As he did so Jennifer frowned towards him, head curiously to one side.
‘Have you got anything to say?’ demanded Bentley.
‘It wasn’t me,’ said Jennifer. ‘It was Jane.’
Chapter Four
‘ Trapped you, bitch! ’ There was a laugh.
‘Go away! leave me alone.’ Terror jarred through her. What had she done? It didn’t make sense: nothing made sense. She didn’t understand. She didn’t know.
‘ Of course you know! ’
‘Go away!’
‘ I will if I choose to. But won’t if I don’t. And there’s nothing you can do about it! I can do whatever I like with you. You’re mine.’
‘Why?’ This wasn’t happening: couldn’t be happening. It was a dream, a horrible dream. A nightmare.
‘ You know bloody well why. ’
‘I don’t. Honestly, I don’t.’ Jennifer squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to close everything out. Wanting most of all to close out the memory of Gerald’s slashed and bloodied body.
‘ Look at them. They all think you’re mad. That’s what everyone is going to think. ’
Jennifer did look, forcing herself, at the small ward window through which the two detectives she had refused to talk to without a solicitor being present were frowning in at her. And then at the two policewomen actually in the room with her. As she did so the elder, a sergeant, came forward and said, ‘What’s the problem, Mrs Lomax?’
‘ See!’
The tone that echoed in Jennifer’s head, in the Southern drawl she had forgotten, was triumphant. To the policewoman Jennifer said, ‘Nothing. I’m all right. Thank you.’
‘ You’re not. You’re possessed. But no-one is going to believe you because there’s no such thing as ghosts or possession, is there? ’
She could beat her, Jennifer decided: had to beat her, for Christ’s sake! If Jane was in her mind then she could read her mind – had already shown she could – so she didn’t have to speak: it was just appearing to talk to herself that would make people think she was mentally deranged.
‘ Of course I know what you’re thinking but that won’t do. I told you, you’re trapped: mine to do with what I want. And I will do what I want with you. So you’ll say the words for people to hear and they’ll decide you’re insane.’
‘Why?’ implored Jennifer, aloud and unable to stop herself. She’d spoken! No! No! No!
‘ You murdered me, you and Gerald. Bastards! ’
The accusation ended in a scream and Jennifer physically winced at the sound in her head. ‘I didn’t! We didn’t! It was an accident! You did it yourself: an accidental overdose.’
‘ LIAR! ’
It was a roar this time and Jennifer winced again and the woman sergeant came forward once more. ‘Mrs Lomax?’
‘I’m all right, really.’ Both hands and her left arm were heavily bandaged; a saline drip needle was strapped to her right hand. To gesture, which she did slightly, genuinely hurt. ‘The anaesthetic is wearing off.’
‘Do you want me to call a nurse? Or a doctor?’
‘It’s not that bad.’
‘ You can’t begin to believe how bad it’s going to get. ’
Jennifer remained tight lipped. She had to think! Work it out. But she couldn’t think without Jane – the voice – knowing what those thoughts were.
‘ Don’t sit there like a little child, all puckered up. You’ve got to learn there’s nothing you can do to stop me. ’
‘I’ll find a way,’ said Jennifer, falling back against the supporting pillows, feeling the strength drain from herself. Don’t give up! Couldn’t give up!
‘ Of course you can’t give up. That’s going to be part of the fun. My fun. Maybe you’ll even go genuinely mad, trying to beat me ’
‘I will beat you,’ insisted Jennifer.
‘ I know you’ll try. Wasn’t that what attracted Gerald in the first place, the Jennifer Stone implacable determination to win in all things… even husband stealing! ’
‘We’ll see who’s the stronger.’ She needed help. But who?
‘ Indeed we will! ’
Jennifer was drawn again to the ward window by the arrival of more people.
‘ And here is your solicitor,’ announced Jane.
It was.
There were, in fact, two. Geoffrey Johnson, who led their way into the ward, was the family lawyer, a plump, usually smiling man who smoked oddly shaped and carved pipes and drove a vintage Bentley. That evening he wasn’t smiling. Momentarily he stood beside the bed, twitching towards a handshake he didn’t complete when he saw her bandages. Equally unsure of how to greet Jennifer, he instead at once introduced the other man as Humphrey Perry.
‘Criminal law isn’t my field,’ he apologized. ‘Humphrey’s our senior partner on the crime side.’
Perry was a tall, doleful-faced man with a hedge of black hair encircling a polished bald, egg-domed head. Unlike Johnson, whose suit was muted check, Perry wore a lawyer’s uniform of black striped trousers with black jacket and waistcoat, complete with a looped gold watch-chain. As he pulled forward the chair just vacated by the woman police sergeant, now outside talking to the two detectives, Jennifer saw that Perry had very long, skeletal fingers. At the end of the introduction he moved his head in acknowledgement but didn’t immediately speak. He didn’t smile, either.
‘ They’re frightened of you.’
‘Shut up!’ No! Shouldn’t have spoken; given a reply.
‘What?’ frowned Perry. He had a deep, sonorous voice.
‘I wasn’t talking to you,’ said Jennifer. Then, ‘Oh God!’ She hesitated. In a rush she blurted, ‘You are going to think I am mad but I am not. I know people saw me kill Gerald but it wasn’t me. It was Jane. She’s possessed me.’
Johnson coughed and looked down at the floor. Perry remained expressionless, taking a large legal notepad from a very scuffed briefcase. He said, ‘Who’s Jane?’
‘Lomax’s first wife,’ mumbled Johnson, still head bent. ‘She was diabetic. Died of an insulin overdose six years ago.’
Knowing she was blushing, fighting against the absurd impulse to giggle, Jennifer said, ‘She says I murdered her. That we both did, Gerald and I. Which we didn’t. It’s ridiculous.’
Perry spent several moments ensuring the lead from a silver propelling pencil protruded to precisely the length he wanted. ‘And Jane talks to you?’
Jennifer slumped back against the pillows again, closing her eyes against reality because this couldn’t be real. ‘I told you you’d think I was mad.’
‘ They do! They do! ’
‘She says you do,’ said Jennifer, dully, feeling a wash of exhaustion.
‘She’s talking to you now?’ persisted Perry.
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘In my head.’
‘You hear a voice?’
‘Oh, dear God!’ wailed Jennifer, desperately, realizing how it was all sounding to the two men. ‘Help me! Please help me!’
‘I will, Mrs Lomax. I truly will. But you must tell me what happened. What you can remember.’
‘I can remember everything.’ She had to concentrate; be rational with this rational, expressionless man.
‘Good. So tell me. From the very beginning. From the time you got up this morning.’
Jennifer didn’t speak immediately, then became horrifyingly aware that she was sitting with her head to one side as if trying to hear something being said to her. She straightened, abruptly, conscious that both men had noticed. As strongly and as positively as she was able she said, ‘Gerald wasn’t at home last night. He stayed here in London at the flat. But he called this morning to talk to me and to Emily. He always did when he didn’t come home. I drove Emily to playschool and then arranged tonight’s supper with our housekeeper; Gerald was coming home tonight. It was lamb. Welsh. Gerald liked lamb
…’ There was a sudden surge of emotion, choking her. She coughed, scrubbing a bandaged hand acro
ss her eyes. ‘He’s dead… Gerald’s dead
…’
Johnson looked wildly around the room, as if seeking help. Perry remained unmoving, one immaculate leg crossed over the other, notebook balanced on his knee. It was Perry who spoke. ‘Do you want a doctor?’
Jennifer shook her head, not replying.
‘You discussed dinner, with the housekeeper?’ encouraged Perry.
Jagged-voiced, Jennifer said, ‘Playschool ends at noon. I went to collect Emily. I usually do, unless I’m here in London, with Gerald. I was a little late. Emily had got a prize for learning her letters. I promised to take her to the zoo as a reward…’ She trailed away, her shoulders beginning to heave again.
‘Did you?’ pressed Perry, not wanting a break.
Jennifer shook her head but didn’t answer. She felt lost, falling into darkness, her stomach hollowed.
‘Why not?’
‘Jane told me to get a knife.’
‘And?’
‘To come to London.’
‘Do you remember doing that?’
‘Yes. But it wasn’t as if I was driving.’
‘What was it like?’
‘As if I was a passenger.’
‘Was Jane talking to you during the drive?’
‘No.’
‘What happened when you got to your husband’s office?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘You said you could remember everything.’
‘I thought I could.’
‘Tell me as much as you can.’
‘We parked the car…’
‘… We?’ interrupted Perry.
‘Yes,’ repeated Jennifer, distantly. ‘We parked the car. I remember going into the building. Getting into the lift. Then I was covered in blood. Bleeding myself. And Gerald was dead.’
‘You don’t remember the killing?’
‘No.’ Just the blood, blood all over Gerald He was dead: wonderful, darling Gerald was dead.
‘Or doing it?’
It took longer this time for Jennifer to stop crying. She sobbed into the bandaged hand – hurting herself with the tug of the saline needle trying to bring her other hand up to her face – managing to mumble a protest only when she heard Johnson say to the other lawyer that he thought they should call someone. ‘I’m all right. I want to go on.’
‘You don’t remember doing it?’ repeated the criminal lawyer, relentlessly.
‘No.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘No.’
‘You were bleeding yourself,’ prompted Perry.
‘There were policemen. And ambulancemen. They put me on a stretcher and brought me here.’
‘ Very good! ’
Jennifer whimpered, suddenly jerking back as if pulling away from something.
‘What?’ demanded Perry.
‘She’s mocking me again.’
‘Again?’
‘She’s been doing it, ever since I got here.’
‘ Tell-tale tit, your tongue will split and all the little puppy dogs will get a little bit.’
‘When was the first time you heard Jane’s voice?’ asked the lawyer.
‘Today.’
‘Never, ever, before?’
‘No.’ She was mad! Had to be. This couldn’t be happening to any sane person. None of it. If she closed her eyes really tightly it would all go away. No, Jennifer corrected. Not a dream. A nightmare. Real. Horribly, terrifyingly real.
‘Are you under any medical care, Mrs Lomax? Before your admission here, I mean.’
‘No,’ said Jennifer, tightly, knowing the question had to be asked but resenting it.
‘I could check, obviously: will have to, in fact.’
‘I want you to,’ said Jennifer, hurriedly. ‘I want you to check with everybody you can to know that I have never in my life suffered any psychiatric illness and that Gerald and I were idyllically happy.’
‘I will, Mrs Lomax.’
‘Good!’ said Jennifer, in brief defiance. It slipped at once. ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’
‘No. And if I am going to represent you and brief counsel on your behalf I shall never lie to you,’ lied the lawyer.
‘Not mad but a liar, about hearing voices!’
‘I was setting out my position,’ avoided the man.
‘So what’s your answer to my question?’
‘I think you are suffering a mental illness, yes.’
‘ I’ve won! I’ve won! ’
‘I am not mentally deranged!’ Wouldn’t give in: couldn’t give in.
‘Will you agree to a psychiatric examination?’
‘I demand a psychiatric examination.’
Perry retracted his pencil point with the care with which he had exposed it and closed the notebook. As he did so, Jennifer saw he had apparently made several pages of notes.
The lawyer said, ‘I don’t want any statement made to the police: I’ll tell them that. You will be arraigned before a magistrate, initially for the formality of a remand, in custody. There will be no question of bail, so I won’t bother to apply for it. In the circumstances, I will ask for that remand to be in a prison hospital wing when you’re fit enough to leave here. Magistrates cannot try a case like this.’
‘ I want you to suffer the whole process! ’
‘I don’t give a damn what you want,’ said Jennifer. To Perry she explained, ‘Jane says she wants me to suffer everything.’
The lawyer nodded, showing no surprise. ‘You wish me to engage counsel?’
‘The best you can get.’
‘Is there anything else I can do?’
‘What’s happening to Emily?’ How could she have forgotten Emily until now!
Instead of replying, Perry looked sideways to the other solicitor. Johnson said, ‘She’s being well looked after by the nanny.’
‘I want to see her.’
‘At the moment that’s not possible. Maybe even not advisable,’ refused Perry.
‘When?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted the bald-headed man, maintaining the promise of honesty. ‘Maybe not for quite a long time.’
***
In the corridor outside John Bentley accepted with a philosophical shrug the lawyer’s refusal to allow a statement, sure he knew a way to get around it. Beside his superior, Malcolm Rodgers gestured to the policewomen re-entering the ward and said, ‘According to them all she does is talk to herself. Madder than a March hare.’
‘Or a bloody sight cleverer than one,’ challenged Bentley.
‘Meaning?’ queried Perry.
‘Voices in her head! Possessed by the first wife, seeking revenge! Come on! You ever seen a better performance for a plea of diminished responsibility?’ demanded Bentley
‘No,’ conceded the lawyer. ‘But why kill him in the first place?’
‘When I find the woman Lomax was screwing I’ll tell you,’ promised the detective. In the few hours since seeing Jennifer Lomax hunched beside the blood-soaked body of her husband Bentley had changed his mind about this being a case with no personal benefit. His intuition, which he usually followed, told him otherwise. It wasn’t intuition that convinced him Lomax had a mistress, though. That was good old hard-assed experience. All he had to do was shake the trees and he knew how to do that, too.
Back inside the tiny ward, Jane said, ‘ Just think what it’s going to he like, shut up in an asylum with genuinely mad people for the rest of your life.’
‘Stop it!’ screamed Jennifer.
‘ And that’s the way to get there. ’
Chapter Five
The role of chamberlain was created in medieval European courts, establishing the most important functionary in any royal household. A chamberlain was the buffer, and passport, to any king or queen. With his promoting approval, eager courtiers were guaranteed title, fame and wealth. By his obstructing disapproval, anxious fortune-hunters were forever doomed to oblivion and poverty.
Today there are few Europe
an royal courts and those chamberlains that remain do so largely in power-empty office from which they emerge bewigged, gartered and plumed for ceremonial occasions, in between which they shuffle back to memories of bygone ages and absolute authority rivalling that of the monarchs their predecessors served.
England is one of those few European countries in which a monarchy and the office of chamberlain still exist, one more of doubtful ceremonial value than the other. There are, however, four other very active courts in which operate chamberlains whose sacrosanct judgement is absolute and whose unwritten laws are as unchallengeable as their interpretation of enshrined British legislation.
They are the Inns of Court and the chamberlains of their members disdain any title loftier than clerk. They need nothing higher than that, which every sensible barrister knows. Those that don’t, learn fast enough. Or leave for other professions.
Bert (as christened, not Bertram) Feltham was the chief clerk of the Temple chambers of Sir Richard Proudfoot, QC, a fiefdom he ran with a ruthlessness that had been enviously likened by lesser chief clerks in other chambers to that of the principles by which the Borgias operated and Machiavelli would have admired. He submitted briefs to his barristers before formal acceptance, as protocol required, but every one of the chamber’s eight Queen’s Counsel – including Proudfoot himself – knew Feltham had vetted the case and personally selected to whom it would be presented in advance of the first discussion. And there was never any discussion about anything whatsoever that Feltham considered unsuitable. He selected his submitting solicitors with the care with which he accepted their cases. It was a network that had developed over twenty years and worked after so long more by instinct than by legal formalities. Those honoured with Feltham’s ex-directory home telephone number knew automatically what might be ‘something for Bert’. Those that didn’t have the knack only had the office number and Feltham rarely accepted their calls.
Humphrey Perry had the home number and he rang it that night from the car phone, before leaving the hospital grounds.
‘You can’t be serious!’ protested Feltham. He had asthma and wheezed.
A Mind to Kill Page 2