At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  He put a call through to Lamb Building immediately but Blytheway was still at Court and Adam had just left to go to Court himself. Neither was likely to be back in Chambers before tomorrow morning. This changed everything.

  Chapter Forty-six

  (Wednesday 5th February 1941)

  Adam moved away from the window and back to his desk. It was a clear, bright morning and Julia had just disappeared out of sight, walking through Cloisters down towards the Embankment. Services in the Temple Church had been suspended in January with one final celebration, the Te Deum, soaring out across the rubble and the Sunday peace, but still Julia came at the usual time and stayed inside for the allotted length of morning communion. Adam did not know why she persevered but he was glad that she did. He would leave no notes now as he knew they were unwelcome. He felt Blytheway’s eyes upon him whenever he passed the entrance, whether he was being watched or not.

  His morning ritual over, he went down to the Clerks’ Room to see what, if anything, the day held for him; a fellow barrister greeted him surprisingly warmly on the stairs. In his tray he found a cheque for two guineas, and two small briefs – rolls of white paper wrapped in red tape with his name calligraphed across the front with, beneath his name, a modest (but acceptable) fee inked in. Money and work! Blytheway had done more than merely provide him with a seat and a room in his chambers. It was plain that he had been recommending Adam’s work to the senior Clerk, who had been able to push some cases his way. There had also been another unexpected development.

  Unexpected by all but Blytheway, that is. Perhaps his long personal experience of notoriety had attuned him to the vagaries of human conduct, but he had, during one of his several conversations with Adam, spoken enthusiastically about the unusual benefits of Adam’s predicament.

  – There is an indefinable advantage of being the subject of gossip, you know …

  he had said.

  – It attracts people to you the way the scent of lavender attracts bees – and other insects for that matter; I get the prettiest butterflies fluttering about my garden in the country as well as the odd dragonfly skimming away from my pond to have a taste. If your experience is anything like mine has been over the years you will have the most unexpected people showing an interest.

  And he had been proven right. Word of his shame had spread throughout the Temple and there had been several scurrilous pieces in the popular press, rich with innuendo and slavering over imagined details. And whilst a significant number of his contemporaries affected to avoid him, there was no doubt that some of the solicitors who had been motivated to send him work did so out of a curiosity to meet this unlikely celebrity, if only to give themselves a slightly risky allure, or to provide conversational fodder for their social lives.

  And not all of his contemporaries shunned him. It was not possible to know the popularity – or unpopularity – of those one shared chambers with when one was part of the same close-knit band. Outsiders would not press about the merits or demerits of one’s professional colleagues. On his expulsion from Stirrup Court, though, the shackles of omertà were loosened. Jack Storman was universally respected; however, Adam quickly learned that Pemberton was not liked generally in the wider professional world. He was perceived as an aggressive bully, arrogant, self-regarding and possessing a lesser ability than he (and by extension the members of his chambers) supposed. There was sympathy, of course, for the tragic loss of his first wife, and muted admiration for his impressive war record, but Adam heard, from Blytheway and others, about his lost years: the heavy drinking, the uncontrollable rages and the frequent descents into violent and sentimental self-pity before Julia appeared to save him from himself.

  Julia, with her regular visits to the church, was well-recognised by many, although no-one appeared to know a great deal about her as a person. The impression that she gave was broadly a good one and, whatever the truth of the rumours about her alleged relationship with Adam, some members of the Bar were quietly impressed that Adam could attract such allegations. Pleased, too, at the humiliation that this implied for Pemberton.

  Blytheway had made a point of getting to know Adam better in the days and weeks after his belongings were moved to Lamb Building. When his work commitments allowed, he would pop into Adam’s room for a chat, advising him on décor and lending him prints and vases as well as giving him some of his peacock feathers so as to provide some colour to his desk. Sometimes he would invite Adam to his room for tea at the end of the working day. It was plain that he already knew a lot about him, and Adam wondered from time to time whether this omniscience applied to all who fell within his gaze. Frequently he would be surprised by Blytheway’s perspicacity. Towards the end of one such conversation he said, out of the blue:

  – So your father came from Bury in Lancashire and your mother came from Edinburgh?

  – How could you possibly know that?

  – It’s a little trick of mine. I have always been (though I say so myself) extremely good at discerning accents, and the more we talk the more you relax. The more your received vowels emerge. Our voices are a palimpsest of our histories. Your history has been gloss-painted by Cambridge and now the Bar. The Lancastrian ingredient was relatively simple to place but it was only today that I was able to pin down the Scottish element.

  – But why do you say that my father was from Bury and not from Edinburgh?

  – Guesswork, I’m afraid. The stronger inflections belong to the place where you grew up, and I fancied that, as your father would have been working and your mother not, it was she who moved to live with him rather than your father moving down from Scotland to find work.

  – And what else do you say you can “discern” from the inflections of my voice?

  Adam was sceptical – and slightly alarmed at the same time – about how much he apparently gave away simply by talking.

  – Well. Now I am really guessing. However, I would say that you are probably not the product of one of our illustrious public schools, probably not even a minor one, and that you were fortunate enough to obtain a scholarship from the elementary schools to a local grammar school and thence a scholarship to Cambridge. I hesitate to use this expression but I would venture to suggest that your parents were “lower-middle class”.

  – What on earth gives you that impression?

  – The Woodbines you smoke. A very cheap cigarette that, unusually, one can buy one at a time.

  – My father did smoke them until they became too expensive and then he gave up.

  – I would conclude that your parents were not rich but were themselves (or your father at least) fairly well educated and understood the value of education …

  – My father was a school-master.

  – When did he die?

  – I didn’t say that he was dead.

  – I am sorry if I was wrong about that.

  – When I was eighteen.

  And after a twenty-minute conversation Adam would feel that Blytheway knew a great deal more about him whilst he, Adam, knew little more about his mysterious new friend.

  Adam signed the receipt and pocketed the cheque before taking the two new briefs out of his tray: a contract case in Bromley County Court and a road traffic accident in Shoreditch, both listed for the following week. Blytheway was shimmering down the stairs, his red bag in one hand, a sheaf of papers in the other, as Adam mounted the stairs.

  – Morning, sweetheart. Sorry about tonight. Hey Ho. Until next week!

  That morning Blytheway was starting a high-profile libel case. His clients were the Renshaws, a trio of literary but eccentric siblings of some fame who had taken exception to a review of an anthology by one of their number in which the reviewer had attacked all three of them as publicity-seeking mediocrities whom oblivion had now claimed. The brothers and sister had interpreted the article as meaning that they were people of no literary ability whose arrogance and conceit constituted their only claim to prominence. They took great exception to the suggestion that
they had been consigned to oblivion: on the contrary they were only now reaching the peak of their respective powers. As for the book in question, the only two comments that the reviewer deigned to make were that it was too heavy to hold as a bed-book, and secondly, that the part under review, being Miss Renshaw’s 150-page introduction to the anthology, would have greatly improved the book if it had been omitted altogether. The Renshaws had thus, they alleged, suffered serious injury to their character, credit and reputation. An open offer of £150 to be shared between the three of them had been turned down. The case, set as it was against the backdrop of the continuing Blitz, had achieved some publicity in the press and was admirably suited to Blytheway’s mixture of frivolity and high seriousness. The failure of the case to settle, however, meant that his invitation to Adam to dine with him that night had to be postponed.

  In reality, Adam was relieved. In all of their various conversations Blytheway had conspicuously avoided discussing Pemberton’s petition. It had been hard enough to get him to focus on it in their conference, and Adam knew that his counsel would only raise the issue in his own good time. Instead he spoke of Marrakesh or Italy, or Dresden china and Jermyn Street – nagging him to buy more suits and shoes. Or else he would lecture him on the proper use of his receipts: a third for himself, a third for his wife and daughter, and a third on buying clothes and beautiful things before rationing took away all pleasure. Although, a week or so earlier, he had expressed confidence in “some helpful developments” in the case, he would not thereafter be drawn on what those developments might be. Adam’s curiosity about this throwaway remark was tempered by the fact that he was also likely to be quizzed on the prostitute, Betty. Jones’s demands for details of her address were becoming more strident, and although they emanated ultimately from Blytheway, the man himself never raised the subject directly with Adam, but spoke instead in fripperies and riddles.

  Adam desperately needed to make contact with Betty and the longer he left it the more precarious his position was likely to be. If he was to protect Julia he must present his legal team with Betty. To do so, however, would be to damage irrevocably (if it was not already so) his marriage and to move his acts of conspiracy to pervert the course of justice from the merely preparatory to the full-blown crime itself. It could be put off no longer, and he had decided that today he had to go and find her.

  He had been instructed on behalf of a landlord in Clerkenwell County Court that afternoon and planned, having dealt with the case, to catch her at home before she went out to work.

  As he was leaving the Clerks’ Room he caught a snippet of a telephone conversation:

  – Sorry, Mr Jones. I am afraid Mr Blytheway has left for court … probably not back until the evening. Yes. I’ll pass that on.

  What did Jones want? Adam guessed it concerned Betty and was glad that he had decided to tackle the problem later that day.

  ****

  Clerkenwell County Court was in Duncan Terrace just off Islington High Street. Betty had given an address in Sheen Grove and Adam calculated that it would be no more than a twenty-minute walk from the Court. He had forgotten, however, that he would be carrying the blue bag that contained his wig and gown – with his initials stitched onto the outside – and all his papers and books from the hearing.

  He set off from the court at about 4 p.m. heading across to Upper Street. He had fastened up his overcoat over his suit, hooked his thumb through the thick rope of his robes bag, and slung it over his shoulder. He was carrying his papers in both hands before him. At first he made good progress, but the further he went into this working class area, bomb damage and rubble everywhere, the more conspicuous he felt in his expensive suit and shiny shoes. He walked down Theberton Street and then up Liverpool Road to Richmond Avenue. This was a mistake. What had he been thinking of? If he were to be seen in these circumstances with Betty he would be drawing attention to both of them. What if someone other than Betty answered the door? How would he explain himself? Sweat trickled down between his starched collar and his neck and the bag and the papers became heavier the further he walked. He felt the weight of his wallet shifting against the inside of his suit as he walked. He had wanted to have his money in case an extra bribe was to be necessary. But now he felt vulnerable as well as conspicuous. It contained the remains of the cash he had drawn out from the bank before going to see Julia at Hamleys. If he were robbed now he would have virtually no money at all.

  Then he remembered: he had her telephone number as well. He would find the address and then telephone her from the nearest phone box and arrange to meet her somewhere, in a pub or in the nearest park. He had brought a street map with him but it was of little assistance. Many of the street signs had been taken down and some streets seemed to have vanished altogether. When he felt that he was as close as he was going to get with the aid of the map he decided that he had better ask for directions. It was beginning to get dark. A man of about sixty was walking slowly towards him so he stopped him and asked how he might find Sheen Grove.

  – Sheen Grove?

  The man laughed.

  – Sheen Grove? Well it’s down there on the left – he said pointing vaguely – Sheen Grove.

  And he laughed again and hobbled on his way.

  Turning the corner into Sheen Grove Adam knew, almost before he saw it, what would confront him. Almost the whole of the terrace had been destroyed: broken houses like gaping mouths spewed out timber and broken stone. Either Betty was dead, or homeless again, or she had given an address that had already been demolished. In his heart he knew it was the latter. She had not wanted him to find her, even as she had taken his money.

  Had he left for Court five minutes later he would also have known that Pemberton’s petition was only five weeks away.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  (Thursday 6th February 1941)

  Julia had been unaware of Adam’s eyes following her as she left the church. Why did she still go there when there were no services? She had no clear answer to this question. It was a time of peace away from Eaton Square. It was part of her routine. It reminded her of happier and easier times. It was all those things. She stepped through the white arches of Cloisters and made her way through Pump Court across Middle Temple Lane and on to Judges’ Gate.

  Devereux Court was thick with dust. Julia brushed against a wall and a smear of soot attached itself to the peacock green of her shoulder. She stopped and tried to rub it away but the smudge simply spread. Standing outside the Devereux Arms, Julia looked around her before taking the solicitors’ letter from the inside pocket of her coat. The paper was thick and creamy. Received in the last post the previous evening, it had told her of the new hearing date and had summoned her to an urgent meeting in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was half an hour until the appointed time.

  Julia emerged onto the Strand. Across the road from her the Royal Courts of Justice, in all its grimy Victorian splendour, rose into the sky. In a matter of weeks she would be giving evidence inside this building; and all of her future hung upon the outcome of that evidence. Early lawyers were crossing the Strand towards the Courts. She joined the throng and then slipped sideways towards Bell Yard and Carey Street.

  Walking along the western side of Lincoln’s Inn, she saw a crowd gathered by the gates of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. A VIP brandishing an oxy-acetylene burner was making a speech. As Julia passed, the dignitary lit the flame and applied it to the railings surrounding the central park area. They were being dismantled for scrap.

  It was 9.25 when she walked up the imposing steps leading to her solicitors’ offices, entered the architectural gem and presented herself to the tweedy matron on reception. She took a seat as requested, and flicked through an old copy of Country Life as she waited. Large windows looked down onto the Fields and a hazy sun penetrated the clouds and threw a half-hearted light onto the trunks and bare branches. Julia glanced out at the black-coated lawyers strolling up and down, seemingly oblivious to the sound of hammers against met
al as the two-hundred-year-old railings were dismantled.

  – Good morning, Mrs Pemberton!

  a voice boomed out, and Julia started involuntarily before rising to her feet.

  – Lovely day. Good to see you. Sorry about the short notice. Let me take your coat.

  Said almost as a litany. The bonhomie was not so much forced as practised over many years. Mr Purefoy took her coat, slipped it over his pinstriped arm, and walked briskly towards his room beckoning Julia, with a slight turn of his head, to follow him. His office was at the rear of the building and he held the door open so that Julia could precede him into it. An unfashionable chair had been placed in front of his large partner’s desk, and he took it by the top rail and tilted it slightly, inviting Julia to sit. A slim buff file lay in the middle of his blotter. That, she thought, was her life – her false life.

  Mr Purefoy was a tubby man. His suit, although expensive and well-cut, could not hide that fact. He slipped behind the desk, took his seat, and then picked up her file. With pudgy fingers he removed the contents and spread them out in front of him. He had a signet ring on his little finger. Julia was more than a little suspicious of this middle-aged “hail-fellow-well-met”, his greying hair slightly too long and curling down over his starched white collar.

  When Jackson had served the petition on her just before the New Year she had been in a state of panic and despair. The strain of pretending that nothing was wrong had been too much and she had cracked in front of Jenny. Jeremy came from a more rarefied social circle than her own, and had been a practising barrister since she was a young girl. She had immersed herself in his life to the extent that no one would imagine their backgrounds were so different. But when it came to lawyers and the law she had not known where to begin to find decent representation. Even Adam Falling was better placed than she in that regard. None of the popular women’s magazines or periodicals touched upon the subject, and she did not dare ask her female friends about such a taboo topic. She certainly couldn’t ask Jeremy. And so she had looked for a respectable address and a firm of some longevity and had alighted on Randall, Beams and Purefoy in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, established 1895.