by P. D. James
“I need to see you, tonight if possible. Are you alone?”
He said cautiously: “Yes. I’ve just seen my mother into her taxi. Can’t it wait? It’s eleven.”
“No it can’t. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”
Half an hour later he let her in. It was the first time she had been in his flat. Invariably punctilious in these matters, he called for her at her house when they had a date and took her home afterwards. But she entered his sitting-room without the slightest sign of interest either in the room, or in the wide expanse of shining water outside the windows and the glittering floodlit wonder of Tower Bridge. He felt a moment’s irritation that a room over which he had taken such trouble should be so disregarded. Ignoring the spectacular view which normally drew visitors to the windows, she flung off her coat and handed it to him as if he were a servant.
He said: “What will you drink?”
“Nothing. Anything. What you’re having.”
“Whisky.”
It was a drink he knew she disliked. She said: “Red wine, then. Anything you’ve got open.”
He had nothing open, but he fetched a bottle of Hermitage from the wine cupboard, poured her a glass and set it down on the low table in front of her.
Ignoring the drink, she said without preamble: “I’m sorry to come at such short notice but I need your help. You remember that boy Garry Ashe I defended three or four weeks ago?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I saw him at the Bailey after my case today. He’s taken up with Octavia. According to her they’re engaged.”
“That’s quick. When did they meet?”
“After the trial, of course, when else? Obviously it’s a put-up job on his part and I want it stopped.”
He said carefully: “I can see that it’s unwelcome, but I don’t see how you can stop it. Octavia’s of age, isn’t she? Even if she weren’t you’d have some difficulty. What could you allege against him? He was acquitted.”
His unspoken words were so obvious that he might as well have said them aloud: “Thanks to you.”
He asked: “You’ve spoken to Octavia?”
“Of course. She’s adamant. Well, she would be. Part of his attraction is the power he gives her to hurt me.”
“Isn’t that a little unjust? Why should she want to hurt you? She could be genuinely fond of him.”
“For God’s sake, Drysdale, be realistic. Besotted maybe. Intrigued perhaps. Liking the spice of danger—I can understand that, he is dangerous. But what about him? You’re not telling me that Ashe is in love, and after three weeks. This is deliberate, and one or both of them engineered it. It’s directed against me.”
“By Ashe? Why should it be? I’d have expected him to be grateful.”
“He isn’t grateful and I don’t expect or want his gratitude. I want him out of my life.”
Drysdale said quietly: “Isn’t he rather more in Octavia’s life than yours?”
“I’ve told you, this is nothing to do with Octavia. He’s using her to get at me. They’re even thinking of going to the press. Can you imagine that? A sentimental picture of them in the Sunday tabloids with his arm around her. ‘Mummy Saved My Boyfriend from Prison. Top QC’s Daughter Tells the Story of Their Love.’ “
“She wouldn’t do that, surely?”
“Oh yes she would.”
Drysdale said: “If you don’t interfere it’ll probably pass. One or the other will get tired of it. If he chucks her she’ll be hurt in her pride, but that’ll be all. Isn’t the important thing not to antagonize her? To make her feel that you’ll be there if she needs you? Haven’t you a family friend, solicitor, GP, someone like that? An older person she respects who could talk to her?”
He could hardly believe that it was he who was speaking. He thought: I sound like some agony aunt handing out the predictable pabulum to rebellious daughters and their disaffected mothers. The flood of resentment against Venetia surprised him by its intensity. He was the last person who could help with this kind of problem. All right, they were friends, they enjoyed each other’s company. He liked being seen in public with a beautiful woman. She never bored him. Heads turned when they entered a restaurant together. He liked that, even while he faintly despised himself for so easy, so commonplace a vanity. But they had never been involved in each other’s private lives. He seldom saw Octavia, and when he did he found her unresponsive, moody, antagonistic. She had a father somewhere. Let him take responsibility. It was ludicrous of Venetia to expect him to get involved.
She was saying: “One thing could stop him. Money. He thought he was going to inherit from his aunt. She liked to give the impression that there was money and she spent freely enough. On him, too. The photographic equipment, his motorbike—none of it was cheap. But she died in debt. She’d borrowed heavily against the compensation money for the compulsory purchase of the house. The bank will take most of it. He won’t get a penny. Incidentally, they were almost certainly lovers.”
He said: “None of that came out in the trial, did it, that Ashe and his aunt were lovers?”
“There were a number of things about Garry Ashe that didn’t come out in the trial.” She looked him full in the face. “I thought you might see him and find out how much he wants, buy him off. I’d be willing to go to ten thousand pounds.”
He was appalled. The idea was fantastic. It was also dangerous. That she could even think of it showed the measure of her desperation. That she should seriously expect him to involve himself was demeaning to them both. There were things which friendship had no right to demand.
He kept his voice calm: “I’m sorry, Venetia. If you want to pay him off you’ll have to do it yourself or get your solicitor to try. I can’t be involved. I’d probably do more harm than good anyway. And if you’re afraid of publicity, think of the press coverage if this went wrong. ‘Top Lawyer’s Man Friend Tries to Buy Off Daughter’s Lover.’ They’d have a field day.”
She put down her glass and got up.
“So you won’t help?”
“Not won’t. Can’t.”
Unwilling to meet the angry contempt in her eyes, he went over to the windows. Below him the river was running strongly, its swirls and eddies fired with dancing tongues of silver light. The bridge with its towers and struts outlined with light looked, as always at night, as shimmering and unsubstantial as a mirage. It was a view with which, glass in hand, he had solaced himself after a busy day night after night. Now she had spoilt it for him and he felt some of the petulant resentment of a child.
Without looking round, he said quietly: “How much does this really matter to you? How much would you be willing to give up for it? Your job? Being Head of Chambers?”
There was a pause, then she said quietly: “Don’t be ridiculous, Drysdale. I’m not bargaining.”
He turned. “I didn’t say you were. I was just wondering about your priorities. What is really important to you when the chips are down? Octavia or the career?”
“I don’t intend to sacrifice either. I do intend to get rid of Ashe.” Again there was a pause, then she said: “You’re telling me you won’t help?”
“I’m sorry, I can’t get involved.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both, Venetia.”
She reached for her coat. “Well, at least you’ve had the guts to be honest. Don’t disturb yourself. I’ll make my own way out.”
But, following her to the door, he asked: “How did you come? Can I call a taxi?”
“No thank you. I’ll walk across the bridge and pick one up there.”
He went down in the lift with her, then stood for a moment looking after her as she walked along the waterfront under the glitter of the lights. She didn’t look back. Her stride, as always, was vigorous, confident. And then, as he watched, it seemed to him that she faltered. Her body sagged and he realized, with the first genuine pity he had felt since her arrival, that he was watching the walk of an old woman.
BOOK TWO
DEATH IN CHAMBERS
1
At seven-thirty on Thursday, 10 October, Harold Naughton left his house in Buckhurst Hill, walked the quarter-mile to Buckhurst Hill Station and caught a train just before seven-forty-five which would take him on the Central Line direct to Chancery Lane. It was a journey he had taken for nearly forty years. His parents had lived in Buckhurst Hill and when he was a boy the suburb had still held some of the self-contained distinctiveness of a small country town. Now that it was just one of the dormitory outposts of the metropolis it still retained, in its leafier streets and lanes of cottage-like houses, a measure of rural peace. He and Margaret had begun their married life in what was then one of the few blocks of modern flats.
He had married an Essex girl; Epping Forest was her countryside, Southend Pier her sight and smell of the sea, the Central Line to Liverpool Street and beyond carried her only rarely to the dangerous delights of London. His father had died within a year of retirement and after his mother’s death, three years later, he had inherited the small house where he had been brought up in the claustrophobic, over-protected world of an only child. But he was becoming successful, there were Stephen and Sally needing rooms of their own, Margaret hoped for a larger garden. The family house was sold and the money used for the deposit on the modern semi-detached house on which Margaret had set her ambitions. The garden was long and had been enlarged a few years later, when their elderly neighbour, needing money and finding his patch too large to cope with, had been glad to sell.
To this home, to his comfort, to the bringing up of their children, to the garden and greenhouse, to the local church and her patchwork quilts, Margaret had happily given her life. She had never wanted to take a job and he had valued his domestic comfort too highly to encourage her to look for one. When, at a difficult time, his income from Chambers had fallen, she had tentatively suggested that she might brush up her secretarial skills. He had said, “We’ll manage. The children need you here.”
And they had managed. But today, as the train rattled into the darkness of the tunnel after the momentary brightness of Stratford Station, he sat, his Daily Telegraph still folded, and wondered how he would manage now. By the end of the month, after the Chambers meeting, he would know whether he was to be given an extension of his contract, three years if he were lucky, or one year, perhaps renewable. If the answer were no, what would there be for him? For nearly forty years Chambers had been his life. He had given, out of his need more than theirs, an absolute commitment of time, energy and dedication. He had no hobbies; there hadn’t been time for hobbies except at weekends, and those were spent sleeping, watching television, taking Margaret for drives into the country, cutting the lawn and helping with the heavier jobs in the garden. And what hobbies could he find? There might be something useful to be done in the church, but Margaret was already on the parochial church council, a member of the flower and cleaning rotas, part-time secretary of the Women’s Wednesday Fellowship. He was repelled by the thought of going to the vicar, an embarrassing supplicant: “Please find me a job. I’m getting old. I’m unskilled. I’ve nothing to offer. Please make me feel useful again.”
There had always been the two worlds, his and Margaret’s. His world—she had come to believe or had decided to believe—was a mysterious masculine enclave of which her husband, after the Head of Chambers, was the most important member. It required nothing from her, not even her interest. She never complained about its demands on her husband, the early start to the day, the late arrival home. He was meticulous about telephoning before he left the office if the delay was unusual, and she timed to the minute the heating of the casserole, the moment when the joint could be taken out of the oven to rest, the lighting of the gas under the vegetables so that they were precisely as he liked them. His job was important and must be served because he provided the income without which her world would collapse.
But what place was there for him in that world? His and Margaret’s only shared interest had been in the bringing up of the children, though even that had been mainly Margaret’s responsibility. Sally and Stephen had been in bed by the time he got home. It was Margaret who gave them their supper, read them the bedtime story and, when they were old enough for school, listened to their tales of small triumphs or of woe. When they had needed him—if they ever needed him—he hadn’t been there. They were still a shared anxiety, children always were. Stephen had only just achieved the A-level grades necessary to gain his place at Reading and they worried that he might not survive the first year. Sally, the elder, had trained as a physiotherapist and was working in a hospital in Hull. She rarely came home, but telephoned her mother at least twice weekly. Margaret, wanting grandchildren, worried there might not be a man in Sally’s life, or that there was a man, but not one Sally felt she could bring home to introduce to her parents. When the children were at home, Harold got on well with them both. He had never found it difficult to get on well with strangers.
His father, when he had made the same journey from Buckhurst Hill, had got off the train at Liverpool Street Station and taken a bus along Fleet Street to Middle Temple Lane. He preferred to go three stations further and walk down Chancery Lane. He loved the early-morning freshness of the City, the first stirring of life, as if a giant were just waking and beginning to stretch his limbs, the comforting smell of coffee as the cafés opened for the early workers or those coming off night shifts. The familiar shop fronts and public buildings in Chancery Lane were like old friends: the London Silver Vaults; Ede and Ravenscroft, wig- and robe-makers, with the royal arms over the door, the window dignified with ceremonial scarlet and ermine; the impressive Public Record Office, which he could never pass without recalling that it housed Magna Carta; the offices of the Law Society with the iron railings and gilded lions’ heads.
His normal route was across Fleet Street to enter Middle Temple Lane through the Wren Gatehouse. He never passed under its portal without glancing upwards at the badge of the Paschal Lamb holding the banner of innocence. It was his one superstition, the momentary lifting of his eyes to the ancient symbol. Sometimes he thought that it was his only prayer. But for the last few months the Fleet Street entrance to Middle Temple Lane had been closed for rebuilding and he had had to walk on to the narrow lane opposite the Royal Courts of Justice, by the George pub, to the small black door set in the wider gate.
This morning, as he reached the lane, he felt that he wasn’t ready to face the working day and, almost without pausing, he walked briskly on towards Trafalgar Square. He needed time to think, needed, too, the physical release of walking while he tried to make sense of this muddle of anxiety, hope, guilt and half-formulated fears. If the offer to stay on were made, should he accept it? Wouldn’t it be merely a cowardly postponement of the inevitable? And what did Margaret really want? She had said, “I don’t know how Chambers will manage without you, but you must do what you think best. We can manage on the pension, and it’s time you had some life of your own.” What life? He loved her, he had always loved her, although it was difficult now to believe that they were the same people who, in those early days of marriage, had longed only for bedtime, for that falling into each other’s arms. Now even love-making had become a habit, as comfortable, reassuring and unstressful as the evening meal. They had been married for thirty-two years. Did he really know so little about her? Was he really telling himself that life at home with Margaret would be intolerable? A snatch of random conversation overheard after last Sunday’s sung eucharist fell like a stone into his mind: “I said to George, You have to find something to do. I don’t want you under my feet all day.”
But Margaret was right, they could manage on his pension. Had it been honest, that suggestion to Mr. Langton that they couldn’t? He had never before lied to Mr. Langton. They had entered Chambers at the same time, Mr. Langton as a newly qualified barrister, he as assistant to his father. They had grown old together. He couldn’t imagine Chambers without Mr. Langton. But some
thing was wrong. The force, the confidence, even the authority of Head of Chambers seemed to have seeped out of him in the last few months. And he didn’t look well. Something was worrying him. Could it be that he was concealing a mortal illness? Or was he planning to retire and facing the same problem of an unknown and useless future? And if he did retire, who would succeed him? If Miss Aldridge took over would he really wish to stay on? No, that at least was certain. He wouldn’t want to be Senior Clerk if Miss Aldridge were Head of Chambers. And she wouldn’t want him. He knew that the one voice speaking against him would be hers. It was not, he felt, that she disliked him personally. Despite a slight fear of her, of that quick, authoritative voice, that demand for instant response, he didn’t really dislike her, although he wouldn’t want to serve under her as Head of Chambers. But it wouldn’t be Miss Aldridge, the thought was ridiculous. Chambers only had four criminal lawyers and they would want a non-criminal QC to take over. The obvious candidate was Mr. Laud; after all, the two archbishops already ran Chambers between them. But if Mr. Laud took over, would he be strong enough to stand up to Miss Aldridge? If Mr. Langton retired then Miss Aldridge would get her way, would press even more strongly for the appointment of an office manager, for new methods, new technology. Was there a place for him in this modern world, where systems mattered more than people?
He had been walking for over half an hour. He had only a confused recollection of the route he had taken, but could remember pacing restlessly back and forward along the Embankment, then past Temple Place before striking northwards up an unremembered street to the Aldwych and along the Strand to the Royal Courts of Justice. And now it was time to start the working day. He had at last made up his mind. If invited, he would stay on for a further year but no longer, and in that year he would make up his mind what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.
Pawlet Court was deserted. Only a few ground-floor windows of adjoining chambers showed a pattern of light where clerks as punctilious as himself had already started their working day. The air smelt mistier than it had in the Strand, as if the small court still held some of the raw dampness of the October night. Round the great trunk of a horse chestnut the first fallen leaves lay in sluggish disorder. He took out his bunch of keys and felt for the straight edge of the one for the Banham security lock, and then the smaller Ingersoll above it, which he turned to open the door. Immediately the alarm system gave out its insistent high-pitched warning. He moved unhurriedly, knowing to a second how long he had to switch on the light in the reception office and insert his smallest key in the control panel to turn off the alarm. Beside the panel was a wooden board with the names of members of Chambers lettered on sliding panels to show whether they were in or out. The board showed that all were absent. The members were not always conscientious in their use of the board, but the theory was that the last member out should slide his peg across and then set the alarm. Mrs. Carpenter and Mrs. Watson, the cleaners, arriving at half past eight at night, were usually the last people in Chambers. Both were scrupulous in ensuring that the alarm was set before they left at ten o’clock.