by Peter Murphy
‘Yes, I think so,’ Gareth replied. ‘He seemed happy. I don’t think he expected too much of this case, what with Little being a clergyman of good character. It was always going to be an uphill battle, and I don’t think the verdict came as a complete surprise. Yes, I think he is serious about coming to us, and I should think Merlin will be able to sell you to him without too much trouble after your work for Mr Little.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, I have already put in a good word.’
‘Thank you,’ Ben said, raising his glass.
‘Ben, you said some time ago that you wanted to talk about your being taken on in Chambers. What was it you wanted to know, exactly?’
Ben put his glass down on the small side table by his chair. He hesitated.
‘I suppose I wanted to know why, how it happened.’
Gareth smiled.
‘It happened because you were elected unanimously by the members of Chambers.’
Ben returned the smile. ‘Yes. But it was all so odd – or so it seemed to me. There was a time when you seemed sure that Chambers wanted to take on both Harriet and me, that there would be enough work for all of us. And then something happened, and you didn’t talk about it for a long time, and I got the sense that it would be just Harriet. It wasn’t until Merlin came through to the pupils’ room after the Chambers meeting that I knew I had been elected, and at that point I was in shock. I had been sure it was over. I was all ready to gather up my things and move on. I didn’t know whether it was Anthony Norris, or something to do with whatever was going on in Chambers.’
Gareth nodded. He stood and re-filled both their glasses.
‘I quite understand your confusion,’ he replied. ‘It was a confusing time.’ He paused. ‘All right. I will tell you what I know. But I don’t know everything. The only person who knows everything is Bernard Wesley, and if he hasn’t told me, he won’t tell you. And it’s probably right that he should not tell either of us the whole story. It involves some rather delicate matters. If the full story were known, even now, it would not do Chambers any good. So, be discreet with this.’
‘Of course,’ Ben said.
‘You know about Clive Overton, of course – his history at Cambridge. We talked about it the other day.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you know that his father, Miles, had sent him to America, with instructions not to darken our shores again. But then Kenneth Gaskell got himself involved in a messy divorce case, Bernard leading him and Miles Overton leading Ginny Castle on the other side.’
‘Yes. I know the case settled rather abruptly. Kenneth and Anne were married, and the husband got access to Simon, which was what he really wanted out of it.’
‘All perfectly true,’ Gareth agreed. ‘What you probably didn’t know was that Kenneth and Anne had known each other for years. They grew up close to each other in Surrey, and there was apparently some mutual attraction between them, which rekindled during the case.’
Ben sat back in his chair.
‘Yes. I need hardly tell you that this is the part that you should be discreet about. They began a relationship, assuming that they had an overwhelming case against the husband and that he would fold, and the case would go away, very quickly. Unfortunately, they reckoned without Miles and Ginny and a rather enterprising local solicitor who set a private detective on them.’
Ben exhaled sharply.
‘Yes, photographs and all, so I understand, though I haven’t seen them, of course. Anyway, to make a long story short, Miles and Ginny drafted a cross-petition, alleging adultery against Anne and Kenneth, which they threatened to serve and proceed with, unless Bernard agreed to capitulate. They gave him seven days to think about it. Bernard’s instructing solicitor was Herbert Harper of Harper, Sutton & Harper. You met Herbert a number of times when you were my pupil; you know how much work he sends to Chambers, so you can imagine how he reacted to it.’
‘Bernard told him everything?’
‘Of course. He had no choice. Herbert knew what a strong case of cruelty they had against the husband. There could be no explanation for caving in and giving him everything he wanted. Predictably, Herbert wanted Kenneth’s head on a silver platter and he was on the point of removing all his work from Chambers.’
Ben shook his head. ‘That would have been…’
‘A disaster, yes. It would have been the end of Chambers. It wasn’t just a question of Herbert’s work, though God knows that alone would have been a huge blow. But if Herbert removed his work it would only be a matter of time before all our other solicitors asked themselves why, and the whole story would have leaked out sooner or later – probably sooner. It would have been the end and, of course, Miles Overton knew that only too well.’
Gareth saw that Ben had almost finished his whisky and, without asking, refilled both their glasses.
‘From that point forward, Ben, my knowledge is patchy. I know that Bernard went up to Cambridge to see Harriet’s father. Both he and Miles had been at his college, of course, as had Clive, until his university career ended so abruptly. Bernard did not tell me what they discussed, but I remember that when he got back, his spirits seemed to have revived. He had been completely devastated after his meeting with Herbert, almost ready to give up, it seemed to me. But when he returned from Cambridge he was a new man. He wouldn’t tell me what was going on. But he asked me – well, ordered me, would be a better way of putting it – to do two things. The first was that, when he asked me, I was to accept a pupil without question. He wouldn’t tell me who, at the time, but…’
‘Clive Overton,’ Ben said.
‘Yes.’
‘What was the second thing?’
Gareth took a long time to reply.
‘Bernard ordered me to make sure Harriet was offered a tenancy in Chambers, regardless of what I had to do to make it happen.’
‘Regardless…’
‘Ben, I swear, I didn’t think there would be the slightest difficulty. Chambers had been talking about taking you both on for some time. I had been pushing the idea that there was more than enough work – and I was right. Aubrey didn’t object as long as Harriet got in, of course. Kenneth had been banished from London with instructions to do whatever Bernard told him to do. Peter and Roger could be persuaded easily enough. But I ran into a problem…’
‘Anthony Norris,’ Ben said quietly.
‘Yes. Ben, it wasn’t what you think. It wasn’t because you were Jewish. He had talked about that in the past, but that was before your win at the Old Bailey. For some reason, he seemed to have set his face against taking you both. But he actually told me that, if it came to a choice, he would choose you over Harriet. Of course, that put me in the position of having to speak out for Aubrey’s pupil instead of my own. I had a drink with Aubrey and Anthony at the Club, and I still remember the look they gave me when I told them where I stood: that I preferred to take you both, but that if it came to a choice, I would have to choose Harriet. I remember desperately wanting to tell them why, to tell them what was going on. But I couldn’t. Bernard had demanded total confidentiality. And there it was. It was agreed.’
He paused to take a deep draught of his whisky.
‘I hated doing it, Ben, I want you to know that. I told Bernard that we had to find you a place elsewhere if we couldn’t take you, and I want you to believe that he agreed immediately, and that we would have done so. It was just that…’
‘You had other concerns,’ Ben replied in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘I understand that, Gareth. Of course, you had to do whatever it took to save Chambers.’
‘After I had secured agreement for Harriet, Bernard had a meeting with Miles and everything was resolved. In due course Clive arrived in Chambers as my pupil.’
He sat back in his chair.
‘And that, Ben, is all I know.’
Ben stared, open-mouthed.
‘But
in that case, how was I elected? How…?’
‘I honestly haven’t the faintest bloody idea,’ Gareth replied. ‘Bernard proposed you himself immediately after we had elected Harriet. I was stunned. I hadn’t expected it, and I am quite sure that no one else expected it. Bernard didn’t give me any warning. But he proposed you, and made it fairly clear that he would regard it as unacceptable if you were not elected. I seconded the motion, of course, and it was carried unanimously. I can only assume that, for whatever reason – whether because he was intimidated by Bernard on the day, or because he thought it was the right thing to do or, knowing Anthony, just on a whim – Anthony changed his mind. I remember that there was a kind of collective sigh of relief when he put his hand up. But as to why, Ben, your guess is as good as mine.’
He drained his glass.
‘I’m sorry that I have had to tell you such an awful tale, Ben – especially on a day when you have had such a notable success. But perhaps it’s the best day to tell you because, after all, none of that matters now. All that matters is that you are a member of Chambers and you are doing well. And the next time we meet to decide whether to take on a new tenant, you and Harriet will be there voting with us.’
Ben nodded. He put his glass down and left after wishing Gareth a good night.
30
21 June
Martin Hardcastle checked into his room at the George Hotel in Huntingdon at about 4 o’clock on Sunday afternoon, the day before the trial of Billy Cottage was due to begin. He was aware that Ben Schroeder and Barratt Davis were not planning to arrive until early evening, bringing with them all the case papers and a supply of notebooks and pens. He preferred to establish himself in his room before they arrived, so that he could make the arrangements he needed to make with the hotel staff without the risk of being overheard. A young man called John was assigned to carry Martin’s bags and robes upstairs to his room. Martin had requested this particular room because it was situated at the far end of the corridor, to the right on the first floor of the hotel. As a result, instead of overlooking the High Street or the courtyard, the view was limited to a short terrace of rather ugly cottages on George Street. The view was of no concern to Martin Hardcastle. What mattered was that he was away from the hustle and bustle of the hotel, the endless comings and goings of guests and staff.
John was 18 years of age. He had short ginger hair and an unprepossessing appearance. His nose was short and stubbed and his face had not yet quite shed the last pimply blotches of adolescence. He was slightly built, but the effortless manner in which he carried heavy items up and down the steep staircase bore witness to a strength which the awkward angular shape of his body did not suggest. John trained hard in his spare time. He was a promising amateur inside right, and still harboured dreams of playing at a higher level. Martin noted the strength as he watched John carefully deposit the bags by the large wardrobe which stood against the wall opposite the bed.
John was turning to leave. Martin already had the ten pound note in his hand and, without actually offering it, was making no effort to conceal it.
‘The name’s John, is it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘How long have you worked at the George, John?’
The answer appeared to require some thought. ‘About a year, sir.’
‘A year. I see. Then you probably know by now the importance of discretion. You look like a trustworthy young man to me. Can you be trusted to be discreet, John?’
John grinned. ‘Yes, sir.’ It was true. John had kept quite a few secrets during his time at the George, all related to finding people in rooms who should not have been there and who, when found, were not wearing much by way of clothing. And at his football club he was practising discretion by keeping quiet about the thing between his coach and the centre half’s wife, which was now entering its second season.
Martin extended his arm slightly, bringing the ten-pound note into clearer view. John could not keep from grinning.
‘I know what you’re thinking. But it’s nothing like that, I assure you. What I would like from you, John, is room service. I shall take my breakfast and dinner in my room each day during my stay, and I should like you to bring my meals to me. In addition, I will sometimes require a bottle of Bell’s whisky, for which I shall pay in cash. I require a bottle this evening, and there may be other evenings when I require the same. In addition, I require that you bring it to me without attracting any attention either to me or to the bottle. Finally, I require your discretion in not answering any questions you may be asked about me, by other members of staff or anyone else, and in reporting to me any questions that are asked. I have a number of associates who will be checking into the hotel later. Naturally, I will spend some time downstairs with my associates, and I will be in and out of the hotel during the day. Do not pay any special attention to me at those times.’ He paused. The grin had vanished. ‘Do you understand everything that I have said?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Martin extended his arm fully, proffering the ten pound note. John’s hand closed around the note but, as he tried to pull it towards him, Martin tightened his grip.
‘One moment,’ he said. ‘This is for you, and there will be others where that came from, but first I need to know whether we have an agreement.’
John put a finger over his lips. ‘Yes, sir. We have an agreement.’
Martin smiled brightly and released his grip on the note.
‘Excellent.’ He reached into his pocket for a further note. ‘Then you may bring the bottle now, and I will arrange dinner later.’
31
22 June
‘Where’s my main barrister?’ Billy Cottage asked. It was a reasonable question. Billy had met his QC only once, on the occasion of a conference at Bedford Gaol. Barratt Davis had assured him repeatedly that Martin Hardcastle would be fully attentive to the case. Yet, here he was at the Huntingdon Summer Assize; his trial was about to begin; and so far he had seen only his junior counsel and his solicitor. It was not helping that the cell in which Billy was confined was small and claustrophobic. It was on the outside wall of the building in a small corridor at the rear of Court 1. Paul, the usher, who liked to think of himself as a friend and confidant of Ben Schroeder and Barratt Davis now that they were in their second trial in his court, had cleared the corridor for them so that they could confer with Billy through the bars, and not make matters worse by crowding into the cell.
‘Mr Hardcastle will be here shortly,’ Barratt replied. ‘It’s the first day of the assize and he has a ceremonial duty to perform as Queen’s Counsel.’
‘The assize begins with a service at the parish church,’ Ben added, ‘with everyone in full regalia. After the service, the judge processes across the square to the court with his chaplain, the mayor, the sheriff, and Uncle Tom Cobley and all. The judge asked Mr Hardcastle to join the procession. As a QC he could not really say “no”. There’s nothing unusual about it. There is always a lot of fuss on the first day of the assize. Don’t worry, he will be here to see you once all that is over. The trial won’t begin straight away, in any case. There are some more ceremonial things to do in court, and then the judge has a plea of guilty to deal with, and a civil matter which has settled. They also have to sort the jury panel out, so it will be some time before they are ready for us. I know it’s not very comfortable here. It’s an old building…’
Billy had stopped listening. His understanding of the world had reached its limits with all the talk of church services and full regalia, processions in which his QC was obliged to join with his judge, the mayor and all the rest of them. These were things which did not impinge on his world. His only previous experience of court was his appearance before the magistrates, which had lasted less than half an hour. What had this to do with a trial in which they would decide whether or not he would hang? For that matter, what did Ben Schroeder’s wig and gown have to do wi
th it? It was all a million miles away from the Fenstanton lock. The lock, he understood – understood it better than any man living. He understood Eve and he understood his house. Beyond those limits he was a stranger. And being a stranger was an uncomfortable feeling. All he wanted was to get back to his lock and his house; to get back to Eve. Why couldn’t they just get it over with instead of having services and processions? He had been waiting months already. Get it over with. Suddenly those words brought back the reality of his situation in sharp focus. His vision narrowed. He started to sweat and felt faint. He sat down on the narrow bench at the back of his cell. It seemed to have become darker, and the old refrain filled his head again…
When I was bound apprentice in famous Lincolnshire,
Full well I served my master for nigh on seven years
‘Let’s see if we can get him some water’, Barratt said. ‘I will be back in a moment, Billy. Sit forward and hold your head down as low as you can between your hands.’
‘Do you think he will be all right in court?’ Jess asked.
‘He will have to be. It’s always the same in a case like this. They sit in jail pretending it’s never going to happen, and then, suddenly, one day it does. The reality hits them. We will take care of him, Ben, if you want to go outside to wait for Martin.’
Ben nodded and they walked together along the short corridor to the door which led out into the foyer of the Town Hall. Barratt turned to speak to the two prison guards who had taken up their positions outside the door at Paul’s request. Ben saw a familiar figure in wig and gown looking through a window at the front of the building, as if to see whether there was any excitement in the square yet. He smiled and walked over to Andrew Pilkington.
‘Andrew. I see you are prosecuting me again.’
Pilkington turned with a smile. He cut an elegant figure. Well over six feet in height with piercing blue eyes, he eschewed the standard barrister’s three-piece suit with its inhibiting waistcoat in favour of a black double-breasted jacket and dark grey trousers with the suggestion of a white pinstripe.