by John Wilson
When eventually he emerged from Dr Johnson’s Buildings into the Temple it became immediately apparent to him that the news was about. He had written a letter to Pemberton acknowledging his notice and delivered it by hand to Arthur, who received him with cold formality. Preston, whom he had known since he had been a pupil in chambers some sixteen years ago, had once said to him that in times of adversity one’s true friends would stand by you. On seeing Adam in the Clerk’s Room he turned on his heel and, with a look of disgust, walked out again, thus, with commendable economy, proving the truth of his dictum and the falsity of his friendship. With Barry’s assistance, Adam moved the contents of his room into the flat.
Storman, however, did not desert him. Instead he had returned to the half-conversation that the two men had had on that first evening in the Temple.
****
And so, for the last three days, Adam had been watching Roland Blytheway glide up through the Temple towards Lamb Buildings. He thought back over the years: Blytheway had been making his progression from Temple tube through to his Chambers near the Temple Church for over fifteen years. He had seen him move from being a man in his late thirties to one in his middle fifties – although he still had the svelte figure and dandyish demeanour that he had always had. He had not changed. Adam had long been aware also of his louche reputation – of the snide little jokes made about him behind his back in the robing rooms around the Assizes – and he had assumed him to be a dilettante of dubious ability. But Storman, whom he respected, had repeated again that the man was a better barrister than he would ever be – and that if anyone could save Adam’s reputation it was Blytheway. That Blytheway might even be prepared to allow him to have a place in his Chambers in Lamb Building. That Blytheway was his only hope.
****
There had been another thing that had, perhaps inexplicably, raised his spirits. That day, after the morning service, he had crept into the church as always, and saw to his delight a glimpse of white under the purbeck marble heel. The paper was rough and anonymous:
“The note you destroyed was sent by ordinary post on the 11th December. The envelope was not marked ‘Private and Confidential’. It read as follows:
‘Dear Mr Falling ….
…Yours sincerely, Mrs J. Pemberton.’
Memorise its contents and destroy this.”
Of course he would destroy it. It was for her protection rather than for him at all. But she had spoken to him through it. What joy!
****
The tall, self-contained barrister sashayed his way around some more rubble, tipped his hat to an elderly bencher who was heading his way, and then disappeared up Middle Temple Lane.
Chapter Thirty
(Wednesday 15th January 1941)
Eric Jones put the phone down. He was running late. A lengthy and ultimately pointless conversation with his wife was the last thing he had needed. She had spent two hours queuing for their meat ration only for the butcher to run out three customers in front of her. What was he supposed to do about it? He took his overcoat from the stand and buttoned up. He had a medium-sized office on Fetter Lane, and although it would look untidy to the casual observer he knew where everything was. Rummaging through a large pile of files arranged along one of his shelves, he pulled out a slim buff folder and made for the door. As he went to open it he saw through the frosted glass the silhouette of a vaguely familiar little man hurrying towards him, the voice of his secretary following in his wake.
– Stop! You can’t just burst in like this. You need an appointment!
But Bateman had pulled open the door and positioned himself chest to chest with his solicitor.
– You’ve not been answering my calls. What’s going on?
– I’m terribly sorry, Mr Bateman. I’m in a great hurry and, as Sonia says, you need an appointment.
– I want to see Falling. I rang almost a week ago. And I’ve sent a letter.
– Yes. I’m sorry. I’m dealing with it.
– When can I see Falling?
– Soon. I’m going to speak with him … with his clerk … as soon as I get back from my meeting.
– I’m paying you both good money.
– I’ll sort it out. It’s difficult. I can’t call you at work and be put through the exchange. Call me tomorrow.
Bateman continued to block Jones’s way.
– What’s going on?
– Look, I’m already late. I have other clients.
– Something’s happened to Falling?
– He’s been a little poorly. That’s all. He’s getting better.
– When can we see him?
– By the end of the week … the beginning of next week.
– Are you telling me the truth?
– Falling wants to talk to you about the inquest into your wife’s death.
Bateman faltered, his mouth open.
– I told you. We don’t need to go into that.
– Falling knows what it says. You’ve been lying to us
– He had no right …
Jones pushed his way past the little man.
– Look, speak to Sonia. Arrange an appointment for tomorrow. At your convenience – though I’ve got a conference in the evening. I’ll explain everything then. I’m sorry. I’ve got to run.
And he moved quickly past his secretary and left her to deal with a rather bemused Bateman.
****
He walked briskly to Chancery Lane tube station. If he had tried to explain the whole picture to Bateman, it would have led to a series of further questions and he would never have got away. The truth was that he himself did not know what was going on. Rumours that Falling had been ejected from Stirrup Court had reached him towards the end of the previous week – a day or so after Bateman’s letter had reached him. Then Jack Storman KC had telephoned him to say that Falling felt obliged to withdraw from the case. But before he could contact Bateman he had received a call from Falling himself who had asked him to hang fire as everything might yet change; that he should carry on as though nothing had happened and stall Bateman. He also swore him to silence and made him an extraordinary offer. He couldn’t really believe it. The implications of what he had been told were truly incredible.
And so he was heading off to his meeting. He had been putting it off. Falling had insisted that it needed to be carried out by someone of his seniority and experience. He should have dealt with it over a week ago but the trial timetable had been extended and he had let matters drift. It was not going to be an easy journey: he had to take the Central line to the final stop at Liverpool Street and then go overland to Leytonstone. Travel was slow and difficult. Even though there had been nothing to match the bombardment of 29th December transport links remained unreliable. Falling’s instructions had been precise as to what should happen at the interview. No advance warning of his visit was to be given. He couldn’t be sure they would even be there.
The train rumbled towards Liverpool Street. Jones didn’t understand what was going on. Adam had already indicated that he was going to waive his fee on the case. But more than that he had promised Jones that, if he did this for him, he would instruct him on his own case and pay him well for it. At the time he had thought Falling was going mad, but, already, rumours were beginning to circulate: that Jeremy Pemberton was divorcing his wife and citing Adam as the Co-Respondent. The story seemed incredible but it would explain Adam’s precipitate departure from Stirrup Court. It was going to be a big case. It was only a matter of time before the newspapers got hold of it. Jones had a good practice and was well regarded. But this was the sort of high-profile litigation that came up once in a lifetime. Half the solicitors in London would sell their mothers for it. It was too good an opportunity to miss.
****
It was getting dark by the time the solicitor stepped onto the platform at Leytonstone. He had brought a map. Old King’s Road was a ten minute walk away. There were many bomb-damaged buildings along his route. Where was Falling now?
What was going through his mind? How could he continue to act if he was without Chambers? And how was Jones going to get back home once this interview was over?
The road was cloaked in darkness by the time he reached it. He walked silently up to the first front door he came to so that he could get an idea of the numbering. He was looking for number 11. It was six doors down. Reaching it, he knocked hard and waited. Eventually he saw shadowy movement through the stained glass and a slight oldish man with a wispy beard opened it to him. Jones saw anxiety glinting out from behind his spectacles.
– Yes?
– I’m looking for a Mrs Katya Hoffer.
As he said it a tall, dark-haired woman, some fifteen to twenty years younger than the man who had answered the door, swept passed him. She had high cheekbones and a large, sensuous mouth. A bohemian shawl was draped over her shoulder.
– I am Katya Hoffer.
Chapter Thirty-one
(Wednesday 15th January 1941)
As Jones began his journey to Leytonstone Adam had been sitting at the back of the Temple Church. A weak sun penetrated from outside and bands of light fell across the wood and marble, casting an unearthly glow on the interior. Looking towards the altar he saw the morning service end and the worshippers depart into nothingness. A solitary figure remained on her knees. When the church had emptied she got to her feet and, satisfying herself that she was alone, went over to the knights and placed a folded piece of paper under an ankle. Then, making sure it was secure, she headed for the door. But the image of her faded to nothing before she reached it and he realised again that he was alone.
Why did he keep coming here? She would not be back. Not in the same way. No more notes would be left for him. His life and his thoughts circled around this place. It had happened. There was a time when she had wanted to be with him. The ghosts of the living inhabit the places where we knew them, or imagined them best. She had been here and, on her knees, she had thought of him. She still came to morning communion, walking up from Temple tube. He knew her route, and ever since taking up residence in Dr Johnson’s Buildings he would find a way to watch her, to remember what she was wearing. He tried to imagine what was going on behind that closed face. Did she remember at all? Why had she changed? What had he done?
He would listen for the end of the service and creep in when he was sure the church was empty. But there was never a note. So he would sit there at the back, out of sight. They had never been in the church at the same time so he did not know where she would sit. There was no place there which he could know had been hers. He would pick up the order of service and read it through, for this was something that she had read less than an hour earlier. But she eluded him.
In the autumn he had watched the planes over London, vapour trails following them through blue skies. They were white and well defined but the planes flew away and the clear white lines were broken up by the wind, became ragged and disconnected before disappearing altogether, leaving only blue heaven. That was what had happened to their love. The fire somehow had gone. Things fell apart and now there was nothing left but the empty inexplicable sky.
He was not sleeping again. There was no reason for it. Lying awake solved nothing. His thoughts were rutted deep and no new insights came to him. He would wait until it was late enough and then go to bed. He had no interest in the shelters. On 11th January a high explosive bomb had destroyed 2, Mitre Court Buildings and the adjacent Barristers’ Common Rooms together with the whole of the eastern part of the Master’s House. It stood just to the east of the church and was regarded as one of the most beautiful houses in London. The church itself had survived with only a few broken windows but was covered in dust. Incendiaries had caused fires at 1, Paper Buildings.
Adam was unconcerned by the continued bombardment. In a strange way he welcomed it. Instead, he longed for the morning so that he could watch Blytheway make his way to his Chambers and then watch her going to communion. Then he would sit at the back of the church. But as his strength returned to him a sort of boredom had set in. Storman had said there was a possibility that he would be able to obtain a place at Lamb Building. He had two cases that mattered to him: Bateman and Novak. There was his own case also. Inexplicable rejection had made him call into question his own worth. What had he got left? Nothing. Not quite nothing. He had a little money. He was still a barrister. Perhaps, he told himself, if he could succeed for Bateman and Novak and see off Pemberton’s action, he might still win her back. He had nothing to lose. If Pemberton succeeded he would, he had no doubt, be bankrupted and disgraced. He had no choice but to fight back.
He reached into his wallet. He had sixty pounds left of the money he’d withdrawn before Christmas. He needed to pay Catherine and Deborah something. Jones was going to be expensive and, on top of that, he had to fund Blytheway’s fees. It had become clear to him that Blytheway had always lived well and was a connoisseur of the finer things in life. He would not be cheap. Not for the first time he found himself questioning Storman’s judgment on the man. Such views as he had been able to glean about him were mixed. He didn’t fit in. Storman had tried to persuade him that adverse views of him were born of envy at his talent, but he was not satisfied that this was right.
He got up from his bench and made for the church door. Looking at the effigies of the Knights Templar, he thought of their remains lying somewhere beneath his feet. They were dust. But once they too must have been filled with all the longings that now engulfed him. How could any of this matter? When he was gone his love and longing would die with him. For now he would have to find ways to endure.
The blackout had been brought down on Lamb Building. Inside, he knew, Roland Blytheway was due to begin a conference. Tomorrow he would be in court. It had been Blytheway’s commitments that had prevented an earlier conference taking place. Tomorrow evening was the earliest he could manage. Tomorrow he would meet him for the first time. He would be able to make up his own mind about him.
The sirens began to sound again and he returned to Dr Johnson’s Buildings, climbed into bed and, as the sound of bombs and explosions grew nearer, he fell asleep.
Chapter Thirty-two
(Thursday 16th January 1941)
Adam and Jones followed Blytheway’s clerk up the cold stone steps to his room. He couldn’t help noticing that, compared to Arthur, the man’s suit was bagged and ill-fitting. If his clerk was not as elegant as Adam’s, Blytheway’s room was in a different league. It was spacious and bright behind the shades of the blackout. Adam noticed that his windows looked out over the church. He counted four Tiffany lamps arranged around the room, stained glass images of dragonflies and dogwood illuminated by the electric bulbs within. An electric fire was burning in the corner of the room and gave a comforting warmth. There was a Japanese Shoji dressing screen in another corner. Adam noticed that there were natural leaves embedded in the mulberry paper.
Blytheway rose to greet them, shaking hands, before sitting again. He had an immense desk, and on the corners of it were two Chinese vases, each filled with peacock feathers. Close up his face resembled that of a goat and there was a warm twinkle of amusement in his eyes. He saw Adam staring at the feathers.
– Thank you for seeing me Blytheway
– Call me Roly, Adam, all my friends do. Do you keep peacocks?
– I live in Dulwich.
– They have such beautiful feathers and it is so difficult getting a regular supply of pretty flowers for my room these days.
– You have a lovely room.
– Of course, I’ve had to hide my peacocks in the depths of Wiltshire for the time being. They do make a ghastly racket and I didn’t want the neighbours eating them.
At that moment the door to the room opened and Blytheway’s clerk entered with a large tray loaded with fine china, a teapot and milk. Blytheway began pouring as his clerk left.
– I’m afraid I can’t offer you sugar. It’s not good for you, you know.
– You can’t do this!<
br />
Adam was flabbergasted. It was against all professional ethics to offer tea to professional or lay clients – tantamount to touting or advertising.
– Oh, don’t be a silly billy. It’s a foolish rule. I like a cup of tea after Court, and if I want to have one I don’t see why my … my guests shouldn’t have one as well.
– You’ll be hauled over the coals …
– Tush. It can be our little secret. And besides, can the Benchers really think that my clients come to me for my tea rather than for my advice?
He handed Adam a cup and saucer.
– See. Real Spode bone china. I have so few opportunities to invite people to salons chez moi these days so I thought I would bring it into Chambers.
In spite of himself Adam found the tea refreshing.
– Now. Where were we? Ah yes. A question. Do you believe in God?
– What?
– Are you a Christian?
– I’m not sure what that has to do with anything.
