And Is There Honey Still For Tea?

by Peter Murphy

  ‘The Bar can be very reactionary,’ Ben said quietly. ‘It has always seemed to me that they cling to obsolete rules for their own sake.’

  ‘They have that tendency, certainly,’ Bernard agreed. ‘But they have to move with the times to some extent. They should be getting worried that they may be vulnerable in law if anyone took them to court over it. You see, they may not be able to justify the rule except in a genuine case of touting. So the rule is far too wide. There was a member of the Bar some years ago – I forget his name – who had a daughter who was an actress. The daughter became engaged to marry a solicitor, and the Bar threatened to disbar this poor chap if he went to the wedding.’

  ‘Mon Dieu,’ Amélie said, horrified. ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He told them to get stuffed and went to the wedding,’ Bernard smiled, ‘and fraternised with his son-in-law regularly thereafter. Of course, the Bar did nothing. It just made them look stupid. They know the rule needs to be changed, and we are going to encourage them to change it now before they look even more stupid.’

  Amélie touched Jess’s hand.

  ‘Don’t be discouraged,’ she said.

  ‘I’m not,’ Jess said. ‘I sometimes get angry about it, but I am determined to stay calm and see it through.’

  ‘Good for you,’ Amélie said.

  Jess turned to Bernard. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You are very welcome.’

  Amélie laughed. ‘It is a cause dear to Bernard’s heart,’ she said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘But of course. It is not known generally in the chambers, I think, but Bernard is himself the incurable romantic.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Really?’

  ‘She exaggerates,’ Bernard insisted.

  ‘Non, pas du tout.’ She leaned over towards Jess confidentially. ‘I met Bernard in Paris many years ago. I was finishing my studies at the Sorbonne, and he came to see the city before he started his practice.’

  ‘I had just finished my pupillage with Duncan Furnival,’ Bernard said.

  ‘Oui, c’est ça. As a student I did not have much money, so I had a tiny flat in a building on the Quai aux Fleurs.’

  ‘The whole place was not much bigger than our living room and dining room here,’ Bernard said.

  ‘Yes, and it was on the sixth floor.’

  ‘And no lift.’

  She laughed. ‘But every day after we had met, Bernard would call on me and bring some flowers, and if we could afford it we would go to the bistrot and eat a croque monsieur and drink a glass of vin ordinaire. He was very proper, but also very gallant, the complete gentleman tout à fait comme il faut. And he was as romantic as can be. And now, every year, we find a bistrot for our anniversary, either in London or in Paris.’

  Bernard was smiling but he had turned slightly red. She took his hand.

  ‘I am sorry, chéri, I embarrass you. I didn’t mean to.’

  ‘There is no need at all to be embarrassed,’ Ben smiled. ‘Not with us.’

  ‘I think that is very charming,’ Jess said.

  Bernard stood. ‘Why don’t I help you clear away so that we can get to the next course?’

  * * *

  The remainder of the dinner had been superb, a classic country boeuf aux carottes, followed by a light lemon mousse. Jess volunteered to help Amélie clear away before she made coffee. Bernard steered Ben into the conservatory at the back of the house, which looked over Hampstead Heath, though tonight the darkness and the rain obscured any view. A tray with glasses and a decanter of Armagnac stood on an unfinished light wood sideboard. The chairs and tables were wicker, there were brightly-coloured red and green Indian rugs on the floor, and some vivid modernist paintings on the walls. The room felt intimate and cosy.

  ‘I really appreciate this, Bernard,’ Ben said. ‘We have been worried about it.’

  ‘Of course, you must have been,’ he replied, pouring each of them a glass of Armagnac. ‘But I meant what I said earlier. I am quite optimistic. They should be looking for a way out, it seems to me.’

  He paused to swirl his Armagnac in his glass and take an appreciative sniff.

  ‘If you don’t mind talking shop for a minute in the absence of the ladies…?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Good. Tell me… what is your impression of Digby?’

  Ben shook his head. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he replied. ‘On the face of it, he is the innocent victim of a wicked libel and it’s not hard to understand why he wants to do whatever he can to restore his reputation.’

  ‘On the face of it?’

  Ben sipped his Armagnac. ‘He plays the part to perfection. But… there is something missing.’

  Bernard nodded. ‘Yes. I have that impression too,’ he agreed. ‘I’m not sure why.’

  ‘Perhaps he is not angry enough?’ Ben suggested.

  ‘Perhaps. He got rather indignant when I tried to suggest that suing Hollander might have its own problems and there might be another way of dealing with the situation.’

  ‘Indignant, but not angry,’ Ben insisted.

  ‘Yes,’ Bernard said. He paused. ‘Well, perhaps that’s just Digby’s personality, or the way he was brought up. Perhaps that’s all there is to it. He does practise in the Chancery Division, after all. They are all so damned civilised over there.’

  Ben smiled. ‘Well, we may be imagining things.’

  ‘There is something else, though,’ Bernard said. ‘I am still worried that Hollander has published such a serious libel without any evidence that we can see. I’m not satisfied with Digby’s theory that he is just a publicity-seeking American academic who doesn’t care how ruinous the proceedings are as long as he creates a sensation.’

  ‘No,’ Ben agreed. ‘There must be easier ways to make a name for himself than this. So, what do you think he has up his sleeve?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Bernard replied. ‘But he has something, Ben, I know it. Every instinct I have tells me so. How is Jess getting on with her research?’

  ‘It’s going well. She is waiting for some written materials. She wants to read every word Hollander has ever written in any journal, anywhere in the world. That may help, but I have a nasty feeling that whatever real evidence Hollander has may not be easy to find.’

  He sipped from his glass again.

  ‘Until it’s too late,’ he added.

  14

  Amélie and Jess joined them, bringing the coffee and cups, with a small silver tray laden with dark chocolates.

  They sat down around the wicker coffee table, enjoying the quiet darkness of the Heath against the subdued lighting of the conservatory.

  ‘Jess has a question for you, Bernard,’ Amélie said. ‘She is hesitant to ask you herself, although I told her not to be concerned.’

  ‘You must ask whatever you like, Jess,’ Bernard reassured her. ‘Don’t be shy about it.’

  Jess was holding her hands in her lap, one gripping the other.

  ‘I am sure I am just worrying too much,’ she said. ‘But I am not sure how this works exactly. You said you would talk to the other benchers of the Middle Temple and try to convince them that Ben and I have a serious relationship. But where would this happen? Can Ben and I be present? Can we say something, talk to them ourselves, so that we can explain the situation?’

  Bernard sipped his Armagnac thoughtfully.

  ‘They have convened a committee,’ he replied, after some time, ‘which means that they want to handle the situation relatively formally. I will arrange for Ben to appear in front of them – with me as his advocate, of course. I would imagine that will take some time to arrange, but that is a good sign. I am not going to press them. I don’t think we should send the signal that we are anxious about it, or regard it as anything urgent. And the more time they have to think about it, the
more opportunity they have to reflect on what they are doing and come to their senses.’

  Amélie and Jess exchanged glances.

  ‘But Jess will also be there, at the hearing, of course?’ Amélie asked uncertainly.

  Bernard seemed uncomfortable. ‘No, I don’t think so,’ he replied. ‘Technically, this will be a disciplinary hearing against Ben. Jess is not a member of the Inn, and so they cannot accuse her of doing anything wrong. Technically, it doesn’t concern her.’

  ‘But this affects Jess also,’ Amélie protested. ‘It affects her future, and the future of the man she loves. Of course it concerns her.’

  ‘I said “technically”,’ Bernard replied. ‘Of course it concerns Jess, and if the committee want to hear from her, they will let us know. But I don’t think they will. I would prefer to keep this as simple as possible. I would like both Ben and Jess to prepare a short written statement, just to set out the history of the relationship: how they met; the fact that Barratt was already sending Ben work before they met; their plans for the future, and so on. Ben will be there to answer any questions.’

  Ben looked at Jess. She seemed pale and was looking down. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Amélie, it has been a delightful evening,’ he said. ‘Dinner was wonderful. But we have to drive back to Islington. We should really be going.’

  ‘Of course,’ Amélie replied, getting to her feet. ‘I am so glad you could come.’

  She walked over to Jess and put her arms gently around her. At first she sensed Jess pulling away, but she held her in the hug for some moments and eventually felt her relax into it, and then felt a tear on her shoulder. She kissed Jess on the cheek, not a quick social kiss but a lingering, fond one, with understanding.

  ‘Ne t’inquiète pas,’ she said, ‘ça va se passer bien. It will be all right.’

  Jess nodded. Stepping back, she opened her handbag, took out a white lace handkerchief and dried her eyes.

  ‘I am here,’ Amélie said, ‘any time you want to talk.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Jess replied.

  * * *

  They drove back to Canonbury in silence. As ever, she drove skilfully and navigated her way effortlessly through the rain, past the dim street lamps and the faint black-and-white directional signs. But there was a hint of anger in her driving: in her acceleration away from traffic lights the instant they changed to green; in her unusually aggressive overtaking; and in the sharpness of her turns. Ben sat passively in the passenger seat, waiting for an opening to break the silence in a meaningful way. It never came.

  She pulled up in front of his flat, put the car in neutral and engaged the hand brake, but did not switch off the ignition. She allowed her head to sink onto her hands in the middle of the steering wheel. Eventually, she raised her head, and turned to look at him.

  ‘I am going back my place tonight,’ she said.

  The words filled him with terror. Losing her was a nightmare that sometimes haunted his dreams. Never in these dreams had he been able to imagine how he would cope without her. He loved her completely. But he felt her withdrawing from him, and he felt powerless to prevent it.

  ‘Jess, please,’ he began, ‘I know you’re angry, but …’

  ‘Angry? Why should I be angry? Just because you and Bernard Wesley are going to huddle together in private with those old men in the Middle Temple and then tell me whether I am allowed to be in love with a member of your secret society?’

  ‘It won’t be like that.’

  ‘Oh? That’s what I heard Bernard say, Ben. I won’t be there while my future is decided. It’s a technical matter. You are the only one involved. You will let me know what happened after it is all over.’

  ‘Jess, if you would listen to me for a moment. It’s all right.’

  ‘No, Ben,’ she replied firmly. ‘It is not all right. It is not all right that I can’t say a word in my own defence. It is not all right that they treat me like someone who doesn’t even matter.’

  She felt tears welling up again and grabbed the handkerchief from her handbag.

  ‘It is not all right, and I don’t know what to do about it.’

  He tried to put his arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged it off.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘You didn’t say a word about it.’

  ‘What could I say?’

  ‘You could have … oh, I don’t know … something, anything; something to show me that you at least care.’

  He exhaled heavily.

  ‘Jess, look, we are both very tired. Switch the engine off and come upstairs. We will talk tomorrow, and I promise I will find a way to make this right.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I need some time,’ she replied. ‘I am going back to Covent Garden tonight.’

  Reluctantly, he opened the car door and began to get out, then he turned back.

  ‘Well, can I at least call you?’

  She threw her hands in the air. ‘Yes, call me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know, Ben. I need some time to be by myself and think this through.’

  His heart was cold with fear as he closed the door. He watched until she turned the corner and was out of sight.

  15

  Monday, 12 April

  It was almost 10 o’clock when Ben set out at a brisk pace to walk the short distance from the station along New Street to the magnificent Victorian Burlington Hotel. The journey to Birmingham had involved an early train from Euston, but he had timed it well, and was a few minutes early for his meeting. It had not been an easy appointment to arrange. B H Wood, the founder and editor of Chess, a popular and successful magazine, was a busy man. But the name of Sir James Digby had engaged his attention, and he had eventually agreed to meet Ben for an hour to offer some insight into the world of chess, and Ben’s client in particular.

  Ben was not feeling at his best. He had not had a great deal of sleep over the last week. After Jess’s abrupt departure for Covent Garden on the Saturday night, now some nine days ago, he had felt alone and abandoned. He had spent much of that night lying wide awake on top of his bed, until he fell into an uneasy shallow slumber as dawn was approaching. Sunday was a little better, but not much. He felt listless, and tried calling her number repeatedly, but she did not answer. He felt that he was doing everything he could to resolve the suspicion of touting. What did she expect of him? The possibility that he might have lost her through some, God only knew what, careless word, preyed on his mind. He tried to concentrate on books he had borrowed from Islington public library, one dealing with the history of chess and one offering a basic introduction to the rules and strategy of the game, illustrated by a few games played by the great masters. There were also copies of articles written by Professor Francis R Hollander, which Jess had left after her latest research expedition to the libraries at LSE and King’s College, and which he had hoped to read before the next conference with Sir James Digby. But his mind was wandering, and he found himself unable to focus for more than one or two minutes at a time. In mid-afternoon he gave up and walked aimlessly around his flat, snacking on instant coffee and biscuits, until he collapsed into bed shortly before midnight and finally managed a few hours of sleep. It was a pattern which was to repeat itself during the week. Each morning, the shrill ring of his alarm clock roused him in time to get ready for court. But he could find little enthusiasm for the work. Mercifully, Merlin had found him some simple enough cases in the county court, which did not tax his brain to any real extent, but they had nonetheless proved to be as much as he could focus on. After court, he declined drinks with members of chambers, and made his way back to his flat. This morning and the night that preceded it had passed just like the others – with Ben snatching at sleep until the alarm warned that it was time to get up and prepare for his excursion to Birmingham.

  Wood was waiting for him at
a corner table in the hotel’s fine lobby. He stood as Ben approached, and they shook hands. Wood was tall and well built, dressed in a brown sports jacket and slacks, with a green and white chequered open-necked shirt. His dark hair was beginning to thin, but he had a ready smile, and there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting too long, Mr Wood,’ Ben said.

  ‘Not at all. I’ve just arrived.’

  ‘Good. It was kind of you to meet me here, so close to the station.’

  ‘I am based in Sutton Coldfield,’ Wood replied with a smile. ‘But no one ever knows where Sutton Coldfield is. Everyone seems to get hopelessly lost trying to find me. It is easier to meet in the city centre.’

  ‘Well, I appreciate it. How long have you been producing Chess?’

  A waiter approached, and they ordered coffee.

  ‘I started the magazine in 1935,’ Wood replied, ‘so it’s been about thirty years now.’

  ‘That must have been quite an undertaking.’

  Wood laughed. “Yes, you could say that. It was a gamble at the time. There was no way to predict whether it would be successful or not. I have been fortunate, but I suppose I give chess players what they want – some good games to play through, and a way of keeping up with the news.’

  ‘What led you to do it?’

  ‘It was a way of making a living from chess. This is a dilemma which haunts every strong British chess player. I know I have the ability to play at the top level, but I can only realise that ambition if I can devote enough time to the game – which means becoming a professional.’

  ‘But there is no way to make a living just by playing?’ Ben asked.