At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – Bloody cigarettes!

  she said when he had finished.

  – Actually. I think it was the brick dust. He was very brave that night.

  Storman stopped short of telling Catherine of the provisional diagnosis of tuberculosis. It would have been unfair of him to try and evoke sympathy for Adam in the circumstances. A long silence ensued and they each concentrated on their cups of tea. Eventually, Catherine spoke again.

  – I expect you have realised why I needed to see you?

  – Catherine. There are limits to what I can say or do …

  – I know that. There’s no one left now that I can trust. Not one. I have come to you as a friend – not as a lawyer. I don’t expect you to take my part. Just tell me what I should expect. I can work out myself what I must do.

  – Adam asked me to act for him.

  Catherine drew back shocked and began to rise from the table, pulling her coat more tightly around her.

  – I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I should be going …

  – Catherine! Please! No! Stay …

  Storman placed a restraining hand on her arm and caught her before she could stand.

  – I told him I couldn’t act for him. You are both my friends. He told me that the allegations against him were all untrue and that acting for him was not incompatible with my friendship with you. I refused, however …

  – Then you don’t believe his story any more than I do!

  A hint of steel had entered her voice.

  – I didn’t say that, Catherine.

  – Oh, come on! Don’t treat me like an idiot.

  – What am I supposed to do or think? He is a friend, as are you. I have to rely upon what he tells me.

  Storman felt uncomfortable hiding his own doubts in this way but it was the best course that he could see open to him.

  – He’s made a complete fool out of me. I suppose you know that his defence is that he wasn’t seeing Julia but consorting with a prostitute – at great expense – at the Stafford Hotel?

  – I had heard. Yes.

  This was an understatement. Pemberton had taken no steps to hide what he had found and the word was all around the Temple. He could quite understand why Catherine did not want to go in there.

  – What is going to happen?

  – Adam has secured the services of a very good barrister. His name is Blytheway. I understand that he has agreed to act on Adam’s behalf for nothing. Adam is in good hands. If anyone can save him Blytheway can.

  – Will he be looking for a statement from me?

  – I don’t know. If he doesn’t it won’t be out of a failure to consider the position.

  Storman thought about Blytheway. He thought it highly unlikely that he would be so foolish as to involve Catherine in the case.

  – I know you can’t advise me on what I should do. But you can tell me how the case is likely to unfold?

  – Pemberton must show that Adam has committed adultery with Julia. He has pinned all his colours to that mast. Adam showed me the petition – I was there when he was served. A strange man by the name of Jackson turned up in Dr Johnson’s Buildings.

  Catherine remembered her encounter with the man on New Year’s Day.

  – And if he fails to prove adultery with Julia?

  – Then his petition will fail and he will have to pay the legal costs of the exercise. Adam will avoid paying him damages.

  – But Adam’s defence depends upon him proving that he was having a relationship with a prostitute?

  – Yes.

  – And if he is believed? What does his defence do to our marriage?

  Storman had anticipated – and dreaded – this question. There was no way to avoid it. He took a deep breath.

  – Well. He is defending himself against an adultery petition by countering that he has been committing adultery with someone else.

  – And that would give me grounds to divorce him?

  – Yes.

  Storman observed her as she considered this. She had known the answer before she asked the question. He had always thought her more intelligent than Adam; than most of his colleagues at the Bar for that matter. She seemed to shrink into herself as he watched her. He knew she needed little guidance. He calculated that she would work out what to do whether or not he advised her – and that the course he would suggest was for the best for her and for Adam.

  – Look. Catherine. I know I said I couldn’t advise you but I think you’ll work it out for yourself if you haven’t already. My advice to you would be to do nothing for now …

  – Yes. I think I understand.

  – Divorce proceedings are very expensive. If Pemberton succeeds, his petition will also give you grounds to divorce Adam should you choose. If he fails and Adam has gone on record as saying he has had an affair with a prostitute, you would have grounds to divorce Adam … if you should choose.

  – Thank you, Jack. That is what I was beginning to conclude myself. There’s nothing I can do is there?

  – I don’t think there is, Catherine. Pemberton has set a stone rolling down the hill and all we can do now is watch – and try to keep out of its way.

  She finished the last dregs of her tea and reached for her purse.

  – No. Catherine. This is on me. I hope you don’t mind if I ask but are you all right for money?

  – Just about. For now. Adam sent me two five-pound notes through the post. He promised to keep me in funds.

  – Well. If there is anything I can do just let me know. You have my home telephone number?

  – Thank you, Jack. Yes.

  – Margaret knows you might call.

  She rose to leave.

  – How’s Deborah?

  – Well. I think. I miss her, Jack. I want her to come back to London. Do you think it’s safe?

  – No. She’s better off where she is for now.

  – I hope so. I’m not sure. There’s a man on the farm who worries me.

  – What do you mean?

  – Oh. It’s probably nothing. I just miss her that’s all.

  She leant over him and kissed him on the cheek and her delicate perfume drifted over him.

  – Thank you again, Jack. Oh, and how is Adam at the moment?

  – He’s well. He seems to be settling in well at Lamb Building. To be honest I miss his presence at Stirrup Court. But I think I am in a minority on that front.

  – Well. Goodbye, Jack. Please don’t tell Adam that we met.

  – Of course I won’t. Goodbye Catherine.

  The door tinkled as she left. Storman sighed and pushed some pennies across the formica. He had told Catherine what he felt he had to tell her. He had not told her that, as he left Stirrup Court that evening, Adam had been sitting in the Chambers waiting room, an unusually well-polished shoe tapping up and down as he and Jones, his solicitor, waited for a very uncomfortable meeting with Peter Preston KC.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  (Friday 24th January 1941)

  Adam put his wallet back in his pocket and headed up to his hotel room, as the liveried old man behind him pocketed the pound note. But he couldn’t remember the number of his room. The corridors filled with misty smoke, back-lit by blue lightbulbs from the blacked-out over-ground trains.

  The numbers on the hotel room doors had been replaced by metal grilles. He climbed ever higher up the stairs but nothing looked familiar anymore. He paused at an anonymous door and pushed back the grille. At the far end of the room was a small red-faced man in a loud pinstriped jacket with wide lapels. Pinstriped trousers lay round his ankles. Seeing Adam he shuffled over to the door, shouting, “I’m Arnold Bateman. Don’t know what the ‘C’ stands for!” Adam felt hot breath on his face and a rising gorge of fear. He slammed the grille shut and moved on. Blue smoke was rising.

  He reached the next door and cautiously slid back the grille. Catherine was waiting for him with an arm pulled back and a look of fury on her face. She screamed and lunged and he slammed the slat s
hut – but not before an egg sliced through the bars and splattered down his clothing.

  He had no alternative but to carry on trying the doors. Through the next grille he saw Delia, his kitten, swimming in a bowl of fresh milk the size of a sombrero. An empty spotlight shone down on the middle of the room and just beyond that stood Betty with her back to him – an elegant silhouette. He put his key into a conventional lock and entered the room. Betty turned. But it was Julia.

  – Socks had four white paws. This one only has three.

  And then she was Betty again. The kitten climbed out of a bowl of milk that had become the size of a swimming pool. But it was Katya Hoffer who purred at him:

  – You must listen carefully to everything …

  The blue mist coagulated into some sort of shapeless form and started to slide around the room, distracting his attention.

  Now he was sitting down with Betty and she was telling him her story: how her husband, Joe, had gone to Dunkirk to buy her a dolls’ house but the Germans had got there first and so she had to make do with a straw summer hat which he wired up with the lights he was going to put into the dolls’ house, him being an electrician. And she’d put the hat on during the blackout and when Joe turned the switch so that the lights came on a bomb fell on him and killed him, leaving her standing there next to him in a flashing straw hat. But the insurance company wouldn’t pay up because she’d been wearing that hat at the time.

  Adam was about to tell her his story when he heard light footsteps marching towards the spotlight. Tomas Novak stood to attention in the circle of light. There was a shriek from Katya, who ran to him and entwined him in her arms. Then suddenly she was a kitten again rubbing herself up against his calves.

  On the count of three, I will tell you everything. One … two …

  And there was an almighty bang. Novak and the kitten disappeared through the floor. There was a sickening snap and all that remained in the spotlight was a black square hole in the ground and a thick rope, swinging slowly and creaking over the abyss with the weight it carried. Two white hands emerged and Katya pulled herself back into the room.

  – You should have listened more carefully.

  The blue mist coagulated into a human form and shimmered towards him.

  – The evidence. Sweetheart. Always start with the evidence.

  Said Blytheway’s cobalt ghost.

  Then everything went black.

  ****

  Adam had taken at least some of Blytheway’s advice to heart. As well as investing in a new suit and some fresh collarless shirts, he had his hair cut again. The starch of his collar rubbed uncomfortably against his freshly shaved neck. He ran his finger between neck and collar once more to ease the discomfort. It was Friday evening and he and Jones again found themselves waiting to be shown through security at Wandsworth Prison. He thought back to his last visit, just over a month ago, when he was scruffy, hung-over and distracted. When he still had some hope. It seemed so long ago. So much had changed. Nearly all of it for the worse.

  And yet, he felt healthier, albeit weaker. His new suit had been made within days – business was slow in Jermyn Street – and he was wearing it now. The tailor had honoured the ten per cent discount and given him a couple of silk ties as a token of thanks for his custom. Although Blytheway had alluded to a potentially helpful development in his case over a week ago, he had not elucidated further. Instead, nearly all his comments were directed to Adam’s appearance. He chided him on the state of his shoes, and one morning before he headed off to Court he entered Adam’s room with a pair of horsehair shoe brushes and a tin of boot black and insisted that Adam polish his shoes there and then.

  – I’ll bring you some shoe trees this afternoon. You must take better care of your footwear. It’s really embarrassing.

  – I’m sorry, Roly.

  – You can tell a lot about a man by the state of his shoes. I believe those are your only pair. Buy some Church’s and alternate.

  – But they’re very expensive, Roly, and I have spent over twenty pounds already in the last week.

  – One can’t have enough pairs of shoes. I saw you wearing those at the weekend!

  And then he left for Court. The nagging continued, however, whenever he and Adam were in the same room. He drew the line at buying a frock coat and Blytheway seemed, belatedly, to remember how little money Adam actually had and desisted from further scolding. And yet, wearing his new suit and shirt, his tie precisely knotted and his hair neat and in place, he reluctantly recognised that he was beginning to feel better about himself. His new appearance had been invaluable for his awkward meeting with Preston.

  Roly had given him one piece of non-sartorial advice: that he must always concentrate on the evidence (sweetheart) when preparing a case. His insistence on this one point had begun to permeate his dreams. The previous Monday morning, as he came round from a restless sleep and Blytheway’s blue ghost faded into the washed blue of the sky over the Temple Church, he knew he had to re-read the witness statement prepared by Jones for Katya Hoffer. He had cursed to himself when Jones told him that Katya had persuaded him to tell her Novak’s version of events before she gave her own. Her statement was evasive. What did not come across from the document before him was any idea of the sort of person Katya was. Jones, however, had filled him in on this – an erotic kitten. He had plainly been captivated – beguiled – by her. She had dropped her guard only once:

  – But this is stupid. Why should he die because they find old plans in an old house?! …

  Adam had pressed Jones on the words he had written down but he was in no doubt that Katya had said more than she intended. “Old plans”? Why did she use the word “old”? There ought to have been no way that she could know what had been found in Novak’s bedsit. But she had volunteered the fact that plans had been found. And she had gone further. She had described them as old.

  Old plans!

  He could have kicked himself. He had been ostensibly conducting Novak’s case for over a month – protecting him from the gallows – and had taken no steps at all to see the evidence that the prosecution was going to be relying upon! As Defence Counsel surely he should be taking steps to see the plans, the bomb-making instructions, for himself. He had wasted over four weeks and the trial was now less than eight weeks away.

  It had taken only a couple of telephone calls to establish, as he had feared, that Peter Preston KC was prosecuting Counsel. His next call was to Preston himself.

  – Ah, Falling. I wondered when you would get around to contacting me.

  – You knew I was representing Novak?

  – Everyone knows everything about you now, Falling.

  His voice was laced with contempt.

  – I want to see the evidence that the police picked up from Novak’s rooms.

  – Room, dear boy. I take it that you haven’t advised your solicitor to visit the “scene of the crime”.

  – When and where can I see the plans?

  – I really was beginning to think you were going to try and defend this man without any knowledge of the evidence at all.

  – When and where can I see the plans?

  – I take it you and your solicitor have signed the Official Secrets Act?

  – I … I, er …

  – You hadn’t thought of that had you?

  – Of course we will provide the necessary signatures.

  – You’re out of your depth, Falling.

  And so, a meeting had been arranged at Stirrup Court so that Adam and his solicitor could sign the Act, reminding them of the need to abide by its terms when representing Novak, and to see the plans. Preston had received them with cold discourtesy and asked them to wait for Arthur to show them up. Adam forced himself to think of the man’s wandering hands as a defence against this antipathy – Preston’s attempts to get close to his own wife, and to Julia. They were to be allowed to take notes but not to take away the originals.

  Jones looked around the waiting roo
m. It was much as it had been the last time he had been there. The black curtains were still nailed across the window. The same heavily shielded lamp cast shadows over the rows of law books that lined one wall. However, when he had been there in December an irritable Bateman had been sitting next to him and they were waiting to see Adam Falling. Now, scarcely six weeks later, Falling was no longer a member of Stirrup Court – was not even welcome there. Falling was sitting where Bateman had plonked himself. Falling, whom he had never heard of in November 1940, was now his counsel in the Bateman and the Novak trials. Falling was also his client in what was set to be the most high-profile divorce of the legal term, if not the year. And now they were sitting together in the waiting room of Jeremy Pemberton KC’s chambers.

  – I think you’ll regret this retainer, Jones.

  Jones said a silent prayer that they would avoid bumping into Pemberton on the stairs. So far only Jack Storman KC, urgently buttoning his overcoat as he passed, had spotted them as he came out of the Clerks’ Room, but he was in a hurry to get somewhere and did not acknowledge them as he went by. Jones looked over at Adam. Falling was deep in thought, rhythmically tapping a well-polished shoe and turning his blue notebook over and over in his lap. Even through the gloom it was possible to make out the expensive cut of his dark pinstripe, and his cuffs shone white and unfrayed at his wrists. Unusually, he was not smoking, although there was a faint aroma of Woodbines. Jones thought back to their meeting at Wandsworth Prison, Adam distracted and in mental and sartorial disarray. Falling’s appearance had undoubtedly improved significantly after Blytheway’s intervention. But there was something else, and as they waited Jones struggled to put his finger on it.