At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – Well, that’s excellent news! … What’s the problem?

  He drained his glass and Blytheway solicitously refilled it.

  – The problem, Adam, is that it seems too neat to me. But, more importantly, Jenny has yet to file a statement confirming what her diary apparently says. And the entries in the diary, though I have not actually seen it as yet, consist of no more than a number of convenient crosses on the appointed days. They could have been added afterwards for all anyone knows.

  – But it’s a complete answer. It proves that I was telling the truth …

  Blytheway let Adam’s declaration hang in the air and looked at him with a mixture of amusement and concern.

  – It isn’t evidence at all until such time as we have a signed and witnessed statement from Jenny Pemberton. Of course, once we have that I will press her hard on the truth of what she has deposed to, whether or not I actually believe personally that she is telling the truth.

  – Why shouldn’t she be telling the truth?

  – It’s a matter of instinct. My instincts have never let me down … and the more I have pondered on this the less happy I have become.

  – Instinct? But you’ve said yourself that it is the evidence that one must concentrate on.

  – Perhaps instinct isn’t the best word then. You see, Adam, one of the advantages I have in my work is my memory. If I were to read a statement – a book even – it is as though I have taken a photographic image of each page, and each image gets filed away in my mind. I have, as it were, a photographic memory. And every new piece of information that comes my way gets filed. But sometimes that new information is discordant with what I already know. Sooner or later I sense that discord as clearly as I would a wrong note in a piano recital. Then I must find the source of that dissonance. It sometimes takes a little time but I always get there. And this information strikes a wrong note. So, instinct is too poor a word to use, I would accept.

  – Then have you worked out why it does not ring true?

  – Yes …

  – Are you going to tell me?

  – No …

  – Why ever not?

  – It would assist neither you nor me to do so.

  Blytheway took another sip of his claret and looked around the room as though waking from a slumber.

  – Caldwell should be here in a minute with our bread and butter pudding. I bought an enormous bag of sultanas and I think I’ve found a way of making sure they don’t go off.

  It was clear that the conversation was over and Adam knew better than to press him. He was coming to trust Blytheway’s judgment on such things. His sense of foreboding increased as his relief at the revelations evaporated. They ate dessert in silence and after Caldwell had cleared everything away Blytheway suggested that they return to the Salon for coffee and port. It was getting late now and Adam felt his eyes drooping. He stifled a yawn. Blytheway, on the other hand, seemed as frisky as a four-year-old.

  – Come on, Adam. There’s still an awful lot to talk about.

  – I’m sorry, Roly, I’m fading rather.

  – Nonsense! A cup of coffee will restore you.

  – I need to be getting back to Dr Johnson’s Buildings … it’s not an easy journey.

  – Then you must stay the night. I’ve taken the precaution of having a room prepared for you, just in case. Please feel free to smoke.

  Adam felt a sense of vulnerability returning. He didn’t know where this evening was heading. But the coffee had arrived and he could at least drink that before taking any decisions. He lit up.

  – Now that the meal is over, we can talk a little more about your case. Why haven’t you provided Jones with Betty’s address?

  – I have. I gave it to him earlier this evening.

  – And are you prepared to tell me where she lives?

  Adam gave him the address and watched as Blytheway assimilated this new piece of information.

  – You do look very tired, Adam. Did you have a very late night last night?

  – Quite late, yes.

  – Well. It can’t have been Mr O’Grady’s case that kept you awake. I took the liberty of looking at the papers. Rather straightforward if anything. You lost, I assume?

  Adam was too tired to effect shock at this latest breach of protocol.

  – Yes.

  – Quite unfair. But inevitable. Can you describe the man who was following you?

  – How do you know I was being followed?

  – Adam! Please!

  – A small man wearing a gabardine coat.

  – Richards. I don’t want to ask what you were up to last night. But did you give him the slip?

  – Yes.

  – Are you sure?

  – Yes.

  – Good. Well, that’s an end of that discussion. Have some port.

  Whatever was going to happen later that evening, Adam realised that it was in his interests to stay and speak for as long as possible. The meal was over. Now Roly might be prepared to loosen up about Pemberton. Blytheway read his mind.

  – Jeremy Pemberton and I were exact contemporaries as it happens. We studied law together.

  – What was he like?

  – Rather good-looking actually. In a dashing sort of way. But not my type. Bright, too. Very bright. But not as clever as he thought he was. Perhaps because he was handsome … and clever … I kept an eye on him from the start.

  – So you liked him to begin with?

  – For a matter of days. He was too narrow for my tastes … too ambitious. He wanted to win everything, wanted to be cock of the run. And he soon had his coterie of admirers and hangers-on … I wasn’t part of it. To be honest I don’t think he noticed that I existed until I beat him in the scholarship examinations. That really riled him. And to be honest that’s why I did it. So, then he saw me as someone he had to beat … but he never succeeded. And the harder he tried the more evident were his flaws.

  Adam stubbed out another cigarette in the lacquer tray. It was overflowing. It was the first time Blytheway had spoken of his past.

  – And after student days?

  – Well, it’s fair to say that he was significantly more successful than I was. He certainly had style though the substance was somewhat lacking. So, I just carried on my merry way and let him get on with it. He went from strength to strength whilst I paddled in the shallows.

  He got up and emptied the ashtray into a nearby bin and smiled at Adam as he returned to his seat, a look of wry amusement in his eyes.

  – Tell me about his first wife … about Joan.

  – Ah yes. Joan. Well. Even I could see that she was an absolutely breath-taking woman. She came out in 1913 and could have had the pick of the bunch. And she chose Pemberton. It was all over the society pages of course. A beautiful rich debutante and a dashing and successful young barrister. If it had been in my nature I could have become embittered and envious of the man. A successful career and a beautiful wife whilst I was overlooked and had to navigate my way around a lot of perverse and unjust laws that would condemn me just for existing. No “married and lived happily ever after” for me!

  – Were your … your leanings well known at that time?

  – My leanings? What sort of euphemism is that? Well, there were whisperings … which I did my best to ignore. But one had to be careful. It wasn’t long since the trials of Oscar Wilde, which, I confess, I read avidly. One of the reasons I decided to try the Bar actually.

  Adam glanced at his watch. It was past one in the morning. Blytheway betrayed no signs of tiredness. He wondered how often he had spoken of those days. Not frequently, if at all, he suspected. Why had he chosen to tell him all these things?

  – So they must have got married at about the time the Great War started?

  – Yes. Bit of an upset, that was. He signed up at the first opportunity and I will have to give him credit for that. Leaving the delightful Joan behind. Led a charmed life out in the trenches … medals, mentions in despatches, that s
ort of thing.

  – So that was it between you and him for a few years?

  – Oh, not at all. We served on the same front, albeit in different capacities. He was an officer in the infantry whereas I volunteered to work with the ambulance corps. It was during one of those battles that I truly came to dislike the man. Then finally the war was over, we both survived and we both returned to working in the Temple. Then Jenny came along and then Joan died. The poor thing was only twenty-nine.

  – And Pemberton started to drink?

  – He was in a terrible state and one could understand that. He had lost a truly lovely wife. She was, by all accounts, a very good woman. He was forever getting drunk in El Vinos or other less salubrious places, and boring everyone who came within shooting range with his loss. And his practice went downhill as mine began to take off. So, I took pity on him and befriended him. But his rages were unbearable and eventually I lost patience with him and told him that he was becoming a self-pitying bore – which he didn’t appreciate – and that was the end of my attempt at friendship.

  Blytheway paused and looked up at Adam.

  – Well. That’s enough of the history of my relationship with Jeremy Pemberton.

  – What was it that made you really dislike him during the War?

  – That, I’m afraid, must be a story for another time, if it is told at all.

  – Does any of this explain why you decided to take my case?

  – Storman is a good man and when he asked me about it that was one of the things that interested me. Now. It’s time you went to bed. It’s the second door on the right on the first floor. Caldwell has prepared it for you and your suit and coat are laid out for tomorrow. I’ll stay down here. I have a little more work to do for tomorrow.

  Adam got up and said goodnight. As he was heading for the door, he remembered his strange experience in the church on the day before he was first introduced to Blytheway. He had seen Julia rise from her prayers and walk towards the door and then she had vanished into nothing.

  – Do you believe in ghosts, Roly?

  – I don’t believe in an afterlife or that we carry on as disembodied spirits when our bodies die, if that’s what you mean. But, yes, I believe in ghosts. That we can be haunted by those who have left us whether they are still alive or not. And they can haunt us in the places where we, perhaps, loved them or remembered them, or in faces that remind us of them. Are you haunted, Adam?

  – No! I mean … I don’t think so.

  – Jeremy Pemberton is a haunted man. I saw it in his eyes in the crypt. His ghosts are all around him. He reminded me of how he used to be in the weeks and months after Joan died.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  (Thursday 20th February 1941)

  Storman had been caught in a light afternoon shower as he made his way across Trafalgar Square to the restaurant. He lowered his umbrella as he entered, and his first glimpse of her as he emerged from under it was of two shapely legs crossed at the ankle under the table. Catherine was engrossed in a thick book and did not become aware of him until he was almost in front of her. She gave a little “oh” of surprise and jumped to her feet smiling broadly – beaming, he thought.

  – Jack. I’m sorry. I was miles away.

  – That looks rather a weighty volume?

  Catherine glanced over at it and stroked the cover, slightly embarrassed. She was elegantly dressed and Storman could not remember the last time she looked so poised. She also seemed slightly slimmer than when last they had met, although in a good way. She held up the book to him as they both sat down: The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money by J.M. Keynes.

  – It’s frightfully interesting, but rather expensive to buy. One of the girls in my department lent it to me.

  – How’s it going? Or is it too early to say?

  – Oh Jack! It should be boring but it’s not. There are so many interesting people around and such fascinating conversations. Thank you so much!

  – I hadn’t expected the work to be so fulfilling.

  – Well, the typing and all that isn’t really. But they let me do other things as well. And there are women who were at university at the same time as I was and we’ve got a lot we can talk about. I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed using my brain, even if it is mainly on trivial things.

  She was in much better spirits than the last time they had met. After their cup of tea in January Storman had telephoned her and suggested that they have a bite to eat together. They had met in a down-at-heel place in Covent Garden that had known better days. He was able to bring her up to date with developments in the case against Adam and to listen to her worries. The house in Dulwich was cold and dark and she was lonely. Deborah was away in Edenbridge and Adam was, of course, in the Temple. There had been no communication between them other than a short letter containing a further ten pounds and assuring her that he was well. It had contained no mention of his illness.

  Her daily routine was meaningless to her, and when the day ended she would make sure that the blackout screens were in place and then turn on the wireless and move the dial across the frequencies looking for news bulletins in English and avoiding the German language stations beaming in. But the news was depressing and, above all, censored so that she ceased to be able to believe in it. She would re-read yesterday’s paper after reading today’s, and spot the inconsistencies in the reports. And, finally, she had given up trying to listen to the news and instead, alone, cold and lonely, she worried about money, about Deborah and about their future. Catherine had wept as she spoke.

  Storman had sympathised and told her he would do what he could. And, several days later, Catherine received a letter from someone in the Board of Trade offering her a secretarial position. She had jumped at it. Storman had allowed her a week or so to settle in before suggesting this further lunch.

  – So, it’s not all rationing and scrap metal then?

  – There is all of that. Did you know that there’s a shortage of alarm clocks and that means that miners are oversleeping and missing their shifts? But I feel that I’m doing something productive now. There’s a sense of purpose – even though everyone hates the Board of Trade – and they seem to know what they’re doing.

  – How’s the pay?

  – Forty-eight shillings a week, which isn’t bad really. It’s just good to have an idea what’s going on. And to feel useful after so many years. Did you know that they’ll be introducing clothing rationing soon? They’re working on a slogan for it, and as for my boss, she’s interested in my ideas.

  – She?

  – She was at Oxford at about the same time as I was at Cambridge and went into the administrative side of the Civil Service. I’m sure I could have done that if I hadn’t got married.

  They ordered some food – steak and kidney pie with boiled potatoes – and Storman told her that the meal was on him. The place had filled up, and though the food wasn’t particularly good it was clear that this was a popular venue for the Civil Service. Catherine ate delicately, the brick of a book balanced on her side plate.

  – So. What do you talk about other than work?

  – All sorts. There are quite a few intellectuals and … leftists I suppose. But not at all like the caricatures you read about in the Daily Sketch. My boss knows the Bloomsbury set and talks about “free love”. She doesn’t believe in marriage, you know.

  Storman listened as she spoke, her face animated and her eyes alive again.

  – It seems to be doing you good.

  – How’s Adam?

  He had wondered how long it would be before she raised the subject.

  – A lot better. He’s put on a bit of weight and seems to be better dressed than he used to be. I think Blytheway’s behind it. He seems to be busier work-wise than when he was with us. I don’t think Arthur went out of his way to help him along.

  – Arthur always was a snob.

  – It’s funny, you both seem to be doing much better since …

&nb
sp; Storman stopped himself but it was too late. He had hoped to build the conversation towards the possibility of some sort of reconciliation. Catherine coloured.

  – I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out like that.

  – What’s happening with the trial?

  – To be honest, I don’t really know. Pemberton’s getting jumpy about it. I can’t imagine Adam’s particularly calm at the prospect. Have you been asked to be a witness?

  – No.

  – I didn’t think Blytheway would want to call you, and as the hearing’s only two and a half weeks away –

  – Two and a half weeks?!

  – I’m sorry. You haven’t heard. Pemberton got the date pulled forward. He’d been boasting that he could get it over with before Easter.

  – Two and a half weeks? But that’s only a fortnight on Monday.

  – It means it’s nearly over. One way or another.

  – What’s Pemberton got to be jumpy about anyway?

  Storman had realised that he shouldn’t have mentioned Pemberton as soon as the words left his lips, but he had still been recovering from his earlier gaffe. There was no way of distracting Catherine from her question and so he decided to tell the truth.

  – Well … it may be that Adam has a defence to Pemberton’s allegations.

  – A defence?!

  A mixture of confusion and cautious relief crossed her features.

  – It’s not good news, I’m afraid, Catherine.

  – I thought it couldn’t be.

  – It seems that Jenny Pemberton is going to provide her step-mother with an alibi. Apparently, she is likely to say that on the days when Adam was supposed to be at the Stafford Julia was having tea at the Ritz with Jenny.