Armistice

by Nick Stafford

  “Recess,” called Judge Dore, baffling the court, making it rise with him. Major James hastily vacated his seat and made for the door. Philomena looked down at Jonathan for any sign that he might have an explanation. All he could do was shrug. She rushed out of the gallery. Jonathan found her in the public areas. She nodded sideways toward where Major James was receiving directions from an usher. He saw them and his eyes glazed over: he neither smiled nor greeted.

  “They’ve got to him,” said Jonathan, out of the side of his mouth.

  Major James was going to have to walk past them. They stood still and watched him. As he passed he looked only at Jonathan and said “Priest,” quietly and formally, barely voicing the word at all. They turned to watch his back. When Major James made a certain turn and entered a certain door Jonathan was able to inform Philomena:

  “He’s heading for the judges.”

  They stood in silence and tried to think through what this visit might mean. As Major James had appeared in Judge Dore’s court, it seemed safe to assume he intended to visit him.

  “We don’t know if they’re talking about Dan, or Anthony Dore, or anything to do with us,” said Philomena.

  “No,” said Jonathan, unconvinced, “we don’t.”

  In his room, Judge Dore tried not to glare at the nervous military man sat before him. Having introduced himself, Major James now steeled himself to broach the reason for the meeting, a hesitation that infuriated the judge. Get on with it, he thought. The tension was more than he could bear.

  Anticipating a violent reaction from the imposing man opposite, Major James wished the girl had never come to see him—no, that’s not true. He wished that he’d never given her any hint of an insight into events after the death of Second Lieutenant Case. So now he was doing Anthony Dore’s dirty work for him in exchange for what he had been led to believe was immunity from any nasty business. He could discern some similarities between Dore father and son: the coloring, the shape of the nose, but the father gave the impression of being twice the size of the son, and their characters were obviously dissimilar. Judge Dore was looking straight at him, for one thing, and this reminded Major James that Anthony looked slightly sideways at you, as if ready to deflect, or conceal. He hadn’t consciously noticed this before; it was the comparison with the father that brought it out.

  “I’m going to have to tell you about a disagreeable event,” Major James began, “involving your son while he was in uniform, during the war, at the end, just after the end.”

  Following the unscheduled break Philomena occupied a different seat in the public gallery, this time nearer the exit. Major James didn’t reappear and the court was kept waiting for several minutes by Judge Dore. When he eventually entered and took his place he looked up to where she was sitting before the recess. He looked away, glanced up—three times toward different seats—until he located her. A shiver passed through her and her skin goosebumped. As the prosecution resumed speaking Judge Dore gazed at her, fixedly, for what seemed like an eternity. Her heart threatened to leap from her breast and her mouth went dry. The enmity flowing up from him was intense.

  This was what Jonathan and she were up against. All this in this room; this man, called a judge, his costume, all the other men in costumes, their wigs and gowns and strange paraphernalia. This court, one of many courts, in a magnificent, heavy, historic building, with ushers and guards and policemen, all with their uniforms and codes and paraphernalia. And Latin; Latin words here and there and above. Words that might be about to be used against her and Jonathan, for Major James had surely told Anthony’s father about the allegation—Anthony’s version of it, too, because Major James would feel more loyalty, or affinity, or duty to a man like Judge Dore than he would to her and Jonathan. And, if push came to shove, Major James, anyone, would be more frightened of Anthony Dore and his father than they would be of Jonathan and her—what had they got? No power! Compared to all this, this, weight. They were nothing. People like Judge Dore owned England; if he decided to crush them, they’d had it. Jonathan might have one foot in their world but his other was still firmly in hers. Judge Dore could just amputate him.

  Philomena could see the turmoil in Jonathan. She willed him to calm, to hold himself together, to stop looking at Judge Dore in that way. The two of them down there seemed to be growing less part of their surroundings, to be focused only on each other. And it wasn’t just Philomena who noticed it. The prosecution barrister began to act bewildered; the judge appeared to be ignoring him. He faltered to a close and said, “No further questions, your honor,” as if it were a tentative inquiry. He sat and there was a long pause.

  That began to make people nervous. It felt like someone had forgotten their lines, or, worse, that nobody was in charge of proceedings. A palpable gust of fear swept the room. Folk began to look uncertainly about them, like sheep that have realized they have broken out of their field. Officials began to make eye contact with one another, urgently signal, and it became clear to all that something had gone wrong.

  From the gestures Philomena deduced that the onus was on Jonathan; he was supposed to be doing something, now that the prosecution had finished, and if he didn’t, Judge Dore was supposed to do something. But Jonathan was still in his seat, in private communion with Judge Dore, the two of them excluding everyone else.

  “Mr. Priest?” said the judge, sending a wave of relief around the room. “Approach, please, Mr. Priest.”

  Jonathan rose and went to Judge Dore. From where Philomena was sitting he looked like a small boy having to get up on tiptoe to reach a telling off.

  He kept his features as blank as possible and so did Judge Dore. Lowering his voice, so only Jonathan could hear him, he growled “If you ever, ever repeat that allegation I shall make it my business to see that your life is destroyed.”

  Jonathan considered this not unexpected threat for a moment.

  Judge Dore added: “And tell that girl the same.” Certain that his demand once voiced would be obeyed, Judge Dore indicated that Jonathan should return to his place and resume.

  To Philomena, Jonathan looked crushed. She felt utter despair. Tears pricked her eyes. Jonathan was undone. His steps were shaky, his shoulders hunched; he presented the sorry sight of a proud man humbled.

  He’d reached his seat when she caught a spark of something from him that made her want to leap up and cry, “Don’t do that!” It was the same feeling she’d had when she saw the shabby young soldier about to step off his chair, the noose around his neck. She willed Jonathan to look up at her but he wouldn’t. Judge Dore indicated his impatience by deliberately clearing his throat.

  On the floor of the court Jonathan leaned toward his bewildered prosecution counterpart and stage-whispered: “Is that it?”

  The poor man looked completely baffled.

  “I said, is that it?”

  The prosecuting counsel looked up at the judge, pleading.

  “Mr. Priest!” barked Judge Dore.

  Jonathan clearly refused to look at him.

  “What did you just say to your learned friend, Mr. Priest?” Jonathan ignored him.

  “You,” snarled Judge Dore at the prosecution. “I order you to tell me what he said.”

  The prosecution meekly stood, and unwillingly related: “He said, ‘Is that it?’”

  “Explain yourself, Mr. Priest.”

  Jonathan, sounding completely reasonable, replied: “I was referring to my learned friend’s prosecution, my lord. The strategy of it, the detail of it, and his execution of it.”

  The entire court was agog.

  “You’re showing contempt for this court, Mr. Priest,” threatened Judge Dore.

  “I am?” said Jonathan. “I’m showing contempt for truth and justice? The prosecution has been, to put it politely, limp, and your son is a murderer.”

  “No!” Philomena shouted, to a background of gasps.

  Jonathan plowed on: “On the eleventh of November last year at just gone eleven a.m
. on a battlefield in France, Anthony Dore, in the most cowardly manner possible—”

  “Shut his mouth, shut his mouth!” screamed Judge Dore, launching various officials. They ran toward Jonathan and he stopped speaking, gestured his surrender—there was no need to physically restrain him.

  “Get him out of here! Get him out!” roared Judge Dore, on his feet now, as pandemonium broke out. “And I’m declaring this session sub judice! Sub judice, you hear me? Nobody breathes a damn word of this or they go straight to jail!”

  Already out of her seat, Philomena ran down into the public area but there was no sign of Jonathan. She begged an usher to tell her where he had gone and was told that he’d left the building—nobody knew where to. Several officials closed on her, so she took a tight grip on her bag and ran for an exit. Once outside she hailed the first taxi cab that came and told it to take her to Jonathan’s chambers, where she asked it to wait.

  Jonathan wasn’t there. Jones, she could tell, wanted to ask questions—he had already heard something of what had happened in the court. She implored him to telephone to Jonathan’s apartment. There was no answer. But that didn’t mean that Jonathan wasn’t at home; he might have just been refusing to answer.

  “Oh Jones …”

  “What is it, miss? What’s happened?”

  “I’ve got to find him.”

  For a moment she thought of sharing with Jones her fear that Jonathan might kill himself.

  “Miss?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Go to his home,” suggested Jones. “I’ll send word if he turns up. Telephone to me here.”

  “But I haven’t any more money for the taxi cab!”

  “Money? Why didn’t you say? Money we can do.”

  She “borrowed” some cash from Jones and told the waiting taxi to take her to Jonathan’s address. Once there, she leaned on the doorbell for what seemed like an age until a different concierge appeared and asked, through the glass entrance doors, for her to stop and proceed to the tradesman’s entrance.

  “I am not a tradesman!” she yelled, and demanded to know if Jonathan was at home. The concierge reluctantly rang up and got no reply. If Mr. Priest was in, he wasn’t answering.

  “I think he’s in trouble,” she wailed through the glass, but the concierge only looked dubious and wouldn’t admit her.

  She had a vision of Jonathan in his apartment; a chair, a noose.

  “Will you go and see if he’s all right? Please. Please?” she begged, again and again through the glass, until the concierge relented and went up to Jonathan’s floor. He soon returned with the news that there was no answer so he’d taken the liberty of letting himself in. Mr. Priest wasn’t at home.

  “Where to now, miss?” asked the taxi driver, who had left his vehicle and stood a few feet off.

  Philomena didn’t know. She sat in the back of the cab, for a few moments completely at a loss. Then she told the driver to do a tour of all the places she knew Jonathan frequented. But the driver was sure that The Gates of Heaven would be shut at that time. She didn’t know the name of the underground club. There were several piano bars, the indulgent taxi cab driver imagined, that had a dooshom on the wall. Determined to do something, anything, Philomena ordered him to drive back to Jonathan’s chambers, but Jones still had heard nothing. Back in the taxi, she slumped in her seat. The cabbie asked her if she wanted to look anywhere else, adding, sympathetically, that you could look for someone forever in London and never find them. Philomena despaired. The cabbie smiled ruefully.

  But there was one place left. She gave the cabbie the address and he drove off at speed, both of them grateful that there was something to do. When she looked in through the window of The Conduit Philomena gave a big sigh of relief because Jonathan was sitting there, calm as you please, tucking into lunch. She looked to the cabbie and they exchanged a thumbs-up.

  Inside the cafe she cautiously approached Jonathan’s table. He seemed normal—no, not normal. When she neared him she could see it was an effort for him to look her in the eye and his appearance was terrible: pale, gaunt, agitated. Was he mad after all? Before she could sit he stuttered, “The th-thing is, Philomena, I’m no good.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Their waitress came over. Philomena waved her away, then gestured to apologize that she hadn’t meant to be rude.

  “Me, that’s what I’m talking about. I’m no good. I haven’t played fair with you, or come clean. I’ve landed you in it. I’ve landed everyone in it.”

  “Jonathan, what are you—”

  “If you’d let me finish, I’ll tell you,” said Jonathan. “There’s two things. The first is that when the lights went in the club the other night it was me. I threw the switch. I saw you with him and I threw the switch to break you two up and I didn’t care if anyone got hurt or worse. That’s to show you how impetuous, wrong and selfish I can be. The second thing is this.”

  She looked down to where Jonathan indicated. The pack of cards had appeared in his trembling hand as if by magic. One-handed he shuffled and cut them, spilling some. He remade the pack and attempted the maneuver again, this time succeeding. He did it again. And again.

  “See that?” he said.

  She was unsure where this was leading, but a lump of pain had appeared in her guts.

  Taking the pack in both hands Jonathan performed another impressive shuffle then dealt two hands onto the table. Two hands of three cards, face down.

  “Turn the first card of each hand over.”

  Philomena hesitated. She felt herself swaying on her feet.

  “Go on,” said Jonathan, impatiently.

  She reached down and turned the first card of the first hand. It was the king of hearts. Jonathan closely watched her.

  “Turn the other first card,” he commanded.

  It was the two of clubs.

  “Now the second cards.”

  She turned them, feeling a dizzying sense of impending catastrophe. The cards were the jack of hearts and the five of spades.

  “Ring any bells?” asked Jonathan. “Go on, the last two. Or shall I tell you what they are? The ace of spades and the two of diamonds.”

  Her mind raced. That’s how the hands were in the card game.

  “Correct,” said Jonathan, reading her face, “that’s exactly how I dealt them.”

  “You dealt the cards?”

  “Somebody had to,” said Jonathan. He retrieved the hands and shuffled them into the pack, dealt the same hands again, this time face up.

  “You dealt the cards?”

  “I rigged the game,” said Jonathan. “I rigged it so that Dan would win. And I didn’t tell him. And I should have. And look what happened. That’s why I’m really no good. Perhaps I should be tried for Dan’s death. I should be punished. I should receive my just deserts, shouldn’t I?”

  “Shut up, shut up,” said Philomena, through clenched teeth.

  Jonathan obeyed. His head went down, as if awaiting the executioner’s ax. Then Philomena was raining blows down on his head and shoulders, her fists as hard as she could possibly make them. He made no attempt to defend himself; she wished she held hammers. Blow after blow: “Hah! Hah! Hah! Hah!” Finally, “Aaaaaarrrrghhhh!” to the ceiling.

  Deep breaths. Gulps. Cold fury.

  “You idiot. You stupid idiot. You idiot, you idiot!”

  Philomena stood over Jonathan, panting, glaring down. She turned on her heel and left him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In a private room in his club Perceval Dore was studying the face of his son, Anthony, opposite him, waiting for the answer to the question he’d just asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you before because I didn’t want to put a question mark over Priest. I didn’t want to harm him. I deferred until it became impossible to ignore that he was slandering me, until I couldn’t protect him any longer without harming myself.”

  “What do you mean, protect him?”

  “I thought
the episode was concluded; it belonged only to that time and place. Until I discovered he’d repeated it, and it became clear that he’s permanently unstable in his mind and in his emotions.” Anthony tried to confine all his twitches to those parts of his body beneath the table.

  The elder Dore nodded in agreement. “And why didn’t you tell me yourself? Why send James?”

  “Major James investigated and dismissed the allegation, so I thought it best for him to inform you.”

  Dore Senior didn’t think that was a completely satisfactory answer. He was tempted to follow it up but in his mind he knew the fuller answer and he was ashamed of it. His only surviving son knew that when he’d had two brothers, he was the least favorite. Thus he was disinclined, out of habit, to come to his father for help.

  “So the girl is the dead man’s fiancée, and Priest is his best friend, and now they’re in cahoots,” said Perceval, summing up.

  “That’s how it seems,” agreed Anthony.

  There was an interregnum caused by a waiter entering the room to fuss around the table, open a bottle of white wine, pour a taster, accepted; two glasses, the bottle in the ice bucket. He went out and as the door clicked softly Dore Senior asked his next question.

  “You know Priest, obviously.”

  Anthony sipped and swallowed, thankful to have something to occupy his hands.

  “I’d met him briefly in the field, and we’d shared my hamper together the night before the battle. Suddenly he turned on me. I didn’t know that you had any connection with him.”

  “Any idea why he turned on you?”

  “None. Whatever led him to make the allegation is all in his mind, poor fellow.”

  “It’s an extraordinary tale.”

  “I can only agree,” said Anthony. “And it’s been pretty difficult to live with.”

  His father nodded, showing he understood the strain his son must have been under. Anthony grew overconfident and careless.