by John Wilson
The blackout shades had been taken down and a greenish light, heavy with dust, drifted in from the square and lay in a bright band across his rumpled sheets. He pulled off his silk pyjama top and threw it onto the bed. Opening his wardrobe he was surprised to find it almost empty, with only one set of clothes left in it. Blytheway had arranged for all the substantive removals to take place whilst he slept. He dressed slowly, stopping more than once to get his breath back.
As promised Blytheway returned at three. Caldwell had the jalopy ready and drove them down to the Savoy where Blytheway had made a reservation for two. Over tea Roly told him all the things that had not been covered the night before. The McKenzie trial was just over five weeks away and was followed immediately by the Pemberton trial. If he was to be properly ready for his own trial he needed to be on top of Bateman’s case sooner rather than later. Easter Sunday was on the 13th April – just over three weeks away – and there would be a hiatus. Betty Sharples’s position needed to be clarified. Was she going to be prepared to give evidence, and, if so, what was she actually going to say when cross-examined by Sir Patrick Tempest? The whereabouts of Jenny’s diary needed to be confirmed definitively. If Adam was insistent on returning to the Temple he should keep his head down. Sentiments were in flux and his presence would likely do more harm than good. Adam had attempted again to press Blytheway on Julia’s whereabouts but the man would not budge. Roly called for the bill.
– There is one other thing I should have mentioned last night.
– Yes?
– It’s about Catherine. She told Jack that she is not at all happy about Deborah being up in Edenbridge. She wants to bring her back to London.
– Bring her back!? Is she mad?
– I know, Adam. I know. But all may not be well out there. Jack has persuaded her to wait, at least, until Easter.
Caldwell had been waiting outside the Savoy and drove them to the Temple. Adam’s accommodation was not quite how he had left it. It was plain that Caldwell had been around to tidy and clean it. His clothes had all been placed on hangers and there was a pair of silk pyjamas folded on the bed for him. On the sideboard there were two more packets of Embassy. Blytheway had written “no blood yet!” on the cardboard cartons. By six o’clock he was alone. There had been no air raids since the previous Wednesday and so Adam had climbed into bed and had an early and undisturbed night.
On the Monday he had turned up in chambers to a generally warm welcome and an empty tray: no work. He had been able, however, to watch from his window as Julia entered and exited the church. Blytheway had said that she had moved further into central London but had professed ignorance as to her whereabouts. Adam simply did not believe him. He had watched as she disappeared through Cloisters and a plan had come to him. He had not spoken to her since their unhappy meeting in Hamleys all those months ago. He had been able to watch her, but only at a distance. A long time ago she had told him that she loved him. Perhaps it still wasn’t too late? They needed to talk.
The following morning he had not watched her leave the Temple Church but had instead found himself a hiding place amongst the alcoves around Fountain Court. He was able to watch which way she went: through Judges’ Gate. On the Wednesday morning he had taken up a hiding place near to the front of the Royal Courts of Justice. Julia, heels clicking and head down, had emerged onto the Strand before crossing and, walking within fifteen yards of him, heading north up Carey Street. He had waited a couple of minutes and then followed to see her turning right towards Chancery Lane. On the Thursday morning he had taken up a position near the Silver Vaults by Southampton Buildings. Julia had walked up Chancery Lane without noticing him and, after a minute or two, discreetly, he had followed her. He saw her enter Gray’s Inn by the main gate (where not long ago he had hidden in the dark from Richards, the gabardine snoop). He gave her a head start and then ran laboriously after her. He was just in time to see her leaving the Inn through the Eastern Gate onto Gray’s Inn Road.
He had smoked the cigarette down to the pin and so he dropped it in his ashtray and made for the door. If he walked quickly he could be ahead of her on Gray’s Inn Road and see where she was heading. He left Lamb Building at a run – which lasted little more than twenty paces before he was forced to stop and gasp for breath. He had forgotten how unwell he was. He walked as briskly as he could; he was taking a direct route whereas hers was more of a digression. He headed up Inner Temple Lane and then across onto Chancery Lane, limping sweatily up towards High Holborn. He saw her entering the Main Gate of Gray’s Inn. He had left it too late. He forced himself to run again and felt his chest aching. He was blowing hard when he reached the bottom of Gray’s Inn Road, and looking up he saw her emerging from the East Gate and heading north. He continued to run until she was no more than fifty yards ahead of him. And then he stopped, caught his breath and walked on again in her wake.
Julia reached the junction with Theobald’s Road and turned left. By the time Adam reached the same point she was crossing the road and heading into John Street. He tried to run again and he entered John Street before she left it. She was walking up the left-hand pavement. At the top she crossed over Guildford Street and into Mecklenburg Square.
Adam was proceeding more cautiously now. He sensed that he was close to where she lived, but at the same time he had suddenly become aware of the potential spectacle he had made of himself, running and walking blindly after her through these devastated streets. It would not look well for him to have been seen following her. If the worst came to the worst he could camp out on Monday in Mecklenburg Square itself and watch from there where she was headed. He looked around him. There were no familiar faces. There was a broken building on the corner, cordoned off, and he concealed himself within it, watching her covertly from a distance of about seventy-five yards.
She had stopped and was reaching inside her handbag. She pulled out what she was looking for and headed for a front door, turned the lock and disappeared inside. He knew where she lived! He felt his heart thumping against his rib-cage. There was a catch in his throat. If only she could have had such a place for them to meet before. He made to leave his hiding place and go to her door, and then he hesitated. He must look wet-faced and unruly. His suit was covered in dust and ash. There might also be dust on his face and his hair; he had no mirror. Perhaps it would be better to wait?
But he couldn’t wait. He would approach her house from the other side of the square. Slowly he emerged onto Guilford Street, checking that he was not being watched, and then headed for Mecklenburg Place, the other entrance to the square. Slowly he made his way around to where her door was; there was no need to hurry now. He got to the corner. Her door was less than twenty-five yards away. She was inside and alone. No one would be expecting them to meet there. There would be no other time as propitious. She was only a door’s knock away. He moved to the edge of the pavement and was on the point of crossing when something caught his eye that made him rush back into the shadows and shrink from sight.
Jeremy Pemberton was marching up the road. His hair was dishevelled and his right leg splayed out as he walked. He reached her door and began hammering on it.
– Julia! Julia! I know you’re in there! Let me in! You bitch! Let me in!
Chapter Seventy-seven
(Friday 28th March 1941)
Julia closed the door behind her and put her keys back into her handbag. She took off her scarf and draped her coat over a hook in the hall. She asked herself, as she had done many times, why she continued to go to the church after the services had stopped in January. She would go in and take her usual seat, pick up one of the prayer books and read from it almost at random. The morning service had been her ritual for so many years, enriched by that now-gone period of intrigue and romance, and she could not bring herself to give it up. It was a place of calm, in a world that was becoming increasingly hostile … even without more. There were no longer white notes within the shields of the knights.
She h
ad followed Adam’s story after he had been taken ill and then expelled from Stirrup Court: his move to Lamb Building and the beginnings of a brief renaissance in his professional life. She had heard about his friendship with Roland Blytheway, and learnt with dismay about that man’s apparently devilish powers and unseemly private life. He was a man to avoid.
And after Jenny’s death and her reaction to it (something for which she felt nothing but remorse and shame), she had learned of Adam’s illness. He was such a simple soul, she had decided. It was not long after he moved to Lamb Building that, on emerging from the church, she had glanced up and noticed him watching her. On succeeding days it had always been possible, as she walked with her head down, to take a furtive glance in his direction and see that familiar shape against the window, smoke drifting out into the Temple.
Then he was ill again and it stopped. She had heard that he was recuperating with Blytheway in Bedford Square. There could be no reason for him to return to Dr Johnson’s Buildings. After Jenny’s death the burgeoning sympathy around the Temple for her husband was palpable and the eyes that had previously scanned her as she went in and out now scraped at her. She was glad to be away from Eaton Square. Although it was inevitable that she should leave and she grieved it, Jeremy’s behaviour was increasingly intolerable. Even before she left there were empty bottles everywhere, the pervasive smell of cigarettes, and an undercurrent of malice and blame, as though she had pressed the bomb-release button that extinguished Jenny.
Then on Monday of this week she had looked up as she disappeared under Cloisters and saw that familiar figure, perhaps thinner, and a puff of smoke as she disappeared from view. Something in her heart leapt, and then was equally swiftly imprisoned. Adam was back! But then he had disappeared again and for the rest of the week she had seen no sign. It had been a good week nonetheless. There had been no raids for over a week and work at New River Head had been uneventful and easy. People were beginning to say that, perhaps, the worst was over.
She headed into the little room that she called her study, sat at her escritoire and pulled out some writing paper. It was time to write to her children, separate letters to each that she sent every day. She would write to Agnes first. Spring sunlight was pouring in on her. She opened the window an edge and caught the clean green smell of spring. Returning to her desk, she smoothed out a sheet of writing paper, uncapped her pen and wrote the date in the top right-hand corner – she would have to order some personalised notepaper. What to speak about? Her days were monotonous, punctuated only by her uneventful evenings at New Bridge Head. The weather, perhaps? A series of questions about life in the Cotswolds? She would think of something.
She began carefully to write the first “D”. At that point there was a thunderous hammering on the door. She jumped with shock and the pen skewed across the page in a jagged line of ink.
– Julia! Julia! I know you’re in there! Let me in! You bitch! Let me in!
The words were slightly slurred. She put down her pen and took a deep breath. She would do nothing.
– Julia! Julia! I know you’re in there! I saw you come back from church!
Beyond her slightly opened window she could hear the scrape of other windows opening. She went over to it and opened it more widely, leaning out. Standing on her doorstep was her husband. He was swaying slightly and he looked thinner, even, than at the funeral.
– Leave me alone, Jeremy! Go away!
His head jerked round in the direction of her voice and he seemed to struggle to focus.
– You know why I’m here, Julia! Let me in!
– Go away!
Her husband jerked his head forward again and concentrated on the front door. She saw him take a deep breath, adopt a sideways-on position, and then charge at the door. There was a massive thumping noise from the hall. She ran through and saw, as he charged again, the door flex concave around the lock as he hit again and then again. It was only a matter of time before the lock burst.
– Stop it! Stop it! I’ll let you in.
There was a pause as Julia ran back to her study to find the key in her bag, and then, with fingers trembling, unlocked the door.
– Where is it?
– Where’s what?
– Jenny’s diary.
– It’s none of your business.
– She was my daughter! It is my business. Where is it!?
– She gave it to me. She didn’t want you to look at it. You broke her trust. She was really upset.
Julia’s words tumbled out and stopped her husband dead. He looked confused.
– I upset her?
– You told her she couldn’t marry Simon Jenkins. She was crying. She said that she called you “a silly old man”.
Jeremy was suddenly silenced and Julia saw tears forming in his eyes. He looked broken.
– I upset her?
– That was her last memory of you before she went out. And she gave me the diary because of it.
He let out a dreadful roar.
– It’s in your escritoire! I’ll find it!
And he ran from room to room until he found it. The drawer was locked and he began pulling at it.
– Give me the key!
– No!
Still holding onto the drawer handle, he looked around the room until he saw Julia’s handbag sitting on a chair. He ran over and grabbed it then emptied it out onto the floor looking vainly for the key. Julia tapped the pocket of her jacket to satisfy herself it was where she had put it. Jeremy noticed what she did and ran at her with his fist flailing.
– Give me your jacket!
– No!
– Give it to me now!
She tried to run away from him but he grabbed the rear of her skirt and pulled her back before delivering a heavy punch to the back of her head. Everything went black and when she came to, after perhaps a few seconds, she saw him opening the drawer, her jacket lying in a heap on the floor next to him. He had the diary. She tried to stop him taking it away, throwing herself at him, but he hit her again. This time it was a glancing blow and she was able to hold onto his legs. He was kicking at her head trying to make her let go, but, somehow, she held on. Now he was in the hallway, staggering under her weight at his feet. She felt his shoe make contact with her head with sickening power, and the wet and salt of blood on her lips. But she would not let go.
He was almost down the steps now, the diary in his hand; her body juddered down the concrete and she felt shooting pains along her shoulder, hip and thigh. But she would not let go. They were out on the street and she was covered in mortar dust and soot. He kicked her in the head again and she felt her grip loosening. Looking up she saw the early morning sky and heads peeping out from windows. A sort of silence was descending upon her and everything was becoming blurred.
Suddenly, the kicking stopped. Pemberton had fallen. As she closed her eyes she heard shouting and swearing and the sound of fists; of bodies rolling on the pavement. Then, from a distance:
– You’ll regret this, Falling.
She felt the leather diary being placed into her hands and then the sensation of someone trying to lift her and failing. Then there were other hands that lifted her up and carried her inside.
When eventually she awoke she was lying on her bed, the diary still in her hands and a makeshift bandage around her head. She raised herself slightly and looked across the room to see Adam, covered in dust, watching her intently.
– A doctor’s on the way.
– Get out! Get out! You’ll ruin everything!
– You’ve still got the diary.
– Get out!
And she began to weep.
Chapter Seventy-eight
(Friday 28th March 1941)
Adam closed the door behind him and walked back down into the square. It was barely half past ten in the morning. The signs of the scuffle were still visible in the scattered dust upon the pavement. His suit was filthy with it. He made to brush himself down and saw that his blood-sta
ined handkerchief was still balled up in his right hand.
It had all happened so quickly. When Pemberton had emerged, shouting, from the house with Julia clinging to his legs and the diary in his hand, Adam had hung back. He had watched in a daze as Julia’s supine body was pulled down the steps, bumping heavily on the stone, and still he did nothing. Everything had seemed unreal and a strange silence descended upon him. He looked up to see people looking out of windows at the spectacle below. And then Pemberton started kicking Julia in the head in an effort to make her let go, and something inside Adam snapped.
He was running towards them and barrelled into Pemberton, shoulder first. Pemberton, his feet tethered, had fallen like a tree, with Adam landing on top of him. Their faces were only inches apart. Adam saw the hatred in his eyes and smelt the whisky on his breath. Entangled as they were they had traded punches before people from the surrounding houses intervened. And Pemberton had run off, shouting his threat to Adam over his shoulder as he went. The diary was in the dust and Adam had picked it up and put it back in Julia’s hands. She was only semi-conscious and blood was oozing from her mouth. Her right eye was beginning to swell up and there were traces of blood on her scalp.
He had tried to lift her but couldn’t. Other hands picked her up and carried her inside, laying her down on her bed. One of the neighbours, a lady, fetched a piece of bed-sheet and tied it round Julia’s head. Another said he would phone for a doctor. Adam took up a chair by her bed and watched as the others ministered to her. Their voices floated over him:
