‘I need the sitting-room for a conference,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you later for dinner.’ He knew the dining-room would be full of reporters, like the foyer in which he’d staged his very public row with Harold Benson. They’d have that for background too, as he had intended they should. When Playfair was convicted that scene would be remembered. Benjamin was on the stairs just below them – and behind him, others.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in the bar.’ She rested her hand lightly on the side of his face and went down the stairs.
In his sitting-room Shelbourne flung off his overcoat and jacket, loosened his tie and threw himself on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling.
‘Was that wise?’ Benjamin said quietly as he took a seat. ‘A lot of people must have overheard.’
‘I wanted them to.’ Shelbourne stretched his arms above his head and clenched his fists. ‘A senile ex-judge for a client and a half-witted solicitor! What a pantomime! But you and I, Andrew, have to take care we don’t suffer. Between the pair of them, they could make fools of us.’
‘So what do you propose?’
‘I shall go on, and in my own way.’
‘We’ll have the doctor first thing tomorrow.’
‘I may have something on him. Nothing much, but I’ll know more tonight.’
‘Will Playfair approve if you go for the doctor?’
‘Probably not. But, whether he likes it or not, I’m going to give Playfair a run for his money – the money he’s paying us.’
‘He must surely understand you have to probe the evidence.’
‘He ought to. But I have an uneasy feeling he’s up to something.’ Shelbourne again stretched out his arms above his head. ‘He’s playing some game – and we’re a part of it.’
For a time Benjamin remained silent, thinking of the silver-haired figure in the dock who had sat either staring up above the judge’s bench or down at his hands folded in his lap. Then he asked, ‘If you get something on the doctor, will that help?’
Shelbourne shook his head. ‘At best it might shake some confidence in him, but it won’t get us round the fact that at some time, for some reason, Playfair handled that apparatus; and that it was the diamorphine from that syringe that killed David Trelawney.’
He swung his legs to the floor. ‘All I can do is make a stir and confuse the jury. Isn’t that the classic technique?’
‘Is it?’
‘Don’t you do that on the Western Circuit? What else is there to do? Our man’s pleaded Not Guilty, and the Crown has to prove that he is. Our job is to see they don’t succeed. If the jury get confused we’ve created a doubt and we’ve done our job.’
He stood up. ‘For the first time in a long and lucrative career I don’t see any other way out. Now be a good fellow and ring for a drink.’
As Benjamin ordered two whisky-and-sodas over the telephone, he said, ‘The lady on the stairs—’
‘What about her?’
‘You said you’d see her.’
‘I know. Another complication in a very complicated affair, but at least a more agreeable one. But I’m beginning to regret getting involved.’
‘With her?’
Shelbourne looked at him. ‘With the whole damned case.’
* * *
In the Judges’ Lodgings, Graham Harris was entertaining the High Sheriff and the Under-sheriff and their wives to drinks. High Sheriffs were chosen from prominent figures in the locality and changed every year. The Under-sheriff was a local solicitor. His was a permanent position, and he did all the work of the Sheriff’s office.
‘It’ll be pretty sticky, I imagine,’ the High Sheriff had said to his wife as they drove to the Lodgings. ‘He’s not easy, and his wife’s not with him.’
‘Why hasn’t she come?’ Susan Basildon asked.
‘I don’t know. He said on Friday he had to work over the weekend, and, God knows, the present case must be strain enough. As for tonight, he won’t make much of an effort. We’ll have to make the running.’
And that’s what he was now doing, talking cheerfully in front of the fire around which all five of them were gathered. Graham said little. At least he’s wearing a suit, the High Sheriff had noted, and, as far as he could see, socks. Susan Basildon, a handsome woman in her early sixties, with white hair carefully coiffed, dressed in black, with pearls at her neck and a regimental badge in diamonds above her left breast, was standing next to their host. On his other side was the Under-sheriff’s wife, a small bird-like woman with a pointed nose. Graham was barely listening to Colonel Basildon’s chatter. All he could think of was the figure in the dock and the plump nurse in the witness-box. Shelbourne had been pretty savage. And to what end? How had it helped Playfair? The jury were probably sorry for the girl.
‘We had a good day on Saturday, despite the snow,’ Graham heard Mrs Basildon say. ‘The scent was excellent.’
The Under-sheriff’s wife simpered. ‘Do you hunt, judge?’
Graham thought of Anne and Francis Keating. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’
‘Jim and I are quite against it,’ the Under-sheriff’s wife went on blithely. ‘We’re against all blood sports, aren’t we, Jim?’
‘The High Sheriff enjoys his hunting, my dear,’ her husband said reprovingly. His wife put her hand to her mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to—’
The drawing-room door suddenly opened and the butler announced, ‘Lady Harris is here, sir. She has just arrived.’
Startled, they all swung round to face the door. Anne Harris, in a tweed topcoat, a scarf around her neck, her gloves and bag in one hand, walked into the room. When she saw the group by the fireplace she stopped. The butler closed the door behind her.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. He didn’t tell me anyone else was here.’
After a few seconds, while the others stared, Graham advanced towards her. ‘Anne,’ he said, ‘I’m so glad you could come after all.’
He pecked her on the cheek. ‘You’re just in time to join us for a drink.’ He turned back to the others. ‘This is Colonel Basildon, the High Sheriff, and Mrs Basildon; Mr Whately, the Under-sheriff, and Mrs Whately. This is my wife, Anne.’
‘How do you do,’ said Colonel Basildon. ‘Glad you could come, Lady Harris.’
Mrs Basildon smiled briefly, the Under-sheriff wanly. Mrs Whately looked as if she was about to drop a curtsey.
‘I’m interrupting,’ Anne began. Mrs Basildon noted her high colour, and the unkempt fair hair. It’s a well-cut coat, she thought. An expensive coat.
‘Not in the least. We were just talking over some of the court arrangements,’ said Graham. ‘Let me take your coat. Come over to the fire.’
‘No,’ said Anne. ‘No. I’ll – I’d rather wait. Yes, I’ll wait outside until you’ve finished, if you don’t mind. I can wait in the hall, or in some other room.’
‘You’re not interrupting, I promise. It’s not important, is it?’ Graham half-turned towards the group at the fire.
‘Of course not,’ Colonel Basildon said heartily. ‘We’re only talking shop, administrative shop, you know – and drinking the judge’s whisky. You must be damned cold if you’ve driven down. Have you come far?’
‘From London,’ Anne said. ‘But I’d rather wait outside until you’ve finished.’
No-one spoke. Then Graham turned again to the group. ‘Forgive me if we leave you for a moment. We shan’t be long. Do help yourselves to drinks.’
He took Anne by the arm and steered her to the door. When it had closed behind them, Colonel Basildon broke the silence. ‘Well, that was a turn-up for the book. I understood he was to be on his own. I certainly didn’t expect we’d see Lady Harris this evening.’
‘Nor did her husband,’ said Susan Basildon drily. The Whatelys said nothing. Colonel Basildon drained his glass. ‘Funny she didn’t stay and have a drink.’ He looked down at the empty tumbler. ‘As the judge invited us, I think I’ll help myself.’ He went to the drinks tr
ay at the side of the room.
‘No, Esmond,’ his wife said. ‘I don’t think so. I rather think we ought to be going.’
He stopped. ‘Going? Why?’
‘I just think we should.’
‘But we’ve only been here ten minutes.’
‘Sir Graham and Lady Harris might prefer to be on their own and I think we might be in the way. Don’t you agree, Mrs Whately?’
Mrs Whately started. ‘Agree, Mrs Basildon?’ she said.
‘Yes. Lady Harris was obviously not expected by her husband, and they’ll want to be alone. After all, she has just driven from London.’
‘From London?’ Mrs Whately said the words as if London were in outer space. ‘Oh, yes, yes, of course. Perhaps we ought to slip away. As she’s just arrived.’
‘It would be good manners, Esmond, if we all left,’ Mrs Basildon insisted firmly.
‘But we have arrangements to make about court tomorrow.’
‘You can do that on the telephone.’
Mrs Basildon gathered up her bag from the sofa and marched to the door. The others followed. In the hall there was no sign of their host. They began to pick up their coats, which were lying over a chair, when a door opened and Priestly appeared.
Colonel Basildon explained why they were leaving. ‘I’ll telephone later about the morning.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Priestly replied. He let them out. He too was wondering about the judge’s wife. Why hadn’t she telephoned?
Mrs Basildon drove her husband home. ‘Did you see that man in the car outside the house?’ she said.
‘I did,’ he replied. ‘Was it the chauffeur?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘It was not a chauffeur.’
Francis Keating had kept the engine of the car running to retain some heat. Anne had promised she’d only be long enough to tell her husband and then they’d drive on to Portsmouth. The ferry didn’t leave until midnight so they had plenty of time.
In the small study opposite the drawing-room, Graham and Anne heard the others leave. They were still standing and Anne had not removed her coat. Graham said, ‘Won’t you sit?’
‘No. I’m not staying. I thought I should tell you myself. Francis and I are going away – together.’
Graham crossed the room and stood facing the fireplace. The grate was empty and the room was cold. He heard the front door bang and the cars driving off.
‘You must have expected it,’ she said.
He had his back to her, but she saw him nod. ‘Why now?’ he asked, and turned to face her. ‘The children—’ he began, but she interrupted him.
‘I know. Next weekend is half-term and I won’t be at home. That’s why I’ve come to tell you.’
‘Can’t you postpone your – your trip, even for a few days?’
‘No. You can look after the children. It’s about time you got to know them better.’
‘I’m here, away from home, trying this case, a difficult and important case, my first on circuit—’
‘It’s always some case, and always the most important there’s ever been. It always was and it always will be. The law, always the bloody law. I’ve had enough. When we come back I’m moving in with Francis at Sandlands and I’ve told the children. It will be better for them in the end, better than the atmosphere in the house over Christmas.’
‘You told them when they were at school?’
‘Yes, and I warned the headmaster, and his wife.’
‘So it’s all settled?’
‘It is. And I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want any of your money.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ he replied. ‘In the beginning.’
She stared at him. ‘Always the lawyer, aren’t you? That’s why I’m glad I’m leaving.’ She went towards the door. Then she turned. ‘I’ve told my family. Mother said she’d come up next weekend, if you needed her.’
He shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I shall manage.’
‘You’ll have to. Goodbye, Graham,’ she said. She turned on her heel. He remained where he was in the small, cold room and heard the front door close and the sound of the car as it drove away. He went through the hall and up the stairs to his room.
* * *
In Jonathan’s room at Pembroke House, Harold began: ‘I’ve come from Shelbourne.’
‘I expected as much. He’s angry because of what I said to him.’
‘He is. He told me to tell you that while he’s your counsel he’ll do the case in his own way. He also said it could not be going more badly than it is.’
‘That’s his opinion. I didn’t like what he did with that nurse. It was not necessary.’
‘He said he has to cross-examine the witnesses. He has to challenge the evidence, he said, and he added that, even if you don’t care what happens to you, he does.’
‘Ah, yes, I’m sure he cares. But not because of me, Mr Benson. He cares about his reputation, his professional reputation.’
‘But, Sir Jonathan, you must understand that he has to do something. Otherwise you’re going to prison for the rest of your life. You, Sir Jonathan, sentenced to life imprisonment.’
‘It is a possibility.’
‘It’s more than a possibility.’
‘If you say so, Mr Benson.’
‘Mr Shelbourne says so.’
‘I expect he does. But I have – and I know you won’t mind my saying this – more experience of courts than you, and even more than he. So I can form my own judgement.’
‘I can only report what Mr Shelbourne asked me to tell you.’
‘Of course, Mr Benson.’
‘He’s the best, everyone said he was the best.’
‘I’m sure he is, for the right kind of case.’
* * *
At the hotel in the city Hugo Shelbourne, preceded by Virginia, entered the dining-room. Richard Bracton and Brian Graves were dining together at a table in a corner of the room. ‘Who’s she?’ Bracton asked.
‘An American journalist,’ Brian Graves replied.
Bracton watched as the pair gave their order to the waiter. ‘He would turn up at a trial like this with a woman like that,’ he said, ‘while a few miles away that old man see his whole world crashing about his ears.’
* * *
But to Harold, at Pembroke House, Jonathan did not appear like a man whose world was falling about him. He seemed very calm. ‘Well, you’ve delivered your message. You can do no more. And now I’ll say goodnight.’
He took Harold by the arm and led him into the hall.
‘We mustn’t get too worried and excited, Mr Benson,’ he said as Harold put on his greatcoat.
‘Colonel Trelawney, you see, was not a good man, Mr Benson. Nor, I fear, is Mr Shelbourne, although not wicked like Colonel Trelawney. Just vain and difficult.’
As he drove back to his small house on the outskirts of the city, Harold Benson talked as he often did to his dead wife – silently when he was in company, aloud when he was alone in his house or in the car. Now he told her of his troubles with Jonathan Playfair and Hugo Shelbourne.
Harold and Margaret had married late, and Harold still wondered that she could ever have accepted him – he the ungainly, awkward, book-loving country lawyer, and she the matron at a local preparatory school, a friendly, pleasant-looking woman in her forties, with a comfortable figure and a round, cheerful face under a mass of brown hair which she kept in a well-disciplined bun at the back of her head. They had only been married two years when she’d gone on a coach trip to Glastonbury arranged by their local church. On the motorway the coach-driver had suffered a massive heart attack and the coach had careered off the road down an embankment. Margaret and two other women sitting just behind the driver had been flung through the windshield and killed instantaneously.
It had been six months after the tragedy that Harold had met Jonathan Playfair, and their polite, formal acquaintance had been a great comfort to him. But it had been that friendship which had propelled him i
nto a world which he did not understand and with people he did not like. He was being tossed about like a battered shuttlecock, he told Margaret sadly, between two important men who ought to know better.
It had been on his initiative that Hugo Shelbourne had become involved, and when Shelbourne had been so impressive and effective in securing Jonathan bail Harold had been pleased at what he had done. He had chosen the right man, he had thought. But ever since leading counsel and the client had been at each other’s throats, and tonight there’d been that shaming scene in the foyer of the hotel, with Shelbourne shouting at him in public.
It was after nine o’clock when, weary and despairing, he eventually got home. He had no garage and parked in the small drive beside the house, where his car was the regular target of local vandals – as was his garden, from which packs of small boys stole his fruit and laughed as they were chased by the wild-haired owner in his vain attempts to catch them.
He had had nothing to eat all day except a sandwich in the cafeteria at the court, and he opened a tin of soup and began to heat it on the stove, talking all the time to Margaret. It has become a nightmare, he told her as he stirred the soup; and I can do nothing, nothing to prevent two stubborn men from fighting among themselves when they ought to be fighting the prosecution.
He went to bed dreading what the next day in court would bring.
11
WHEN, on Tuesday morning, the middle-aged jurywoman who sat next to the young man at the end of the front row took her seat in the jury-box for the third time, and the accused was brought up the steps and had taken his place in the dock, she looked at him differently than she had on the day before. At the start of the trial she had felt rather sorry for the old man who sat so still and impassive while they said such bad things about him. He hadn’t looked to her like a murderer. But during the past two days she had began to feel he didn’t look quite so harmless as she’d thought. There was, she now considered, something rather sinister about him, and when for one brief moment he cast a glance in the direction of the jury she thought she detected a strange glitter in his eyes.
Indictment for Murder Page 12