At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  And Mr Purefoy had, in turn, instructed Francis Alnwick as her barrister. Julia knew nothing about him. They had met with him in chambers in the first week of January. He was a ponderous and pessimistic man who moved slowly about his room and had a look of disappointment on his face. He did not inspire confidence. That meeting had taken place before Jenny had doctored her diary, and Alnwick’s advice was to the effect that she was likely to lose.

  Certainly, Jeremy did not seem daunted by the prospect of Francis Alnwick, or of Frederick Purefoy for that matter. It could have been her imagination but her husband seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when she told him who was to be representing her. The name of Roland Blytheway, on the other hand, caused him visible agitation. The evening when Jenny had shown Jeremy the diary was also the evening when Julia, unable to sleep, had gone up from the cellars to the dressing room to discover that the bowl of hyacinths (with their dangerous message) had disappeared. She had returned to her single bed in the cellar more awake than ever, although when Jeremy eventually came down to sleep she lay very still and tried to breathe deeply and evenly. Jeremy tossed and shifted on his narrow bed and, thinking she was asleep, spat out the words “Blasted Blytheway!” with such venom that she felt herself start with surprise. But he hadn’t noticed, and in the darkness she listened as he turned, wriggled and pulled at his blankets. Until finally she fell asleep.

  – Mrs Pemberton?

  – I’m sorry, Mr Purefoy. I was miles away I’m afraid.

  Purefoy was holding up a document.

  – I don’t know why Pemberton did it but he has and so it is very important that this is signed and witnessed.

  – Oh do I have to Mr Purefoy? Can’t it wait? I still think this will all go away.

  – I was prepared to sit on my hands when we had twelve weeks to play with, but really you don’t have the luxury of time anymore.

  – But does that mean Jenny will have to give evidence?

  – Not necessarily at all. When Pemberton sees this, signed off and everything, he may just drop the whole thing.

  – Please? – she drew out the middle vowels and there was a note of entreaty in her voice.

  Jenny knew nothing of this draft statement. She had allowed Julia to see where she had marked the crosses, and Julia had taken a note. She handed these to Purefoy on a scrap of paper and he had worked them up into a short statement to be signed by Jenny. This did little more than to make reference to her diary and the crosses it contained and then to confirm that Julia had been with her throughout the afternoons in question. All Jenny had to do was sign it before a witness and it would blow a huge hole through Pemberton’s case. Purefoy could not understand Julia’s reluctance. The diary had been volunteered by Jenny after all.

  – I really can’t see any advantage in delay, Mrs Pemberton.

  – It’s just that I think that Jeremy will drop it anyway.

  – Well, bringing forward the hearing is a funny way of seeking a reconciliation.

  – I know my husband.

  – At least take this home with you – I have copies.

  – Tell me about Roland Blytheway.

  – Mr Falling’s barrister?

  Julia had learnt for herself that Blytheway had a reputation for cruelty, but she wanted to know what her own lawyers thought of him. Mr Purefoy blinked and ran his hand over his thinning scalp.

  – Why do you want to know about Blytheway?

  – I think my husband’s scared of him.

  – Blytheway’s a very odd man. My firm has never used him. We don’t approve of him.

  – Why? Is he not very good?

  – No. Quite the contrary. But he has a … a reputation. It simply wouldn’t do for me and my partners to be linked to that man.

  – Is he dishonest?

  – Not as far as I am aware.

  – So, if he is good at his job and honest why won’t you use him?

  Purefoy went very red and began rubbing his scalp with renewed intensity. How could he explain Blytheway’s failings?

  – He never married you know.

  – Never married?

  – He’s never even been engaged.

  – Oh … I see.

  Julia blushed and they sat in silence across the desk from one another avoiding one another’s eyes. Then Purefoy began gathering the papers together and slotting them back into the file. He handed Julia the unsigned statement.

  – Is that all that we needed to discuss?

  – We’ll need to go and see Mr Alnwick again nearer the time. Please get Miss Pemberton to sign the statement. And remember to have it witnessed. You mustn’t witness it yourself of course.

  Julia got up to leave and took the overcoat Purefoy proffered. She folded up the draft statement and placed it in a pocket of the overcoat, then shook Mr Purefoy’s hand and headed back to reception unescorted. She wasn’t prepared to argue about the statement any more but she didn’t intend to show it to Jenny. Not yet. Jeremy wouldn’t go through with it. Of that she was certain.

  The truth was that a rapprochement was happening. Julia had little doubt. The two single beds in the cellars had continued their imperceptible move closer together and Jeremy was more like his old self again. He had been shaken by Jenny’s diary. He was frightened of Blytheway, of that she was sure, and he had too much to lose.

  She thought of her children living safely, she hoped, in the Cotswolds. Jeremy hadn’t got as much to lose as she had.

  She crossed reception, nodded goodbye to the receptionist and was about to leave the building when Purefoy came scurrying after her.

  – Mrs Pemberton! Mrs Pemberton! I’m sorry. There was one important thing that I forgot to deal with. Would you mind coming back to my office for a few minutes?

  – Really, Mr Purefoy! Can’t it be dealt with here?

  – It’s a bit delicate.

  Mr Purefoy was rubbing his hands together in an agitated manner. She looked over at the receptionist who was affecting not to listen and decided it would be more sensible to follow the man back to his room.

  – Well. What is it?

  – Um … you see … it’s about money.

  – Money? I’ve paid you a significant sum of money in advance already.

  – It’s just that, with the trial being brought forward, Mr Alnwick’s brief will be delivered any day and … I must be in funds for him.

  – How much do you want?

  – I’m afraid I’ll need another fifty guineas.

  – Fifty guineas!

  Julia had little money of her own. A small marriage settlement, but that had already been diminished by the cost of lawyers.

  – With any luck Mr Falling will have to pay it at the end of the day … I mean (realising his mistake) Mr Pemberton – if … when he loses.

  Julia laughed mirthlessly. She had far more to lose than Jeremy. If he succeeded in divorcing her she would lose her children and would be penniless.

  – I’ll see what I can do, Mr Purefoy.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  (Wednesday 12th February 1941)

  Blytheway had won his libel case. Judgment was handed down on Tuesday 11th February. The Judge found the review of Miss Renshaw’s anthology defamatory not just of her but of her brothers as well. A defence of fair comment was rejected and the Judge was particularly critical of the publisher’s attempts to portray the Renshaws as conceited snobs. Nor did he accept the defence’s rather forlorn suggestion that the action was a waste of time in the midst of the Blitz of London. “So long as the doors of the Law Courts remain open for litigation there is no reason why they should be closed to those who wish to defend their professional reputation.” And that was that. He awarded each of the siblings £350 as well as their costs, and the case made headlines across the tabloids as well as in the quality press. Blytheway’s name was at the forefront of the reports and an editorial in the Times drew attention to the case as a shining example of the continuation of the British spirit and way of life a
gainst incalculable odds. There was praise too for Blytheway’s rhetoric in ridiculing his legalistic opponents and eulogising the importance of art, literature and high fashion no matter how dark, dull and dangerous everyday life was becoming. Adam had sensed that these causes were closer to Blytheway’s heart than mere professional interest warranted.

  He had not been able to speak with Blytheway since seeing him on the stairs almost a week before. On the rare occasions that he ventured into Blytheway’s room the man was immersed in the collected works of the Renshaw siblings, which ran to many volumes. And after the judgment he failed to return to chambers. Rumour had it that he had gone with the Renshaws and their solicitor to a private club in Soho where one could still find, at a price, vintage champagne. However, Blytheway had found time to leave Adam a note reminding him of the invitation to dinner the following night, giving directions to his home and asking that he attend at 7.30 p.m. In fact, it suited Adam not to see Blytheway that Tuesday, as he had, surveillance permitting, his own task for that evening.

  ****

  It was 5 p.m. on Wednesday afternoon when Adam and Jones emerged for the final time from Wandsworth Prison. Dusk was falling and the streets were turning to monochrome. Adam lit a cigarette as they reached the busstop and let the smoke – and the solicitor’s silence – envelop him. Then:

  – Are you sure you know what you’re doing?

  – It’s his only chance.

  – He doesn’t want us to do it. He’s forbidden us to do it.

  – But he hasn’t sacked me.

  – He was too furious to think about sacking you.

  And then, apart from the stamping of their feet against the cold, there was silence again as they waited for the glow of the bus.

  They had been shown to the same interview cell, but Novak’s condition had deteriorated since their last visit. He had scarcely raised his head when they entered the room. His shoulders were hunched and he was tracing circles around the surface of the table with his right index finger. When he shook hands the grip was weak and clammy. He took the cigarette that was offered to him without a word of thanks and the first five minutes of the meeting were spent in silence whilst he smoked it. Attempts at general conversation were met with incoherent grunts or no reply at all.

  Jones watched Adam with new eyes. If he had been confident on their last visit, on this occasion he was almost reckless. His suit was as sharp as before and his shoes had been newly polished. His relationship with Novak had changed palpably since their first meeting in December. One by one he took Novak through the inconsistencies between what he had said at the outset and what he was saying now. And then he turned to the inconsistencies in what had been said by Milo Hoffer. And slowly Novak’s grunts were replaced by monosyllabic answers and then by loud and increasingly vehement denials. There were no inconsistencies. He had insisted and, with a touch of his old arrogance, he began to shout at his two lawyers, accusing them of incompetence and stupidity. But still Adam, chain-smoking, ploughed on, as though he was oblivious to the insults. Jones didn’t know where this was heading but he fancied that Adam knew what he was doing and so kept silent, taking a note when Novak’s replies slipped into coherence.

  Then Adam had turned to the unsigned testimony of Katya Hoffer.

  – You didn’t know anything about the plans under your floorboards did you?

  – Of course I did not. I have said that to you many times.

  – How did Katya know about the plans?

  – I don’t know what you are talking about.

  – She knew, didn’t she?

  – How could she know?

  – Katya had been to visit you in your flat, hadn’t she?

  – This is preposterous (raising his voice). Of course she had not!

  – Are you saying that she came to your flat when you were not there?

  – She would not do such a thing!

  – I thought you hardly knew her.

  – I do not.

  – She has a key, doesn’t she?

  Novak brought his fist down on the table with such force that the saucer-cum-ashtray jumped into the air spilling ash everywhere. The warder looked in at the window to see what was going on.

  – Why must we talk about this Katya Hoffer? She has nothing to do with my case.

  – There is no need to shout … Katya found you the flat, didn’t she? It was she who told you not to report?

  – I am sick of this. You must leave now.

  – Whose fingerprints are on the plans?

  – I do not know.

  – Why did you say that Katya told you I was gullible?

  – I did not say such a thing.

  – Mr Jones took a note, Mr Novak. I can show it to you if you like.

  – It was Milo Hoffer who told me what she said.

  Jones stole a glance at his watch. The time allotted for their visit was running out and Novak had not made any positive statement as to his defence. This was their last opportunity to get Novak to help himself. He looked at the man as he faced off Falling’s questions. There were dark bags under his eyes and a broken red capillary ran across his left eyeball. He was blinking rapidly. Adam continued relentlessly on.

  – Mr Novak. We are running out of time. Your trial will begin in less than three weeks. How can I help you if you won’t help yourself?

  – I have told you the truth. I know nothing about the plans. I did not put them there. I do not want to help the Germans. I am a Jew.

  This was going nowhere. Adam faltered. Suddenly he looked haggard and Jones noticed how deep the rings were under his eyes. He had had less sleep than Novak by the look of it. Then Falling suddenly changed tack.

  – Tell me what happened on the boat from Gibraltar.

  – There is nothing to tell.

  – Why did you say Katya was kind to you on that trip?

  – I have said. It was foolish to involve her.

  – You only changed your story to fit it in with hers.

  – That is not true!

  – You told us you slept under a lifeboat. Who else was under the lifeboat with you?

  – It was a very big ship. Many people slept under the lifeboats.

  – Why was Milo Hoffer in the sick bay?

  – He was a poor sailor.

  – So you knew who he was.

  – No. I did not. This was a guess.

  – Was Katya with you on deck?

  – No! I did not know her.

  There was a rattle of keys behind them as the warder knocked on the door. Adam looked at his watch. The session was over. He took a long drag from his cigarette and tipped the ash into the saucer.

  – So you did not know Katya and you have no reason to be trying to protect her?

  – Of course I do not. I hardly knew her at all. I wish I had never met Milo or Katya Hoffer.

  – So you would not mind, then, if we forced her to give evidence at your trial?

  – No. I forbid it! I forbid it!

  Novak half rose from his seat and grabbed Falling round the throat and squeezed so that the cigarette fell from his lips. He banged the table with his other fist and started to yell.

  – I forbid it! I forbid it!

  Jones ran round behind him and started pulling at his arms. The warder rushed in and grabbed Novak’s wrists from the front, prising him off Falling’s neck and forcing the man into handcuffs.

  – I forbid it! I forbid it!

  – Time’s up, sirs. I’ll take Mr Novak back to his cell.

  Adam retrieved his cigarette and rubbed his neck with his free hand before taking a long drag.

  – You are making our job very difficult, Mr Novak.

  – I forbid it!

  – I will try and arrange for Mr Jones to see you one more time before the trial.

  But Novak, struggling with the warder as he was hauled out of the interview room, was no longer listening.

  ****

  It was almost 5.30 before Jones saw the muted lig
hts of a bus approaching. An hour to blackout. Falling was lost in thought. As they boarded the bus Jones saw in the light from the driver’s cabin red finger marks across Adam’s neck. He took a deep breath.

  – About the … er … Betty. I really do need an address. The trial is only four weeks away.

  Adam looked at him absent-mindedly.

  – Yes. Of course.

  And he handed him a slip of paper.

  – I thought you said she lived in Islington.

  – She got bombed out. I had to go and find her.

  – And how did you go about doing that?

  – It’s a long story, Mr Jones (Falling looked dog-tired) – can it wait?

  – You ought to get yourself to bed.

  – Not yet I’m afraid (he said lighting up another cigarette); I have a dinner appointment tonight.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  (Tuesday 11th February 1941)

  Betty Sharples lived in Mayfair. That was the address on the piece of paper that Adam passed to Jones. Not a particularly salubrious part of Mayfair, however. The previous day, as Blytheway was taking judgment and then celebrating his triumph, Adam had to deal with a small contract case in Bromley, O’Grady versus M.K. Simkiss Limited. He was representing an employee who sought payment for a period of time when he was unable to work through ill health. His employers said that there was no entitlement to sick pay and that the plaintiff knew this as he had not sought such pay until he discovered that a different worker was getting it. It was a simple question of fact as to the terms of the contract. And a guinea was a guinea.