by John Wilson
Chapter Fifty
(Wednesday 12th February 1941)
The bus was already crowded by the time it reached Adam and Jones. They climbed on board and were able to find two seats downstairs at the front. Adam fell asleep almost before the bus moved off, his head sagging against the side window. Jones hadn’t the heart to wake him when the conductor came round and so paid for tickets for the two of them. He had a host of questions to ask about Betty but it seemed that, for the time being at least, they would have to go unanswered. Instead he contented himself with looking out of the front window as the bus chugged slowly into town. But the windows were soon all steamed up and, in the gathering dusk, it was impossible to make out much about their surroundings. He wiped a hole in the condensation and saw that they were heading over Wandsworth Bridge. Another forty minutes from here. Then, eventually, he recognised the turn of the bus as it headed onto the Strand. He nudged Adam awake as they passed the Royal Courts of Justice and they got off on Fleet Street just by Fetter Lane. It was just past 6 p.m. They shook hands and said their goodbyes. Jones headed back to his offices and Adam turned down into the Temple.
Delia was curled up asleep on the corner of his bed. She was still little more than a kitten. She stirred as he closed the door and stretched out yawning. There was a little jug of milk on the side and Adam said a quiet thank you to Barry. Since the night of his collapse he and Barry had become friends. In addition to bringing him extra food from the kitchens, Barry had taken to looking after the cat when Adam was out at court or away from the Temple. When Adam was obliged to leave the house in Dulwich, that had created difficulties with his Home Guard duties. He simply lived too far away. So, with surprisingly little difficulty, he had been able to resign from his local regiment on condition that he took up some other form of war service. He had volunteered for the Inner Temple’s Fire Watch and was spending two days in seven as a part of a trio of men, armed with a stirrup pump, on the rooftop of Hare Court. Barry was part of his team. They had been provided with heavy blue overalls and a belt to carry the axe and torch that each were issued with. Doing more than forty-eight hours per month also meant that they were provided with the loan of a steel helmet.
Adam poured some milk into a saucer and stroked the cat as it drank. The blackout was approaching. He filled the basin with cold water and splashed it over his face. Looking at himself in the mirror, he saw dark circles under his eyes. He smoothed down his hair, patted his pockets and made to go out again. His torch. He had better take that along with him. He forced it into his overcoat pocket, retied his scarf and headed out into the night.
It was little more than a mile to Bloomsbury but it was more than an hour before Adam found himself on the west side of Bedford Square, using his torch to check surreptitiously the house numbers. Finally, he found the address he was looking for, the windows all dark and no shred of light escaping. Wrapping his overcoat more tightly around him against the cold, he gave one long press on the large brass bell next to the letterbox.
Within seconds the door swung noiselessly open and Adam found himself face to face with a tall man in his early forties, blond hair greying, dressed in black tie.
– Good evening, Mr Falling. Mr Blytheway is expecting you.
He stood aside to let Adam enter and, as he passed, Adam noticed a long, faded scar running down the man’s cheek. The large hallway was discreetly illuminated and, as the outside door closed behind him, he took in the black and white tiled floor and an elegant side table, a hat and umbrella stand beside it, which glowed in the subdued light. Wall lights shone gently on Japanese prints and small Impressionist paintings. Blytheway, also dressed in black tie, emerged from a door to the left and moved towards him, right hand outstretched. His handshake was firm but gentle. Foundation powder could not quite conceal a black eye. He was smiling.
– Good evening, Adam.
– What happened to your eye?
– That’s a story for another day, sweetheart.
He ran a finger round his left orbit and flakes of powder fell to the floor.
– I’m sorry. I didn’t realise it was going to be so formal.
– I hadn’t said. Go with Caldwell. I’ll be waiting in the Salon.
He gestured towards his butler who was already marching, with a pronounced limp, towards the stairs. Adam followed. Caldwell took him to the first floor.
– This is Mr Blytheway’s spare dressing room.
It was relatively small. There was a built-in wardrobe along one wall and, facing it, a full-length mirror, a small chest of drawers standing next to it. Caldwell extracted a dinner suit draped in cellophane and teased the jacket out from the hanger, proffering it to Adam to try on. The fit was good, though slightly loose on him.
I’ll leave you alone to try on the trousers. There’s a black tie in the top drawer. If they fit you comfortably Mr Blytheway would be obliged if you would wear them down to the Salon. I will take care of your suit and overcoat.
A pair of braces had been hitched to the buttons in the trousers, and by adjusting them Adam could keep the trousers from sliding down over his shoes. He checked his appearance in the mirror and made his way downstairs to Blytheway’s reception rooms.
****
The “Salon” was a spacious sitting room with a chaise longue against the far wall, two large armchairs, a long mahogany coffee table, a cocktail cabinet and a rococo table which Roly would subsequently identify as being the work of Meissonier. The remaining walls were lined with glassfronted bookcases. There were two three-bar electric fires, one on either side of the room, which targeted the area around the coffee table and armchairs. Candles were burning on almost every surface, beeswax no doubt. Blytheway was half sitting, half lying across the chaise longue as Adam entered. He rose to his feet in one fluid movement and advanced across the room, put his hands out and squeezed Adam’s shoulders through the dinner jacket. Then he placed his forefinger in the front of his trousers and pulled them slightly outwards from Adam’s stomach.
– Three inches,
he said, almost to himself, before turning Adam round so that he could look at the cut of the suit from the rear. Adam felt his eyes moving down his back and legs, and then the touch of Blytheway’s hands against his sides. The door to the Salon had been closed after he entered and he felt slightly uncomfortable … vulnerable. Blytheway turned Adam to face him again and, with a flourish, produced a white silk kerchief which he arranged artfully in Adam’s breast pocket.
– Slightly loose around the torso and the trousers are a little roomy. But not bad. I’ve not been able to wear it comfortably for years now; even keeping myself trim it was beginning to pinch. But it was in far too good a condition simply to throw away. It will do.
Then he moved towards the armchairs.
– It’s not enough, of course, to have a good wardrobe. Clothes must fit properly and one mustn’t bulge. One only has to look around on Dining Nights to see how many have allowed themselves to go to seed. Champagne!
Caldwell entered with an ice-bucket and two crystal flutes which he set out on the table, returning seconds later with a bottle of Taittinger. Rotating the bottle, he eased the cork off with a sigh rather than a pop and filled the glasses – waves of bubbly yellow under a snowy mousse that gradually subsided into streams of bubbles rising to the top and bursting. He handed each of them a glass and then retired.
– Take a seat.
Roly motioned to one of the armchairs as he settled into another. Adam wanted to get on to the business of the evening, which, he assumed, was his case, but he remembered Blytheway’s discursive performance in conference and so held his tongue.
– A toast!
said Roly, clinking his glass to Adam’s.
– To the triumph of substance over shadows … Dinner isn’t for another forty-five minutes so we have a little time to talk. Feel free to smoke.
In the manner of all addicts Adam had transferred his cigarettes to the dinner jacket. Roly slid
a lacquer dish over to him as he lit up.
– So. You’ve been with us now for almost four weeks. It seems to be suiting you.
– The clerks are recommending me for work. I’m sure I have you to thank for that.
– Not at all. Not at all. I put it down to your new suit. And to the exotic little reputation you have earned for yourself.
– I’d like to talk to you about why I used to go into the church.
– I’d rather you didn’t.
– You do believe me, don’t you?
– Adam. Adam. Sweetheart. We both know that an advocate’s job is to deal with the evidence that is presented. It is not a matter of whether I believe you or not. And besides. I don’t want to talk about your case at the moment. It is not a subject for polite pre-prandial conversation.
There was an unexpected edge of steel in his voice and Adam recoiled from the rebuke. Roly continued in a more conciliatory fashion.
– Tell me about those other two cases that you are so concerned about.
– I’d rather not. Your Renshaw case sounds a lot more interesting.
Adam decided that he had to try and learn at least a little more about this strange man who, whilst apparently courting controversy and a high profile, had told him so little about himself.
– Oh. It was certainly good fun. But rather easy money in the end. Do you know that none of the other barristers had actually read the Renshaw oeuvre? Rather a fundamental error in my view. I had advised that this was critical. Not only because it was, but also because I could be paid for reading it all. It was a bit recherché for my tastes if I’m honest. But I suspect I learnt something on the way through.
– And the party afterwards?
– A very gay affair. We all trooped off to the Dorchester in the end. All sorts of strange creatures tagged along. Our contemporaries would not have approved of them at all. Some interesting writers amongst them though. Do you know, I don’t think enough people appreciate the importance of parties. One learns so much. But enough of that, tell me about your case against Pemberton – McKechnie isn’t it?
Adam told Blytheway about the developments in the case. His certainty that Bateman had indeed been having an affair with Mrs McKechnie, the “ABC” jottings in the diary, the trips by the foursome to the cinema and the inexplicable circumstances surrounding Mrs Bateman’s death. Bateman had told him that his wife had been run over by a car after the blackout whilst he was on his way back from work but that couldn’t be right because the blackout would not have started by the time he got home from work. He also decided that he could trust Blytheway with the story about the inquest notes. Of the fact that Bateman and Mr and Mrs McKechnie had given corroborative stories to the coroner. And then the fact that Bateman had come into £10,000 by way of life insurance on his wife’s death. Blytheway, who had been listening in a languid, almost bored way stiffened at the story of the inquest notes.
– How very interesting.
– It’s a bit of a mystery to me, I’m afraid. All I know is that Bateman seemed determined to prevent me from finding out what happened, and yet, now that I know, what with all my other problems, he seems equally determined to continue to instruct me.
– A mystery indeed! And when I am faced with a mystery I tend to set my bloodhounds onto it.
– Your bloodhounds?
– Oh. I have a whole pack of them. But my favourite two are called “Cherchez la femme” and “Follow the money”. And I say to myself, “It’s not the lie that counts. It’s the reason for the lie.”
Blytheway paused and looked into space. The candles flickered their reflections in his eyes. Adam waited. Finally, the mist fell away from Blytheway’s eyes, he took a sip from his second glass of champagne and then looked directly at Adam, just as he had done in conference. And again he felt the ferocity of that intellect.
– Well. I’ve only had a few minutes to think about it. And, of course, you know so much more about the details of the case. But my instinct would be to follow the money. Now, about this treason trial. What can you tell me about that?
Adam gave him a brief resume of Novak’s case, the contradictions and the lies culminating in the unhappy meeting with Novak in Wandsworth earlier that day and Adam’s decision to issue a witness summons against Katya Hoffer. At this juncture Blytheway tutted loudly.
– I really wouldn’t do that, Adam.
– Novak’s clearly protecting her. And he’ll pay for it with his life.
– But Adam. That is his choice. You have clear instructions not to do it. You should not.
– If we don’t do it the truth won’t come out and an innocent will die.
Blytheway chuckled.
– Adam! I’m surprised at you!
– What?
– “The truth won’t come out”? What has that got to do with anything?
– Doesn’t the truth matter to you at all?
– It matters to me enormously. I would never lie. Nor would I mislead the court. But you should know by now that the courtroom is not a theatre for truth. Or for justice for that matter. Would you really want the truth to come out in every case? And anyway, let us assume that Novak loves this woman. Is he not entitled to say to himself I will sacrifice my life for that love even if the truth must remain hidden? Assuming he actually knows the truth. People do the strangest things in the name of love, as we all know.
At that moment Caldwell entered to say that dinner was ready. Blytheway rose, brushed out the creases in his trousers and finished his glass of champagne.
– Enough of that for now. I am sure we shall return to the subject of love over dinner.
****
Caldwell led the way into the dining room. A Regency period dining table was in the centre of the room, leaves removed to make dinner a more intimate affair. There was a candelabra in the middle of the table and the candles glinted on the silver cutlery. Subdued wall lights made the paintings glow. Spode china bowls lay on their place mats. When they had seated themselves opposite one another Caldwell poured out two glasses of claret from a decanter and then brought in a small tureen and ladled out soup for them.
– Oxtail. Tinned,
said Blytheway, by way of explanation, as he dipped his spoon delicately into the first course.
– I’ve got gallons of the stuff down in the cellar. Bought it all before the rationing started. Completely legal and should last until Domesday.
– You don’t approve of the black market do you?
– I have many issues with Jeremy Pemberton but I object in particular to his vainglorious boasting about flouting the rules that apply to everyone else.
For the first time in all of his conversations with Blytheway, Adam heard a note of genuine anger in his voice. He had reflected frequently on the exchange between the two men in the crypt of the Temple Church, and Blytheway’s reaction betrayed the existence of an acrimonious relationship between the two.
– What is there between you and Pemberton?
– Not now, sweetheart. Not while I’m dining. Have another glass of claret. I’ve been looking forward to the next course all day. Caldwell went to Billingsgate specially.
Caldwell cleared the soup and brought in two plates, each with a piece of steamed white fish of a kind Adam had never seen before. Then he rolled in a heated trolley bearing bowls of boiled potatoes and boiled green beans and carrots. The oxtail had been surprisingly delicious. Warming and with a hint of spice. Adam had wiped the plate clean. But the fish was a revelation. The glowing white flesh came away in firm flakes and melted in the mouth.
– This is wonderful. What is it?
– Cod, would you believe. Very cheap and very tasty … and not rationed! You’ve probably eaten it as fish and chips from time to time. Such a barbarian dish.
As Caldwell cleared away the main course and there was a pause in the dining, Adam felt the time was right to try and get Roly to talk about his own case. The decanter was almost empty and Caldwell removed it and
replaced it with a second.
– Roly, you said a little while ago that you thought there would be some helpful developments in my case within a few days …?
– Yes. I’m sorry about that. I may have been a bit premature.
– Can you at least tell me what they were?
– I’m not sure it is a good idea. I can see little point in getting your hopes up for something that does not, in the end, materialise.
– Is that why you’ve said no more about it?
– My dear Adam, in every case it is the evidence that is important. I do my best to concentrate on that and leave to one side that which I observe or surmise – unless it helps me! You should be doing the same.
– Please tell me, nevertheless.
Blytheway sighed and took a sip of claret.
– Very well. You are a grown man, I suppose. And it is your case. At the time of that last conversation a report reached me to the effect that Jenny Pemberton was going to provide her step-mother with an alibi that would be sufficient to defeat the petition.
– An alibi?
Blytheway looked long into Adam’s eyes, watching for a reaction.
– Her diary apparently. On practically every occasion when you are alleged to have been visiting the Stafford, Julia was having tea with Jenny in the Ritz and discussing, well, women’s things.
Adam felt his mouth drop open and pursed his lips to hide the slip. He looked down at the napkin on his knee, conscious of those eyes upon him. A wild mixture of confusion, relief and foreboding boiled in his mind.