At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – Julia?!

  – I’m sorry.

  – Have you been listening to me at all?

  – I drifted. I’m sorry.

  Antonia sensed weakness in this distraction and, perhaps out of some intuition, returned to the theme that really interested her.

  – I know we have very different tastes in men. And you know what I think of Jeremy. But I am surprised that you wouldn’t think of having an affair with anyone. Surely the thought must have crossed your mind?

  – Antonia!

  – I mean, we’re good friends after all. And we have no secrets. I tell you what is going on in my mind. Is it really the truth that you’ve never thought of straying? I mean straying in a quiet way. One that wouldn’t be found out? On one level I don’t think that Jeremy would mind if you did. He’s so old! It must have crossed your mind?

  – You know my views on these things. You shouldn’t equate my feelings with yours.

  Again Julia shuddered at the reproof implicit in what she had said. But Antonia ploughed on as if she hadn’t understood (though surely she had).

  – I’ve set myself a little puzzle. Just to while away the time. Who would you have an affair with if you were given the chance? I thought about Preston. But then again he is rather creepy. And if he said he loved you it would be like moving his queen across the chessboard. Storman’s too in love with his wife. Perkins? Now I wondered about Perkins but ultimately I think he is a bit of a bean-counter. Then I thought of Falling. I’ve always thought he was rather good-looking. But on the other hand, he smells of failure. And of death. So I couldn’t see any obvious candidates within Jeremy’s chambers.

  – You do talk such nonsense.

  – So I began thinking about Jeremy’s other friends. But they are all so old and predictable.

  – Julia moved the question back to her friend:

  – So you want an affair but you have given me no clue to who it might be that you are thinking of.

  – I just want to hold someone. I want to be comforted in the cold. I don’t want anyone bringing baggage along.

  – Have you thought of the consequences?

  – I think that’s all that’s stopping you. I never thought you would be so … so … conventional, Julia. I thought that you wouldn’t let that sort of thing get in the way of happiness…

  – I didn’t think you were expecting happiness?

  – You know what I mean. We could both be dead in days. Why carry on as we do?

  – I feel very old. I have my children. I’m married. I made promises.

  And she let the conversation die, suddenly incurious as to Antonia’s agenda, as to what Antonia would say or think if she knew the truth. Her earlier thoughts once more intruded and she thought again of Adam’s note. The watermark. Jeremy had commissioned the paper himself. It was unique – something metallic in the letter “P” that allowed it to survive fire. She could not see Adam again. But she would have to. Just one more time. Everything was crumbling.

  Chapter Twelve

  (18th December 1940)

  Bateman’s face was framed irregularly behind shoulders and elbows. The fug of cigarette smoke descended around him like a mist so that he was seen in soft focus. He was talking and laughing and every so often his arm, in loud pinstripe, raised a pint glass to his mouth. Jackson, breathless, was too far away to hear what he was saying over the chatter – or to whom he was saying it. Bateman’s face had a sheen on it suggesting one too many, and he had the air of one enjoying a private joke in public. It was too risky to get any closer but, with any luck, he would soon be able to make out the man’s companion.

  He felt the familiar thrill of the chase. He had been tailing Bateman for several weeks now but the little man had given him nothing. Usually he would moon about after work, having the odd drink in one of two or three pubs before going home, and staying home. But in the last few days, since the weekend really, he had been going all over the place from pub to pub. Never staying for more than one, or at most, two drinks in each. It was as though he wanted to try each pub in London before it was bombed out of existence. The effects of the blackout and the need for Jackson to remain inconspicuous had meant that on Monday and Tuesday evenings he had lost him either on the third or the fourth pub and been obliged, after one or two inconsequential drinks in other pubs, to resume surveillance outside Bateman’s home. Somehow, he couldn’t work out how, Bateman had already been at home by the time he had got to the little house in Seven Kings. Bateman complied with the blackout regulations and so it was impossible to see whether he was there alone or in company. Jackson had been around long enough to recognise the air of anticipation in a man, and that Bateman definitely had. It was just a matter of time before he got a proper sight of the woman.

  He felt for the small black and white photograph in his pocket. He did not need to take it out. He could picture Victoria’s dimples with his eyes shut. And, of course, he knew what she looked like – he had followed her more than once. After a while he had realised that she was a more difficult person to trail even than Bateman was. Instead, now, he relied on McKechnie to tell him of her movements. And her movements were irregular. Not surprising, he thought: the atmosphere at home with her husband would not have been easy. At home? Not really: they had been bombed out early in the German onslaught and so were staying with a family near to where their own home had been. That couldn’t have been much of an encouragement for her to stay at home either. He knew that, when he reported back to McKechnie, his client would confirm that Victoria had not been with him that evening. Now, if he could just get a confirmed sighting of Victoria with Bateman he would have the beginnings of the evidence that Pemberton would need.

  Keeping his pint glass close to his mouth, he focused again on Bateman across the other side of the bar. He was sure he himself hadn’t been spotted. The shifting crowd of people between him and his man made it difficult to keep him in sight, but he was determined not to lose him this time. It was Bateman’s fourth pub of the evening and he was beginning to look quite drunk. Perhaps, on this occasion, he would give himself away. And all the while Jackson was aware that there was someone with Bateman, just out of sight. Bateman’s face was angled towards him, so the woman (it must be a woman) would be angled away. He just needed one or more people to get out of the way and he would be able to see her. He didn’t want to wait until they made to leave, as he had taken the precaution this time, and at the other pubs earlier that evening, to station himself by the main door. It meant that Bateman couldn’t give him the slip so easily. But it also made it increasingly likely that he would be noticed. He prided himself on not being noticed.

  And then his luck changed. A large man who had been obscuring his view moved out of the way and he was able to see Bateman’s companion. She had her back to him but he was able at once to make out her halo of golden hair. He was in business. Although she was standing it was impossible fully to guess at her height, but he would put it at about five foot six. She was responding to Bateman’s jokes and she threw her head back at one of his punchlines. He found himself mentally preparing his report and the usual warm glow of professional pride in a job well done descended upon him:

  “On the evening of Wednesday 18th December 1940 I followed a man I know to be Arnold Bateman over a period of about two hours. Mr Bateman went first into the Crown and Sceptre where he had two pints of beer. As far as I could ascertain he was alone at that time. Mr Bateman then left the Crown and Sceptre and made his way by an indirect route to another public house, the Mitre, about five hundred yards away. I was able to follow him unnoticed. Here he had only one pint of beer. From here he moved on and, again taking a roundabout route, made his way to the Eagle where he stayed for a pint and a half of beer. I was again able to follow him unnoticed. Finally, at about 9.30 p.m. Mr Bateman entered the Rising Sun public house. This was a very crowded place and observation was difficult but I was able to ascertain that Mr Bateman was with another party. Eventually, the c
rowd cleared a little and I was able to get a clear sighting of Mr Bateman’s companion. It was a woman about five foot six in height. She had blonde shoulder-length hair. And I am now able to confirm that she was Victoria McKechnie, a person whom I have been directed to in the past and whom I recognised from previous sightings and from her photograph, a copy of which I attach to this statement …”

  But it wasn’t Victoria.

  As he was making his mental note to himself the woman had turned so that he could see her. He could have sworn that she had looked directly at him but that was probably a trick of the light and the cigarette smoke. She was laughing. Although from behind it could have been Victoria, when he saw her face full on it was more than apparent that she was not the person he had expected her to be. She was looking directly at him. He tried to look impassive, and concentrated on his pint, using it to shield the lower half of his face, and his low-brimmed hat to conceal the rest of him. Bateman’s mouth was wide open in his red face and his shoulders were heaving. He must have been laughing loudly but the din of the pub drowned out the sound.

  ****

  Bateman raised his pint glass to his lips again and took a large gulp. Silently, he toasted Adam Falling. He obviously wasn’t as bad as he had feared. On Monday morning he had telephoned Jones and given him a precise description of Jackson to pass on to his client. He had suggested, perhaps mischievously, that it would do Bateman’s case no real harm if we were to lay a few false trails. Bateman had set to, taking peculiar pleasure in watching the big man in the low-brimmed hat trying to avoid his eyes when they passed near one another, or, looking behind him down the dark streets, seeing the large shadow of a man trying to press himself out of sight along the walls as he followed. On the first two nights an extended pub crawl was sufficient to amuse him. On the Wednesday night he had the brilliant idea of arranging to meet someone with a passing resemblance to Victoria. He had plenty of money to play with, and if he could increase McKechnie’s bills from the enquiry agent and have a little fun himself, then why not?

  No. Falling wasn’t such a fool. He just wished that he hadn’t started getting so interested in how, where and when his wife had died.

  Chapter Thirteen

  (Thursday 19th December 1940)

  Bateman took great pleasure in reporting his movements back to Jones, who in turn passed them onto Adam. He would have been less impressed with his barrister if he had known that Adam had his own reasons for keeping Jackson as busy as possible and a long way from him and from the Temple. For his part, Adam found grim amusement in the fact that his solicitor and his client were effectively keeping tabs on the man who had been trying to follow him.

  He was sticky and dirty, his mouth as stale as an ashtray. By the time the “all clear” had sounded it was impossible to get home, so he had taken advantage of one of the bachelor flats over 2 Dr Johnson’s Buildings. The owner had been away for some months although no one knew precisely where. He had notified the Inn that his flat would be available to whomsoever might need it to help the war effort. A small bedroom with limited facilities. There had been no hot water and, with little access to the black market, he had no razor blades. How had he sweated so much when it was only a week to Christmas? His shirt stuck to him and he was overly conscious of the shadow of growth on his face. He had made his excuses by telephone to Catherine, but she had been monosyllabic in reply. He had washed his hair in cold water from the basin and it had dried awkwardly, giving him a Mohican aspect. Fortunately, he was not busy and did not expect to see any clients that day.

  He had bumped into Pemberton on the stairs. He, as always, looked immaculate.

  – No blades, Adam? Have a word with Arthur. I’ll sub you. Can’t have you seeing clients like that.

  – Thanks, Jeremy. Got caught out by the sirens. My razor is at home.

  He didn’t want his Head of Chambers to know he had no access to shaving materials.

  – I’m unemployed today so that shouldn’t be a problem.

  – Speak to Arthur … Didn’t get home to Catherine last night? Tongues will be wagging. What have you been up to?

  Adam told him, in as prosaic a way as possible, emphasising that he had been alone.

  – Ruddy war! Julia was out late last night as well. But perhaps you knew that? Didn’t get back until after ten. Don’t know why. Wasn’t much bombing around our way. Don’t really see the point of documenting the bombs – I’m sure you know that’s what she’s up to; once they’ve fallen they’ve fallen. We’ve got to get on. It’s like this Mass Observation nonsense.

  – I didn’t know. I didn’t know anyone was doing that. I’m sure there are good reasons for it. Was she all right?

  – Perfectly. Kept me up half the night talking about her children … but I’m sure it must be the same for you and Catherine and … and …

  – Deborah.

  – Ah yes, Deborah.

  – We do worry. It’s not seeing her that is so difficult. I think Catherine feels it more keenly than I do.

  – Jenny is in London, which is a comfort. I don’t think she takes this war nearly as seriously as she should. But, I suppose she is still under twenty. Joan and I had such plans for her season. Not quite what we had anticipated. Then, we had thought Joan would be there for her season, and that didn’t happen either.

  – We’re going up to Suffolk next week so that we can at least spend Christmas together.

  – Splendid! Julia has decided that we should bring the children back over Christmas and the New Year, so we shall all be in London. It makes it easier for her to keep up her “war work”. Her children should stay evacuated as far as I’m concerned.

  – Maybe they’ll give up on bombing London?

  – Oh. I don’t think so, Adam. Talk to Preston. They’ll be back in force. He’s right about the need to evacuate. I’ve tried to get Julia to join them but she won’t. Don’t know what’s keeping her here.

  – Well. It’s less than a week to Christmas. That’s something to look forward to.

  – Yes. Christmas. But, between you and me, Adam, I think the New Year is going to be infinitely more exciting. I don’t think you or I will forget 1941! Give my regards to Catherine … and Deborah.

  – And mine to … to Julia … and the children and to Jenny.

  – Merry Christmas, Adam.

  And he slipped off up the stairs and into his room. It had been the first time he had seen Pemberton since their uncomfortable interview on the Monday. In truth, he had been doing his best to sneak in and out of Chambers unseen. It was now 10 a.m. Adam felt for the note in his pocket with a mixture of pleasure and consternation. He couldn’t bring himself to borrow a razor from Arthur, and in any event there was the problem with his hair. It was a waste of money and something he had never done before but he decided to go to the barber’s for a shave. That meant going to his bank in Chancery Lane and a paying-out slip. If he was having the cut-throat applied to his neck, it was little added cost to have his hair cut and washed.

  ****

  Afterwards he felt considerably smarter and less self-conscious about his old suit and smelly shirt, and he turned to the matter in hand. Bateman was proving very difficult about a fairly innocent request on his part. He had slept very little over the previous six weeks. It was, primarily, Julia. His thoughts of her were like a ball bearing rolling round and round and across a baking tray. Why wouldn’t she speak with him? What was she holding back? What had he done or said? Had someone said something against him, and if so, who? Was she seeing someone else? The thoughts rattled and rolled in his head. But in the gaps, in the silence when the ball bearing was still, other thoughts troubled him. It was something Bateman had said:

  – Died three months ago. Run over by a car during the blackout. Found out she died when I got back from work.

  He’d been thinking about this. His first thoughts were embarrassment. It was Jones’s fault. He should have briefed him on her death. Then he found himself thinking about Batem
an’s … Bateman’s matter-of-factness. Whilst it was not relevant to the forensic process Adam, in his own mind, was convinced that Bateman was having an affair with Victoria McKecknie. And something did not ring true about what Bateman said. “Three months ago.” September 1940? “Run over during the blackout.” British Summer Time. When would the sun have gone down? “Found out she died when I got back from work.” He works in an insurance office. What time did he finish work? How long would it have taken Bateman to get home?

  – Poor Bateman. His dear wife is lying dead in the road and he’s in bed with Mrs McKechnie.

  Pemberton’s throw-away comment had awoken him to the potential significance of Mrs Bateman’s death. Finding out the time and place of her death had been easy. Bateman could not easily avoid surrendering that information. Two days after the Blitz began. There would have been an inquest. If Bateman was telling him the truth the evidence at the inquest could have been decisive. The obvious thing to do was to commission the inquest notes. Bateman had the money to pay for a copy-typist to prepare a record of them. There was a lot at stake financially for him. If he was to be believed, there was no truth in the case against him, yet when he asked Jones over the phone to get Bateman’s approval for a transcript it was not forthcoming. Bateman, apparently, had become angry. Jones had phoned him back with the news: