At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  After Roly left his room, Adam had felt a deep sense of panic engulf him. The reality of facing one of the country’s most formidable cross-examiners was becoming tangible. Whatever Roly knew or believed, he was getting ready to tell a series of lies under oath to protect a woman who no longer loved him. Worse than that, he had enmeshed Betty in his scheme. They were on the point of attempting to pervert the course of justice. He was sure that she had no idea of the seriousness of the situation. And he could not tell her in case she withdrew. He had lain awake most of that night thinking of all of the ways in which he and Betty could be tripped up. He hadn’t thought it through at all. When he took Betty back to the Stafford he had no idea that it would actually end up with a fully contested trial. Or that Pemberton would employ someone as daunting as Sir Patrick Tempest. There were too many holes in his story. Too many things that he had not fully discussed with Betty. He needed to see her again. To give her the ten-pound note in advance of the trial. No matter how well he lied, if she was caught out he – and Julia – were finished.

  Betty would have been working that night, on the Friday. From his conversations with her he knew that she rarely surfaced before noon. He had realised that he had to go round and see her again in her flat on the Saturday morning. He couldn’t take the risk of being seen in public with her just before the trial was due to begin. He waited until eleven o’clock before leaving Doctor Johnson’s Buildings. Stepping out into Inner Temple Lane, he looked to his left and right. There was no one in sight. He made his way down to Temple tube. The platform was empty apart from him. It did not look as though he was being followed. He took the District Line to Victoria, and leaving the station he made his way on foot to Green Park and on past the trenches and sandbags. It was ten to twelve before he reached Green Park tube. Barrage balloons, their wires humming in the breeze, drifted above him in the clear blue sky.

  He crossed to the northern side of Piccadilly and made his way indirectly, via Bolton Street, to Clarges Street. He found her address, rang the bell and waited. Presently the door was opened and Betty stood before him, fully dressed this time.

  – Mr Falling? What do you want?

  – It has to be Adam remember? Can I come in?

  She stood aside and let him pass and followed him up to the second floor. The room was as he remembered it. She sat down in the only chair and looked up at him expectantly. He produced a ten-pound note, leaned over and handed it to her. She took it without saying anything.

  – What do you want?

  – What do you want, Adam.

  – Adam.

  He went over to her bed, sat down on it and gazed over at her. Those were not her working clothes. She appeared prim. Proper. Like the seamstress she used to be. She was also pretty. He lit a cigarette and she got up to open a window. The faint breeze that made the cables in the park hum slipped into the room. Adam reminded her that she needed to be at the Royal Courts of Justice on Wednesday – and possibly Thursday. He had come to see her, he said, to make sure they would be telling the same story. They had started seeing one another in May. Her husband, Joe, died in January 1940 and his death left her penniless. He had been an electrician and died in an accident at work. She used to be a seamstress. Adam had insisted on going to the Stafford – she did not know why – although from time to time he would meet her at her flat. It was important that they both said the same thing about how her flat was furnished. They both looked around and, rather than making a mental inventory, Adam insisted on reciting everything that was in the room, from the large clay jug to the photograph of her late husband that was facing the wall. He produced a copy of the petition and showed her the dates on which he was alleged to have committed adultery with Julia. It was not necessary that she tell the court that she remembered all these dates. That would be far-fetched. As long as she could say that they sounded about right, that would do. They talked for over two hours whilst Adam dealt with every potential eventuality, and they debated the final form of their story.

  It had been almost two thirty by the time he had finished.

  – I’m famished!

  – I’m sorry. I hadn’t been thinking. Look. Here’s five shillings for you to get something to eat.

  – Ta.

  He rose to leave.

  – There’s one last thing.

  – What?

  – I think I am almost certain to be asked why I was seeing you so frequently – and taking you to a posh hotel when you had this perfectly satisfactory room.

  – Even I can see that question coming!

  – I want you to tell the court that you thought I was falling in love with you.

  She laughed loudly and suddenly.

  – Come off it!

  – And I want you to say you were falling in love with me as well.

  – Why would you fall in love with someone like me?

  It was a good question. Adam looked into her intelligent blue eyes and realised that he was fonder of her than he had ever expected to be.

  – Please! Can you do that?

  – I think so.

  – Will you kiss me one more time?

  She stood and came over to him and they embraced. Once more they were kissing. Once more he felt her tongue, her hands squeezing his back and holding him very tight. The moment lasted a long time before slowly, almost reluctantly, she pulled her face away from his. He was breathless. She stroked his cheek as he turned to leave.

  – Thank you, Betty. I’ll see you next Wednesday.

  – Funny, ain’t it?

  – What?

  – I’ll be telling the court we’ve been having sex regular for months and apart from two kisses we ain’t done nothing.

  He smiled at her, pecked her cheek and made his way out.

  ****

  It had been almost four o’clock before he got back to Doctor Johnson’s Buildings. He was due at Bedford Square for 5.30, so he rinsed his face and put on the black-tie outfit Blytheway had given him, and by 5.25 he was knocking at the door. He noticed that Blytheway’s car was parked outside. Caldwell opened the door and ushered him in. Blytheway had been reclining on the chaise longue in the salon with a bottle of champagne waiting on ice. Two flutes were set out on the mahogany coffee table. He had looked Adam up and down as he entered.

  – I worry about you, Adam.

  – Don’t fret about me. I have complete faith in you.

  – Oh, don’t be silly. I’m not talking about the trial.

  Adam sighed.

  – What is it this time?

  – I don’t know why you insisted on moving out of here and back to the Temple.

  – I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.

  – You know perfectly well what I am talking about!

  – You’ve lost me.

  – All you’ve got there is a basin. When was the last time you had a bath? It’s beginning to show you know.

  – I can manage.

  – Nonsense! A gentleman will bathe regularly. You must feel free to come and use our facilities – whenever you please.

  They had finished the champagne and, at quarter past six Caldwell entered wearing a chauffeur’s uniform complete with peaked cap. They rose and he led them to the car, dropping them off in Langham Place. The “three Bs”: Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto Number 1, Beethoven’s Piano Concerto Number 1 and Brahms’s Second Symphony. Adam tried, during the interval, to make Roly open up about the issue of the slow waltz but he refused to be drawn and became quite stern on the issue. Instead, he insisted on talking about music.

  – I do love the Queen’s Hall. Such a good orchestra! And I never miss the Proms. Did you notice that they are performing Elgar next Saturday? The Enigma Variations and the Dream of Gerontius! I’m minded to get some tickets. Would you like to join me?

  – Roly! I’m afraid I can’t even begin to think about next Saturday. It’s hard enough thinking about next week.

  – Well. I’ll get two tickets anyway and if you don’t want to
come I’ll take Storman. I know how much he likes Elgar.

  After the concert had finished they had emerged into the late evening twilight; Caldwell was waiting with the car. He had driven Adam back to the Temple before heading north to Bedford Square. Adam had been no clearer about the significance of the dance card.

  ****

  Sunday had been an idle day. He had gone through the (false) evidence he was intending to give and tried to think of anything he had not covered with Betty. There was nothing else that he could think of. He checked his watch. It was 7.30 double summer time, and he needed to wash and dress. Fifteen hours until it all began.

  Chapter Ninety-seven

  (Monday 5th May 1941)

  The case had been listed in Court Twelve. The three of them had come in through the front entrance and walked across the black and white marble tiles, first to the Robing Room, where Roly put on his wig, gown, wing collar and bands, and then onto the concrete steps that took one to the first floor. He had been typically frivolous, even by his high standards, in conference.

  – Your tie’s not straight!

  – Can’t we talk about my case?

  – Trust me, sweetheart. It is more important that you look the part.

  Blytheway eyed him up and down and brushed down his lapels.

  – You really do need a bath!

  – Can’t we talk even a little about the case? I think that, as my friend, you owe me that at least.

  Blytheway sighed heavily.

  – Very well. I suppose you have a point. And in view of what I am about to say, you do, I suppose, have a right of veto.

  – Why? What are you intending?

  – I am sure you know. I have no doubt that you have been thinking as deeply about all this as I have.

  Somehow Adam doubted the accuracy of this last remark.

  – Go on.

  – Forgive me Adam. But the more I have thought about your situation the clearer it has become to me that you wish this petition to be dismissed whatever the personal cost to you yourself.

  – I’m telling the truth!

  – Let’s leave the truth to one side just for now, sweetheart. It has become increasingly apparent to me that the only way to satisfy your instructions is if I portray you to the court as, forgive my language … a four-letter man!

  – What do you mean?

  – It seems to me that your instructions, when looked at objectively, require the court to paint you blacker than black. The blacker you are painted, the whiter will Mrs Pemberton appear. We must distance your evident lack of morality from Mrs Pemberton’s evident goodness. We need to divide and rule, albeit not in the conventional sense that the expression is used. The more unattractive your character appears to be, the less plausible it would be for Mrs Pemberton to want to have anything to do with you.

  – What about the dance card? Won’t you at least hear my explanation for it? I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

  Blytheway had become very stern once more. When he spoke he almost frightened Adam.

  – Adam! I thought I had made it absolutely clear that I do not want to go near the dance card! Come. It is time for us to head off.

  ****

  On the first floor of the Royal Courts of Justice, the various legal teams were assembled on the wooden benches outside Court Twelve. To their left sat Alnwick and Mr Purefoy with Julia Pemberton. The sight of her still made him gasp internally and he felt that inevitable physical longing. She was dressed demurely in a modest twin-set of pale grey. Her eyes were lowered and she looked at the floor as Alnwick and Purefoy discussed tactics. To the right were Pemberton, Franklin and Sir Patrick Tempest. Counsel were all wearing their robes and wigs. Sir Patrick Tempest was standing as he addressed his professional and lay clients. He was an imposing figure in his early sixties. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him and his rapidly moving aquiline features betrayed a rare intelligence. Adam was frightened by him. He was obviously discussing last-minute details of their strategy. In addition to the lawyers there was a ruck of journalists hovering about. Adam recognised many of the faces from the previous week when he and Pemberton had faced one another as barristers rather than litigants. Some of them were scribbling furiously in their notebooks.

  Tempest said something to his solicitor, who handed over a small rectangular piece of card. He took it and headed in their direction. Roly saw him coming and rose to his feet. Adam noticed for the first time that he had foundation powder on his face.

  – Roly! Good to see you. It is always a delight to be against you.

  – And you, Pat.

  – I thought it would be polite to let you see the dance card I mentioned last week.

  – Thank you. I knew that you would. Finest traditions of the Bar. Shouldn’t you be showing it to Alnwick before giving it to me?

  – I’m sure you will pass it on to him. Fair, I think, to let you see it first.

  Blytheway took the card and Tempest retreated. It was yellowing with age. He and Adam studied it together. He saw the cross and his name, written in his own hand, which had precipitated everything that had led them to these benches. Beneath it, against the slow waltz, was Preston’s neat writing – blue-black ink. And the next dance was marked out for Jeremy Pemberton.

  – This is too ridiculous!

  – All of life can be seen as ridiculous from a particular perspective.

  – If they are reduced to relying on old dance cards, they clearly haven’t much to go on. Can’t we use this to show how absurd this whole charade is?

  – I don’t want to warn you again, Adam.

  Blytheway stood up and took the card over to Alnwick. As he was handing it over Adam saw, just beyond the two barristers, a man emerging from the stairs and onto the first floor. He was young and handsome and limped unsteadily with the aid of a crutch towards Julia Pemberton and her lawyers. Adam realised immediately that this must be Simon Jenkins. The man whom Jenny Pemberton had loved. The man with whom she had been dancing when she died.

  An usher came out through the swing doors of court twelve and declared loudly that Mr Justice Wilkinson was ready to begin and that everyone should come into court.

  Chapter Ninety-eight

  (Monday 5th May 1941)

  They filed into the cavernous oak-panelled court room and began arranging their papers. There was a strong smell of wax polish. Journalists pushed and shoved their way into the box reserved for them, at right angles to everyone else. Members of the public were beginning to fill the benches at the back. Looking over his shoulder, Adam saw Simon Jenkins ease himself awkwardly into a sitting position. There was no sign of Catherine. Sir Patrick Tempest made his way to the front row and set up his lectern. He was wearing a frock coat under his long silk gown. His junior, Eliot, sat in the row behind him whilst Pemberton and his solicitor, Mr Franklin, sat at a table in front of him. Alnwick sat alongside Eliot, and Blytheway took his place at the right of the same bench. Adam and Julia took their places with their solicitors behind their respective counsel. She was so close to him he could almost reach out and touch her. Only Jones was between them. He could hear her breathing and, from the corner of his eye, saw her breasts moving up and down under the grey tweed. He reached into his trouser pocket and curled his fingers around the little crystal obelisk that she had given him as a Christmas present in 1936. He could feel the cracks and fissures in it. He rolled it around in his hand. Julia was avoiding any sort of eye contact with him. It all seemed a long time ago.

  The convention that both the client and the solicitor of leading counsel sit in front of the silk whereas all other clients sit behind junior counsel was a matter of practicality. If they were to sit behind junior counsel it would make direct and confidential communication difficult, if not impossible. Leading counsel leaned discreetly forward to take instructions. Junior counsel would get a tug on the gown and had to turn their backs on the court. Pemberton had turned to speak to Tempest. Adam was able to study him unobserved as he whispered
to leading counsel. It was exactly a week since they had been in the court next door. He looked tired and angry. His eyes were bloodshot behind the familiar gold-rimmed spectacles.

  – All rise!

  Everyone stood, the door at the back of the court swung open and Mr Justice Wilkinson strode in, bowing perfunctorily towards counsel before taking his seat in front of the carved royal crest.

  – Pemberton versus Pemberton and Falling!

  the clerk said as everyone apart from Tempest resumed their seats. Mr Justice Wilkinson had played rugby for his county in younger days and was reputed to be a concert-standard pianist. Blytheway had told Adam that he was a very good musician but that his arpeggios when playing Chopin’s Preludes were a bit arthritic. All that scrummaging, I suspect. He was in very good physical shape for a man in his fifties and it was clear that he had no intention of taking any nonsense.

  – Yes, Mr Tempest?

  – May it please your Lordship …

  His voice was a thing of beauty. He spoke sufficiently loudly for everyone to hear every syllable, but at the same time the tone was almost conversational. It was apparent that every word had been chosen with care and for maximum effect. He began by introducing counsel and, with a wave of his hand towards Pemberton and then over his shoulder towards Julia and Adam, identifying the parties. Then he began to outline his case. In the press box the journalists were writing frenetically.