At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  … Julia told me how much Daddy still misses Mummy and how he thinks too much and sometimes he gets it wrong. Then she said that she was scared that Daddy was going to try to divorce her for having an affair with someone from Daddy’s chambers – I can’t remember his name – I’d never heard of him before. In all the talks we’ve had she’s never ever mentioned him! And Julia said that it was untrue and she looked me straight in the eyes when she said it. And I believed her! I think she knows that Daddy still loves Mummy and it’s getting harder and harder because I look so much like Mummy now. Julia’s been so good for Daddy and I don’t think he can see it anymore. I was so upset to see her so hurt but I think that she was trying to protect me and she was really worried about Daddy too …

  Pemberton read no more and locked the diary away. He was a man of few doubts. But the uncomfortable exchanges, with Blytheway and then with Jenny, and her diary had sowed a seed of uncertainty. Jenny wouldn’t lie to him? He wasn’t sure what he should do next.

  ****

  Julia couldn’t sleep. Something had not been right. She climbed up softly from the cellars, passing Jeremy’s study on the way. She paused to look at the photos in the alcove. Flicking on the light, a warm glow suffused her dressing room. What was it? And then she realised. The bowl of hyacinths, once blue then turning to brown and fading, had gone.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  (Friday 17th January 1941)

  Adam, cigarette in hand, looked down on the Temple Church from his new room in Lamb Building – his cigarette smoke left a trail from the window along the stone work. Blytheway had been as good as his word, and the day following the uncomfortable encounter in the crypt there had been a knock on Adam’s door in Dr Johnson’s Buildings. He answered it, cradling Cordelia, to find Blytheway’s clerk who advised that a room was being made available for him. Together they carried his collection of paperbacks over to his new chambers and arranged them on the shelves. His pedestal desk – dismantled and piled in the corner of the room where he slept – was carried in stages around the corner into Lamb Building and reassembled.

  He smiled to himself. It was entirely typical of Blytheway to ensure that he had a room overlooking the church. Now he could observe it from his bedroom and from the place where he was to work. A thin sun fell in a square on the carpet and scattered light over his books. Below him the church was coated in a thick layer of dust. Light glinted from the fractured panes. He gazed past the church to the remains of 2, Mitre Court Buildings and the Master’s House. It was the only dwelling in the Temple where all the windows faced south. To the north side of it there was an unbroken brick wall beyond which lay the courtyard to Hoare’s Bank. He had never been deemed important enough to be invited inside but it was well known to be an architectural gem, built in 1667 with panelling and a staircase from London’s most gracious period.

  Lamb Building, Dr Johnson’s Buildings and Stirrup Court all survived still. But the destruction of the Blitz was encircling them and him. He vowed to himself that he would do everything in his power to save the buildings that were so dear to him. He turned away from the window and went to his jacket, hanging from a coat stand. Pulling out his wallet, he counted again the papery notes, putting them down with slow deliberation on the worn leather of his desk. Still sixty pounds. Catherine had returned to London. He had received no word from her but Deborah had sent him another letter from Suffolk. He took ten pounds from the wad and put it to one side. He would send it to Dulwich for his wife and daughter. He returned the balance of his money to the wallet.

  Blytheway was right. The sleeves and lapels of his suit were frayed and shabby. He could not expect to make the right impression, dressed as he was. He had been using and re-using the few clothes he had taken with him from Dulwich when he moved out. It didn’t matter to him after he had been expelled from Stirrup Court, but if he was to return Blytheway’s confidence in him – repay him for representing him without reimbursement – he would have to buy some new clothes. He removed a further twenty pounds from the wallet before replacing it in the inside pocket of his suit.

  Blytheway had arranged through his clerk that the conference, interrupted the previous night by the air raid, should continue between 1.15 p.m. and 1.45. He was still wearing his bands. The pressure on his time effected a significant change in his approach and he was business-like to the point of being brusque. Jones was instructed to obtain statements from the prostitute, Betty, and from the concierge at the Stafford. Adam was told that he must prepare a detailed statement of his relationship with the prostitute and his relationship (or lack of it) with Julia and Jeremy Pemberton. As a final aside, before heading back to the Royal Courts of Justice for his resumed hearing, Blytheway passed Adam a card.

  – My tailor. Go to him this afternoon. It’s a horror, I know, but it is only a matter of time before they introduce clothes rationing! The things we must do!

  – Thank you, Roly.

  – Oh, and … well, I can’t say anything much as yet … but I feel relatively confident that we shall have some helpful developments in the next few days.

  Before Adam could question him further he swept out onto the stairs and headed back to court.

  – I hope you like your new room.

  And he was gone.

  Adam examined the card. Apart from Novak and Bateman, he had no practice left to speak of. He decided to spend the rest of the afternoon in Jermyn Street.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  (Friday 17th January 1941)

  Bateman pushed a few coins across the counter, picked up his bottle, a beer glass and a glass of sherry, and headed to his favourite corner. The saloon bar was crowded and the familiar fug of cigarette smoke swirled around the ceiling. A heavy cloud cover hung over London that evening and the chances of a large-scale air raid seemed slight. He had his back to the room and knew he was virtually invisible. On the wall facing him was a large bevelled mirror advertising Watney’s Pale Ale. He was below the sight line and he knew that whilst he could observe those who were behind him they could not see him. The mirror was dusty and gave off faint rainbows of colour around the edges. Framed in it was a mass of people, uniforms and civilians, thronging around the bar. Glasses of pale ale and porter. The off-licence door opened and closed. He was in a pub just outside Liverpool Street station. He thought back to the days when he could meet Victoria here regularly without danger. Below the sight line. Before those final few months when life became both simpler and infinitely more complicated. He took the stopper out of his bottle and carefully poured out the pale ale.

  As he waited his thoughts turned again to his meeting with Jones the previous afternoon. This time he had not been kept waiting and the secretary, Sonia, ushered him to the frosted glass door. Beyond it he could see the hazy outline of his solicitor, sitting at his desk and organising his papers. Jones had his file out on the desk and, though he greeted him warmly as he entered, Bateman sensed an apprehension in his solicitor. He had been apologetic about his rudeness two days earlier. But he was also evasive and avoided looking Bateman in the eye. When Bateman asked what was going on with Falling, Jones half turned and looked out of the window. Already dusk was falling. Bateman had asked again after Falling.

  – Well, that’s been the problem. You see. There’ve been some … some developments …

  – Can’t Falling do my case?

  He had sensed that something was up. Jones had always been punctilious in responding to him quickly in the past and the silence of the last two weeks had filled him with foreboding.

  – No. No, of course not. It’s just that you may not want to have him as your barrister anymore.

  – Why? What’s he done?

  – Look …

  Jones shuffled his papers and looking out into Fetter Lane as he spoke.

  – Well there’s some good news and some bad news.

  – Give me the good news first.

  – Falling can do your case if you would like him to.

&nb
sp; – And the bad news?

  – He’s no longer at Stirrup Court. He’s moved chambers.

  – What’s the big deal? We all change jobs from time to time.

  – Not at the Bar, I’m afraid. Falling has a black mark over him.

  – So why’s he moved?

  – Well … it’s like … I mean… You see …

  Jones took a deep breath.

  – You see, Falling has been cited himself as a Co-Respondent in a divorce case.

  Bateman was temporarily stunned, and then he let out a roar of laughter.

  – That’s rich! That’s really rich! I told you I thought he knew a lot about adultery!

  The words came out in a torrent of laughter and tears rolled down his cheeks.

  – All that stuff about men and women having sex with people they shouldn’t be. Giving things an air of normality! So we’ll be seeing his picture in the papers!

  And he had continued to laugh. But Jones wasn’t laughing. Slowly, Bateman subsided.

  – But why does that mean he had to move Chambers?

  – You see, the man who is accusing him is his Head of Chambers. McKechnie’s barrister.

  Jones let this sink in. Bateman was aware that his mouth had fallen open, and with an effort he closed it.

  – Mr Falling is denying the allegations of course. But it’s likely that the trial will come on for hearing very soon after yours. You may feel that he might be distracted by his own problems.

  – Does McKechnie know about this?

  – Oh, I’m sure he does. In fact, half the barristers in the Temple know all about it. It’s quite a talking point.

  – And how’s Falling coping with it?

  – Oh, perfectly well I think. But I doubt it’s going to be easy for him.

  – I think I’ll keep him. Give me some good reasons why I shouldn’t.

  – Well, first of all, it’s likely to be all over the papers. It would’ve been anyway. But – think about it – the barrister who is representing you as Co-Respondent in a divorce trial is himself the Co-Respondent in divorce proceedings brought by the barrister representing Mr McKechnie.

  – I think I can cope with that. Give me another reason.

  – Well. It’s bound to get personal between Falling and Pemberton. There’s a risk that you, Victoria and Mr McKechnie could become pawns in a bigger game.

  – Yes. I see that. But let’s say I’m prepared to take a chance on it. Is there anything else?

  – The inquest notes. You haven’t been telling us the truth. Falling is onto it. He’ll want to know what’s really been going on.

  – Hmmm.

  And Bateman had paused, asked when his trial was likely to come on for a hearing and said he would think about it.

  He looked at his watch. He’d been nursing his pint for almost a quarter of an hour. Where was she? He glanced up again at the large pub mirror and then he saw her. Victoria McKechnie was wearing a heavy dark coat. He saw a glimpse of the blue dress beneath it. Bateman had described her to Falling as being rather beautiful, and she was. A rich blonde curl had slipped out from under her scarf, there was a hint of rouge on her cheeks and her eyes were a deep blue. She caressed his shoulder lightly as she passed and took a seat opposite him. He motioned to the sherry.

  – Were you followed?

  – No. I came straight from work. Anyway, why does it matter?

  – We mustn’t be seen together.

  – Who cares?

  – When this is all over –

  – Why don’t you just stop it?!

  – What are you talking about?

  – Admit to the lawyers that we’ve been having an affair. Give him some money to go away. I love you.

  And she reached out her hand to put it on his. He loved her and his heart expanded whenever he saw her. He moved his hand away.

  – No physical contact in public. Remember?

  She withdrew her hand.

  – Oh darling …

  – When this is all over. It won’t be long now.

  – But we don’t need to have all the money. Please can’t we end it now?

  – He’s bluffing. He won’t dare go through with it.

  – He’s not bluffing! He’s my husband. I know him.

  They lapsed into silence. Bateman took a gulp of his beer. Victoria sniffed at her sherry. They stared into one another’s eyes until Bateman looked away.

  – What’s wrong?

  – My barrister’s being having an affair with Graham’s barrister’s wife.

  – What?

  – But it’s not that that worries me. He’s been and looked at the inquest notes.

  Victoria’s eyes widened.

  – But you said … you and Graham both said no one would find out.

  – Well, he has. And I don’t know what to do about it.

  – It’s obvious isn’t it? Let’s admit it. Please let us end all these lies.

  – Look. If he’s clever enough to work that out I want him on our side.

  – It’s only money, Arnold. I want to tell the truth. I want everyone to know that I love you.

  – Trust me, sweetheart.

  – I don’t want to go into that witness box, Arnold. God help me. I don’t know what I’ll say.

  They were interrupted by a commotion at the entrance to the public house. Bateman looked up into the mirror. A tall man in his mid-forties, wearing a dark blue overcoat and muffler, was pushing his way through the drinkers towards them.

  – Oi! Bateman! Don’t think I can’t see you. Bateman!

  Bateman turned on Victoria and said, more loudly than was necessary:

  – I thought you said you hadn’t been followed?

  – I didn’t follow her, Bateman. I’ve been following you. Far easier!

  Graham McKechnie was standing over them now. He wiped his brow and ran his hand through short brown hair.

  – What do you want, McKechnie?

  – Don’t be stupid. You know what I want.

  – I’ll see you in Court!

  – We all know the truth. You’ll have to pay up!

  – If you were so sure about it you wouldn’t be following me … and threatening me.

  – It’s going to be all over the papers. You’ll both look like fools!

  – People have got more important things to worry about than us.

  – My barrister’s going to crucify you.

  – We’ll see about that.

  – Crucify your barrister too.

  – Go home.

  – I’ll give evidence that I saw the two of you here.

  – And …?

  – Well. It’s evidence. Isn’t it?

  McKechnie swayed slightly and steadied himself on Bateman’s chair.

  – You could give evidence about a lot of things, Graham. But you wouldn’t dare.

  – Says who?

  – My barrister’s seen the Inquest notes. How are you going to explain that?

  McKechnie faltered.

  – We don’t need to go into that. Just pay up and we can go our separate ways. I’ll let Victoria keep Ernest and Susan.

  Bateman had raised the stakes but he sensed an unlikely triumph. Victoria had her hands demurely in her lap. He reached across the table and took her hands in his own. Staring at McKechnie, he put them to his lips and kissed them. A trickle of sweat fell down his cheek.

  – I think you’d better go, McKechnie.

  – I want my wife back!

  – It’s too late. Come on, Victoria. Let’s go.

  And he took her by the hand, drained his glass and pushed his way past McKechnie towards the exit.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  (Wednesday 22nd January 1941)

  Dusk was beginning to encroach. Jack Storman KC sat unobtrusively at the back of a tea shop on the Strand, gazing at the blackout shades that had been drawn over the windows. He took a sip from his cup and again pulled out his fob watch. Ten minutes now. He should have brought someth
ing to read. He pulled the letter out from his inside pocket again and studied the envelope. Blue-black ink – his name and home address written in a cultured hand. He was not looking forward to the impending interview. He ran a finger under the flap and made to take out the writing paper within. He had read the letter so many times that he knew the wording by heart.

  As he was removing the letter from its casing, the bell at the door tinkled and he looked up to see Catherine entering. She was wearing her blue dress under a dark overcoat. She peered into the gloom before spotting him and making for his table. Storman motioned to the shop girl and, with sign language, ordered a further cup of tea.

  – Catherine! It’s lovely to see you!

  – Thank you for being here. I couldn’t bear to go into the Temple …

  – You’re looking very well.

  He regretted his observation almost as he made it. It was true that she was looking surprisingly composed. He noticed that she had taken great care with her make-up, and her eyes, always beautiful, looked larger and deeper than ever. But he sensed a paleness – a fragility – lying just below the surface. Dark shadows suggested many nights without sleep and he pictured the trouble that had gone into her appearance for their meeting. With a sense of shame and shock he realised, belatedly, that this interview was going to be more difficult for her than it was even for him. He reached out and placed his hand on hers. It was very cold to the touch.

  – How’s Adam?

  – He’s much better now. I think he’s on the road to recovery.

  – What are you talking about?

  A hint of alarm. Storman realised, too late, that Catherine would not have known of Adam’s illness, so he told her as prosaically as he could of the events of late December, playing down the seriousness of the condition. Her eyes widened as he unfolded his story and he sensed a mixture of anger and pity rising in her – each struggling for control of her reactions.