing. Apparently neither does any other paper, not when it comes to this story. Not a whisper in the press.” She stopped to let Foot ponder the fact. Then she continued, “Anyway, it’s the last thing we want, Mr. Foot. No, the way I see it, the worst thing that can happen for Wrought now is publicity.”
“Why is that?” He leaned forwards and put his chin in his hands.
“The only way to spring him—” Foot grimaced. “Pardon the Americanism.” She continued, “The only way to free him is to find out who’s behind the frame-up, if there was one, and threaten to reveal it. If we get to that point, the Tribune would have a story, I think.”
“I dare say.” He nodded vigorously. “So, how can I help?”
“Well, was there anything unusual in your dealings with Tom?”
Foot thought a moment. “Now that you mention it, there was. Two things.” Alice’s eyes widened. “He wrote some background pieces for us on American politics. But he also wrote a couple of reviews. Both were bombshells. We published them anonymously, at Tom’s request.”
Anonymously? That meant Alice had not read them. “Bombshells? What do you mean?”
“They both made very controversial suggestions, things he couldn’t prove or at least wasn’t willing to in print. One was a guess; the other was an accusation. He had enough circumstantial evidence to claim that the CIA was behind the Dr. Zhivago boomlet last fall. Before that, he reviewed a book about the Rosenberg spy case and accused the FBI of knowing the wife, Ethel, was innocent and not caring.”
“Do you have copies?” Alice clasped her hands to stop them trembling with excitement.
Foot nodded, pulled out a drawer, and riffled through some manila files till he found them. “You can have these copies.” But he had more to say. “Anyway, those must have been two very good guesses, if that’s what they were. And Tom must have thought he was playing with fire a bit, asking us to publish anonymously. Now here’s the thing. The next week I got at least two calls from people asking who wrote the Zhivago review, and if it was the same person who wrote the review of the book about the Rosenberg case. One of them was from someone I think is former MI6, fellow named Philby.”
“Philby?”
“Yes, Kim Philby. He’s a journalist in Beirut for the Observer. Comes back to town a lot.”
Alice took a note and looked up. “Anyone else?”
“Can’t recall. A secretary said she was calling from the Home Office for a curious civil servant. When I asked who, she rang off. I was troubled enough to write to Wrought about the calls. Hasn’t he mentioned it?”
“No, he hasn’t.” Why, she wondered, hasn’t Tom said anything about this?
Should she tell Foot that Tom and she hadn’t been able to talk freely? No. It would just make the journalist in him all the more interested in doing a story. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Foot. Thanks very much.” She rose and offered her hand. Now she had something to go on. A name, someone moved enough by what Tom had written to at least make a telephone call. Who was this Philby?
Alice wended her way back to the Aldwych and retraced her steps up the Kings Way. Philby, Philby, what sort of a name is that? Where to start? As she passed Victor Mishcon’s office, on a whim she stepped in.
She knocked on the door and entered. The receptionist looked up. “Ah, Miss Silverstone. Do you want to see Mr. Mishcon?”
“No, no. But can I use the library for a few minutes?” Mishcon had the best set of reference works outside the law library at the Inns of Court. And there was the advantage that she need not explain to anyone what she was looking for. A half hour’s work turned up little more, however. Kim Philby had been a journalist, then a foreign office official in Washington throughout the war, and was now a journalist again. Just as Alice was putting the last of the fat reference books away, Victor Mishcon came into the library.
“Hello, Miss Silverstone. Find what you need? My secretary told me you were here.”
“’Fraid not.”
“Perhaps I can help?”
“I’m trying to find out something about a man named Philby, Kim Philby. He was in the FO during the war. That’s about all I know after half an hour of searching.”
Mishcon picked up a pen, dipped it in an inkwell, and scratched the name across a card. “I’ll see what I can do.”
The next evening coming home, Alice could hear the insistent ring of her phone through the door. She was in pain and needed some relief quickly, before things became unmanageable. She fum
bled for her latchkey, juggling the briefcase and a string bag with her supper. By the time she had managed to get the key in the door lock, files had tumbled out of the brief bag on to the entryway, and her dinner was hanging perilously from her wrist. But the phone was still ringing. She rushed across to the desk.
“Alice Silverstone,” she announced somewhat breathlessly.
“Victor Mishcon here. Missed you at your office. Wanted to have a word about that name you gave me.”
“Very kind of you, sir.”
“Well, I got the strangest reaction when I mentioned the name to a well-connected friend. He wanted to know urgently who had given it to me. I told him it was a matter of legal confidentiality. He warned me not to make any inquiries about the man. But he also told me not to rely on anything this Philby says. Then he rang off. Very strange.”
Alice Silverstone said nothing until Tom Wrought was seated comfortably across from her in the Brixton interview room. Then she began, “The psychiatrist I have consulted about your case doesn’t have time to come round, but he’s suggested a diagnostic test.” She withdrew two flat boards from her case. They were six inches by nine inches, grey, and covered with a piece of cellophane attached at the top. “Do you remember magic slates from your childhood?”
Tom understood immediately. “Yes, of course.” He smiled at her ingenuity.
“I am going to draw a picture on my board and show it to you. You write down exactly what comes to your mind, alright?” She began to write, but Tom reached out a hand to stop her and began to write on his slate.
You don’t expect anyone listening to believe this, do you?
Autumn in Oxford: A Novel Page 26
