At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  And with that he was gone.

  Gloom was descending by the time he reached the street. A real peasouper. Under the brown fog of a winter dusk Bateman headed west towards Fetter Lane. He had gone no more than a hundred yards when the air raid sirens began to sound. The same sirens that, several miles away, abruptly ended tea at the Ritz for Julia and Jenny. He kept on going. He was already late. The sun wasn’t due to set until after five forty and blackout did not begin till ten past six, but it was already getting dark. British Winter Time had been suspended yet again but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

  The “all clear” was sounding by the time Bateman, out of breath and sweating, reached Jones’s offices in Fetter Lane. On this occasion he was shown in to his solicitor without delay or fuss. Jones was pacing up and down, his overcoat on and his gloves in his hand.

  – I was beginning to give up on you.

  – Sorry. Difficult to get away.

  The two of them headed down towards Mitre Court. The last time they had gone to see Falling they had picked their way through the rubble on Inner Temple Lane. Since that time, of course, Adam had moved chambers.

  – Blast! Damn! And buggery!

  Bateman picked himself up and kicked the offending masonry.

  – Bloody blackout!

  He dusted down his lapels and thighs. He would have been happier about the darkness, however, if he had realised that at that precise moment McKechnie and his solicitor were picking their way carefully down Inner Temple Lane towards Stirrup Court to see Jeremy Pemberton KC.

  Chapter Forty-three

  (Wednesday 29th January 1941)

  The waiting room at Lamb Building was no more spacious than that in Stirrup Court but far more attractive. Large blackout shades covered the window but someone had decided that they should be backed with a brightly coloured tapestry depicting a medieval lady emerging from a blue canopy covered in stars. The background was a russet colour and she was attended by a lady in waiting. A lion and a snow-white unicorn, holding red banners patterned with crescent moons, knelt in attendance on her. Oriental lamps were placed strategically around the room giving it an understated brightness. There were some law books but the shelves also contained leather bound volumes on the Renaissance, Syria and other esoteric subjects. There was no sign of dust or cobwebs and even the air smelt fresher. They must use different cleaners, thought Bateman.

  If anything the journey down to counsel’s chambers had been more perilous than the last time. There was no moon and the heavy smog obliterated all but the closest obstacles. Bateman had fallen heavily in front of Tanfield Court and skinned his knee. The pain made him let loose another stream of obscenities. Even Jones, who knew this place, had stumbled more than once. There was much new rubble and an acrid smell hung in the air. It was only when they entered the waiting room that Bateman saw that his trousers were covered in dust and ash, which he brushed off self-consciously.

  He thought back to his last meeting with Falling. Being kept waiting because his barrister had taken it upon himself to go and pray in the Temple Church. Someone had placed a large jug of clear cold water on the side table and clean empty glasses had been left as an implicit invitation for them to drink. An invitation they had accepted. Neither man spoke. Jones was subdued and appeared to have much on his mind.

  – Mr Falling will see you now.

  Falling’s new clerk poked his head round the door and, when they had risen to their feet, headed up the stairs. He needed a haircut and his suit didn’t fit properly. Falling’s room was on the second floor. Bateman heard coughing from behind the door. The senior clerk knocked and there was a muffled invitation for them to come in. In the widening rectangle of light as the door opened Bateman saw Falling rising to his feet, a handkerchief to his lips. Moving towards them, he made his introductions and shook hands. As they all sat down around his desk, Bateman heard the door closing quietly behind him.

  Falling looked different – even thinner, and yet somehow taller. Bateman looked around the room in an attempt to work out what had changed. Falling’s hair was shorter, tidier, and he wore a well-cut dark suit. His shirt cuffs were no longer frayed. The desk was the same, as were the chairs. Bateman noticed the crystal paperweight and recalled how, on their last meeting, Falling had folded a piece of paper and put the paperweight down on top of it. This evening there was nothing under the paperweight. There was an ornamental vase, containing peacock feathers, on the corner of the desk and two delicate lamps with stained glass shades. The room was certainly better lit than his last one. Falling’s lips were moving as Bateman looked up at him but he did not hear what he was saying. He stared instead at the brightly coloured tapestry that adorned the blackout shade on the window behind him. All in all the effect was rather pleasing, though it did not fit with Bateman’s preconceptions of Falling’s taste.

  – I’m sorry, Mr Bateman. Did you hear what I was saying?

  – Oh! Sorry! I was miles away.

  – Why have you been lying to me? To us?

  – I’ve told you the truth about me and Victoria.

  – You’ve lied about your wife. About Marjorie Bateman. Why?

  – This isn’t about me and Marjorie. It’s about me and Victoria. And while we’re on the subject, who gave you permission to go nosing around in Romford anyway?

  – That’s beside the point, Mr Bateman …

  – No it’s not! You’re supposed to be acting on my instructions. I didn’t authorise you to do that.

  – Well. It’s out in the open now …

  – And, anyway, I thought you barristers were supposed to leave the legwork to the likes of Jones here. I thought you barristers were supposed to be too busy for this sort of stuff. Explain that to me will you?

  – You weren’t at work when your wife died. Why did you lie?

  – And another thing. How did you get hold of the inquest notes? You can’t just walk off the streets and pick them up?

  Falling had opened his mouth to interrupt but pulled up short of speaking. Bateman saw a veil of worry cloud his features for a moment and realised that he was taking control of the conference. Had he known that Adam had been worrying for some weeks about the fact that he had bribed a council official to get the notes, he would have pressed home his advantage. But Bateman did not know of that. Falling took a deep breath.

  – Mr Bateman! Either you want me to conduct your case for you or you do not. If you do not, then I think we had better bring this interview to an end.

  Falling got to his feet and began to walk towards the door. Bateman noticed that his shoes gleamed brightly with a recent polishing. He and Jones were still sitting, bodies twisted towards the door, by the time Falling had opened it. He gestured for them to leave.

  – How – hang on a minute! We’ve only just started.

  – My way or no way, Mr Bateman. Which is it to be?

  – How long is it to the trial?

  – About eight weeks.

  – And how long is it until your trial?

  Falling closed the door again but did not move back to his desk.

  – I’m not sure that is any of your business, Mr Bateman.

  – What? You’re being named as having it off with McKechnie’s barrister’s wife and you’re saying it is none of my business?!

  – Well. If you must know, it has been pencilled in for the week after your trial. I’m not sure of the precise dates but I am sure Mr Jones will be able to fill you in.

  – And what’s this about you carrying on with a tart round Shepherd Market?

  – Who told you that?

  Jones, notebook in hand, shuffled uncomfortably in his chair.

  – It’s nothing to do with me, Mr Falling. I don’t know where Mr Bateman got this story from.

  – Don’t you worry, Jones, there was plenty of other places for me to get this … “story” from. I think the papers will be more interested in you than they are in me, Falling.

  Falling opened the do
or again.

  – My way or no way, Mr Bateman. Which is it to be?

  Bateman realised that his bluff was being called. He had already decided that he wanted Falling to represent him. The gossip about Falling was all over his office thanks to McKechnie. He was pushing his luck by dropping that one in.

  – All right. Have it your way. What do you want to know?

  Falling took his hand off the door handle and returned to his chair. Before he could speak he was overcome by another coughing fit and had to pull his handkerchief from his pocket and put it over his mouth. Worried about germs, thought Bateman. The spluttering subsided and Falling looked critically into the linen square before folding it precisely and returning it to his pocket.

  – We all lie, Mr Bateman. You lied to me about Marjorie’s death. You told me she was run over during the blackout whilst you were still at work. But you see, what troubled me was that, if she had been run over in September, you ought to have been home well before the blackout came into force. I haven’t checked with the newspapers as to when the blackout started that night, but when I thought about it, your story made no sense at all. The rest was pretty obvious. We all lie, Mr Bateman. We’ve established the fact of your lies. But I’m not particularly interested in those facts. I am not defending you on a murder charge. I’m more interested in the reasons why people lie. I want to know why you lied about Marjorie’s death.

  – What did the inquest notes say?

  – You were there, Mr Bateman. You tell me what happened.

  Inwardly, Bateman had realised that this would be one of the consequences of sticking with Falling. The trouble was that he could not remember exactly how much they had told the coroner. The inquest had served its purpose. None of them had seen the potential implications beyond the immediate consequences. He decided that he ought to tell as much of the truth as he could. He was not to know, at that time, that this was probably the best option he could have gone for.

  – Okay. We’d all gone to the pictures together, as a foursome. When the film finished we went for a pint. We didn’t think it would be too dangerous. It was over a year since they closed all the cinemas and nearly a year since they opened them again. Nothing had happened. It didn’t seem dangerous, even with the air raids of the previous nights.

  – What did you go and see?

  – My Favourite Wife. Cary Grant and Irene Dunne.

  – You’re making this up!

  – As God’s my witness. It’s been showing at the ABC for the last two weeks. Proper corker it is.

  Falling had steepled his fingers and Bateman could tell he was sceptical about his story. Why couldn’t they have been to watch Lillian Russell or Charley’s Aunt?

  – Why didn’t you tell us this before? It would have given you an alibi. The night of Marjorie’s death was one of the nights when you were supposed to have slept with Victoria.

  Bateman had an idea. He would be the first to admit that he was not an intellectual, but he had always been cunning. Low cunning was a particular speciality. In retrospect, though, he would have been forced to admit that, in these circumstances, bare honesty might have trumped low cunning.

  – Ah, well. Yes. That’s it. You see. I thought I was being clever. I’m sorry, Mr Falling. I knew I had an alibi. But I thought I would save it up, like, for when I really needed it. You’re right. I have an alibi. I thought it would be more dramatic if I held it back.

  He could tell that Falling was unconvinced. By his side Jones was scribbling furiously. This was all going on record. He pressed on.

  – Think about it, Mr Falling. What other reason could there be for holding back on my alibi? I know it’s stupid but that’s the way my mind works. I wanted to drop McKechnie in it.

  – Forgive me, Mr Bateman. But why prolong this agony? If you had told me this earlier we could have nipped this whole thing in the bud. All I need to do is call Pemberton and all of this ought to go away.

  – No! You can’t do that!

  – Why ever not?

  – Trust me on this, Mr Falling.

  – I don’t see why I … or Mr Jones for that matter … should trust you about anything.

  – Mr Falling. You told me last time we met that as long as I told the truth you would act for me but I couldn’t expect to tell you one thing and then tell the world something else. Well, I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t have an affair with Victoria and I lied about Marjorie’s death. I didn’t see that you needed to be interested in that. Anyway, if it comes up I’m not going to deny that we were all at the pictures. But I don’t see why it needs to come up.

  Bateman watched Falling closely. He had picked up the paperweight and was looking at the faults in its prisms. He looked at the lampshades through it and Bateman tried to imagine the broken images and colours he was seeing. Falling seemed to be conducting some internal dialogue, and Bateman wondered whether he was thinking about his own case rather than his problems with Graham McKechnie.

  – Very well, Mr Bateman. I suppose, in fairness, it is your case. But you must understand that if this is all a pack of lies I will have to stop acting for you. You’ve lied to me … to us, once. Any more lies and I am afraid I will not feel comfortable acting for you.

  – Thank you for warning me about Jackson by the way.

  – I beg your pardon?

  – Jackson. That private dick.

  – Oh yes. Not at all.

  – Sticks out a mile once you know he’s there.

  – Yes, well I hope it helped. Pemberton’s always using him. I hear from Jones that you had a little fun with him?

  – Best part of this mess to be honest. I suppose he’s been following you around a bit?

  Falling allowed himself a smile.

  – Oh. Up to a point. Know your enemy, eh, Mr Bateman.

  – Mr Falling. I think that in other circumstances we might have made quite a good team.

  – Yes, Mr Bateman. I think we might have done. Perhaps when this is all over we should have a pint somewhere. Perhaps in one of those pubs that you led Jackson such a merry dance around.

  – I’ll pay! One other thing, though, Mr Falling. Sorry to be serious for a second. But Jones has told me you’ve got another big case coming up. Some sort of spy trial. It’s not going to get in the way is it?

  – Oh, I doubt it.

  Bateman felt he heard a flicker of worry in that broken voice.

  – When exactly is that supposed to be happening?

  – Well, Mr Bateman, I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. Official Secrets and all that. But it should be over and done with in the next four or five weeks. Plenty of time between that and your trial. Nothing to worry about.

  – Well. Just so I know. Well. I suppose that’s it.

  Bateman started to rise from his seat and Jones, closing his notebook, made to do likewise.

  – One more thing before you go.

  – Yes. What is it?

  – You’ve told us you have an alibi for the night of Marjorie’s death. But what about all the other nights. All the other entries in Victoria’s diary that refer to “ABC”. What do they mean?

  – Ah yes … well it’s the same thing really. We all used to go to the pictures together. At the ABC. That’s about it.

  – Why isn’t this in your statement?

  – Didn’t seem relevant. Sorry about that. But that’s my case. And I wasn’t sleeping with Victoria.

  – Tell me, Mr Bateman. Mr Jones tells me that you have been very anxious to see me over the last few weeks. Why was that? When you took so long to tell me … the truth today?

  – Just needed to be sure of you. Seems like you’re doing well here. A change has done you good. I have complete confidence in you, mate.

  – Thank you. I think we can call it a day, Mr Jones. For all those daylight sirens I think that the worst has passed. Would you mind if we had a brief chat about the … the spy trial that Mr Bateman was referring to?

  They all rose and Adam showed B
ateman out of his room before beckoning Jones to sit again.

  Jones watched as Adam closed the door, turning the handle with a precision that allowed him to hear the catch slip comfortably into place. As Adam passed him on his way back to his chair Jones smelt a perfume that was either eau de cologne or pomade. He was pulling at his pocket even before he resumed his seat and produced a packet of Woodbines, shucking one into his hand and lighting it in one gesture with a match that emerged almost magically from the other pocket. Jones noticed the slight trembling of his left hand.

  – Mr Falling, look, I’m terribly sorry about that reference to … to … Shepherd Market. Believe me. It was nothing to do with me. I never mentioned –

  – Not at all, Mr Jones. Pemberton has been spreading it so thick around the Temple I feel as though I am walking through the gossip every time I leave my rooms. It’s no wonder McKechnie knows.

  – Anyway, I’m really sorry.

  – Don’t trouble yourself. Fortunately, it would appear that the only person who hasn’t done me down over this is Roly Blytheway. Seems to regard it as an irrelevance …

  – Well. I need to speak with you about that. I presume that’s why you asked me to stay behind?

  – Not at all. I wanted to talk about Novak and our conversation yesterday.

  – Well … you see … it’s not like me to be pushy … it’s just that …

  – It’s just like what?

  – Well. It’s Mr Blytheway. God knows he’s a good barrister … wished I’d known about him sooner really – all that talk about him – but he’s been on my back for over a week now …

  – About what?

  – Well, exactly. It’s about this Betty woman. I could see he had a thing about it right from that conference, but he keeps telephoning me asking whether I’ve got a statement from her yet. And I can’t keep holding him off. But until you give me her address there’s not a lot I can do …