At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  – Members of the jury, this then is a story of love and betrayal. Tomas Novak loves Katya Hoffer and she loves him. But she loves her brother more. Tomas Novak loved her enough to die for her, though he did not know the extent of her betrayal. Katya Hoffer is not on trial today. You must decide whether she is telling the truth. If she is, she does herself no favours for she puts herself at risk of standing one day where Mr Novak stands. But that is not your concern. That is for another day and perhaps for another jury. You may conclude that, though she loved her brother more, she loved Tomas Novak enough, at the end, not to let him die as a result of her actions.

  Mr Justice Sherdley had summed up the case in a way that was favourable to Novak and the jury had been sent out to deliberate at 12.30 that morning. He and Falling had accompanied Novak to the cells and waited with him whilst the jury considered their verdict. It had been a gloomy occasion with talk overshadowed by the wait for the knock on the cell door. Every footstep, every rattle of keys brought conversation to a standstill. After the usual “what ifs” and “if onlys”, Novak had subsided into silence. Falling, Jones could tell, was worried not just about the verdict, but about Katya Hoffer, who was incarcerated because of his actions, and about his own upcoming trial. It was Thursday afternoon and on Monday next he would be in the Royal Courts of Justice as a Party Cited in a divorce. And still there had been no signed statement from Jenny. Jones saw these latter concerns flickering across Adam’s face but neither of them felt able to discuss a different case in front of a man under the shadow of the noose. Jones worried about preparing the Pemberton case, about the McKechnie trial that was to proceed during the following week, and about the necessity to prepare grounds for appeal if Novak was to be sentenced to death. And then the knock on the door came, summonsing them back up to Court 6. The jury had reached a verdict.

  And now they sat awaiting the arrival of Mr Justice Sherdley and the jury.

  – All rise!

  The jury filed in. Jones noticed that several of them looked in Adam’s direction and even in towards the dock. Mrs Finlay, formerly Feinstein, managed a shy smile. Everyone sat down again and Blytheway continued to file his nails. The jury foreman was asked to stand. It was the war veteran, who stood to attention, chest out, a row of medals. The other jurors looked up at him, tension on their faces though they knew the outcome. Preston had stopped playing with his pen and was looking intently at his notebook.

  – What is your verdict?

  – Not Guilty!

  The jury foreman barked it out like a sergeant major. Preston closed his notebook and looked away. Adam, who had been leaning forward, his forearms flat on the desk, slumped forward and put his hands to his face momentarily before recovering himself. Blytheway continued to stare at his cuticles. Adam stood and asked that Novak be released. The Judge granted his application. The jury was discharged and the court rose.

  Outside court, Adam went to shake Novak’s hand. The gesture was refused.

  – What will happen to Katya? Can I see her now?

  His client stood before him in his crumpled blue suit. Before Adam could reply, police officers appeared on either side of Novak and he was re-arrested for breach of the Aliens Act and led away again. Falling and Jones watched as he was taken back to the iron door leading down to the cells.

  Chapter Sixty-three

  (Saturday 8th March 1941)

  When the tulips began to fade and drop their pink petals Annie had replaced them with crocuses. Buttery yellow with deep maroon streaks on the outside of each petal. Julia sat in her armchair and watched as the colours faded with the dusk until only silhouettes were left. It was nearly time to put the blackout curtains in place. She looked around her dressing room. She spent more time here than in any room other than the cellar, where her single bed lay next to Jeremy’s. On her writing desk were the papers provided to her by her solicitors for the trial that was to begin on Monday. Next to them was the brown envelope containing Jenny’s witness statement, still unsigned and un-witnessed. She had put all her financial papers in the middle drawer. A freshly cleaned and pressed two-piece suit hung on the door of the wardrobe. That was for Monday. Annie had made sure there were three other suits in similar condition for Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. If the case lasted until Friday she would wear Monday’s suit again. There was a pile of starched and pressed blouses on a shelf inside the wardrobe. Demure and unostentatious as her lawyers had advised her they should be. She would wear her pearls.

  Annie had been surprisingly sympathetic over recent weeks and, when bringing in the dry-cleaned court outfits, was bold enough to wish her good luck for the week ahead. Julia had been taken aback. She had voiced her suspicions about her maid’s motives to Jenny on more than one occasion, but Annie seemed to be sincere. Perhaps she was saying similar things to Jeremy? Samuels hadn’t wished her luck or anything like that. He treated her with a wan courtesy appropriate for necessary but unwanted guests.

  She walked over to the escritoire and picked up the manila envelope, sliding out its contents in one movement, before returning to her seat with the draft statement. Her last meeting with her solicitor and counsel had been the previous evening. They pressed upon her the urgency of getting the statement signed and witnessed, and she had promised she would do so – over the weekend. They asked her why she hadn’t already done so. Sitting in her armchair now she asked herself the same question. There had been opportunities. She and Jenny had been to the Ritz for tea on two further occasions since she gave her Joan’s ring.

  On each occasion she had waited for an opening to raise the subject, but could not. Jenny would talk relentlessly about Captain Simon Jenkins. They were writing to one another incessantly. Every morning there would be a new white envelope on the silver tray in the hall. Captain Jenkins used a fountain pen and Jenny’s name and address would be there in blue-black curvy writing. They corresponded about everything: their childhoods, their families, every dusty corner of the past and every shiny prospect for the future. Where would be a good part of London to live? What sort of jobs would Simon take once the war was over? What sort of education would be best for children after the war? Perhaps it would be better for children to grow up in the country rather than the town? And their letters, so Jenny had told her, had moved gradually from the hypothetical to the concrete so that the questions changed to “Where shall we live together?”, “What shall we do after the war?” “Where should our children be educated?” And on all of these topics Jenny would seek Julia’s views.

  Above all Jenny wanted to talk about marriage. Of course, Simon hadn’t proposed. They hadn’t been able to see one another since that last visit to the Café de Paris in January. But she felt sure that he would – and she would accept. Julia had tried gently to suggest that Jenny was being hasty. She hardly knew him. Knew him properly, that was. She was still very young and very beautiful, with a bright future ahead of her. So much could change even in the months ahead. The future was too uncertain. But Jenny was impervious to Julia’s caution. She might be young but she knew herself well. And she knew that she loved Simon Jenkins and that he loved her. Their love would overcome all obstacles. After all, Julia married young. Then the conversation would lurch onto why Julia married so young and whether it had been the right thing to do. And although this might have given Julia the opportunity to bring up the question of the witness statement, it never felt right and she would steer the conversation back to Jenny’s concerns – and to Captain Simon Jenkins.

  – I really think that next time we see one another Simon’s going to propose.

  – Oh Jenny. It’s far too early.

  – Well, I think he will anyway.

  – Don’t forget that he’ll need Daddy’s permission.

  – We’ve been talking about that. You don’t think Daddy will object?

  – Daddy’s got a lot on his mind at the moment. The truth is I really don’t know what he would do.

  Then the conversation would swing round back
to the beginning again. And still she did not raise the subject of the witness statement. Her lawyers had asked her more than once why she had not obtained Jenny’s signature. In her heart she knew the answer. It was because the statement was untrue. If Jenny signed it she could be compelled to swear to its truth in court. She was an adult now. She would be committing perjury even if that perjury was not discovered. Julia had remembered Jenny’s distress when the subject had been raised over tea in January. And yet, if she did sign the statement it could well be that Jeremy would drop the case, even at the doors of the court. He would not want to see Jenny, of all people, put through the ordeal of giving evidence against her father and being cross-examined by his KC – or Roland Blytheway for that matter.

  And Julia still believed that Jeremy might withdraw his petition. He had become less certain of himself since Jenny’s revelations about the diary. And he seemed distinctly unnerved at the prospect of being cross-examined by Adam’s counsel, Blytheway. She noticed the little things that pointed towards the possibility of a reconciliation. He wasn’t as gruff with her. Their beds, behind the wine-racks that were their makeshift bedroom, were moving closer together. Seeds of doubt were sprouting in his mind. If she could only satisfy him that Jenny was prepared to give evidence, his resolution might well crack.

  The crocuses had gone from being silhouettes to formless dark shadows. She peered at her watch, then stumbled over to the window to put up the blackout shades. The sky over Eaton Square was bright and clear. The moon was rising and stars were beginning to prick holes in the darkness. She would go to bed early tonight and take a sleeping draught. She lit a lamp and her room was suffused with soft light. What to do next?

  She opened the middle drawer, took out her financial papers and, sitting at her desk, began to arrange them in categories in front of her. She picked up her handwritten summary of her situation and looked at the bottom line. The last time she had reviewed the position she had four hundred guineas. She crossed that figure out and reduced it to three hundred and fifty. She had written a cheque for Mr Alnwick’s brief fee. If she lost the case she would be poor. She would have nowhere to live – she could not remain under the same roof with Jeremy, he would not allow it. She would lose her children. Her children! Stephen, Sebastian and Agnes, they were so far away from her. Safer, of course, and she was still able to speak to them on the telephone every evening. They still needed her. She would have to find a new home for herself whilst they would remain in the Cotswolds or in Eaton Square. She would start looking in the personal columns for somewhere to rent, not too far away.

  There was a frenzied knocking at the door and Julia jumped. Jenny came rushing in without waiting to be asked. Her mascara was running and her cheeks were flushed. She held her diary in both hands in front of her.

  – Jenny! What is it?

  Jenny threw herself down in the armchair, put her head in her hands and began sobbing. Julia went over to her and began to stroke her hair; it had been carefully pinned into place and there was a large ivory hairclip holding the tresses at her nape. Jenny was wearing a beautiful red silk dress that flowed down her shoulders. Julia could make out the shape of her knees beneath it. They quivered with her weeping. She was struggling for breath through her tears, and it was several minutes before her shoulders stopped shaking. Eventually, she straightened up and Julia went round to look into her eyes. They were puffy and her complexion was blotched. Her diary was in her lap with her hands lying on top of it. Julia noticed that she was wearing the emerald ring that had belonged to Joan on her left ring finger.

  – It’s Daddy!

  Julia looked at her watch – it was quarter to seven – and waited. Captain Jenkins was due to collect Jenny at seven. She had talked of little else all week.

  – I went to his study to ask him what he would think if I got engaged and … and … and he got so angry. He said I was too young to leave home and that I had to stay here! And he wouldn’t agree to me getting married. And then he said that I was infatuated with Simon … and I knew … I just knew …

  – Knew what, darling?

  – Knew he’d been reading my diary … and he promised me he wouldn’t! So I called him a silly old man and grabbed my diary from his desk and ran out.

  – Jenny!

  – Well, he is a silly old man!

  Julia took both of her step-daughter’s hands in her own and squeezed them gently.

  – But Jenny. You mustn’t talk to your father like that. He does mean well, you know. He’s under a lot of stress at the moment.

  – With his silly petition!

  Julia sensed that this might be her only chance. Jenny was going out for the evening and that would leave only Sunday in which to get the witness statement signed. It was unlikely to be easier to broach tomorrow when she would be full of talk of Simon and the Café de Paris. She would hardly be more antagonistic to her father then than she clearly was this evening. Julia spoke in a halting, diffident way.

  – Jenny. I’m sorry to raise this but, now you’ve mentioned the petition, well … all those entries in your diary that proved that Daddy was being silly … my solicitors have prepared a statement for you to sign, just to prove that Daddy’s being silly … I’ve got it here. All you have to do is sign it in front of a witness …

  – Oh, Julia. I won’t have to give any evidence will I?

  – I’m sure you won’t – said soothingly – here it is – handing over the still open document. I’ll ring for Annie to come and witness it.

  – But it’s Annie’s night off, she won’t be back until late.

  Damn it!

  – Never mind. Why don’t you just sign it anyway, and we can get Annie to witness your signature tomorrow.

  – Is that allowed?

  – I’m sure it is. Just give it a quick read through. Use my pen.

  Jenny had stopped crying. She ran a finger under every line of type and then, with a deep breath, took up the pen and signed. Then she looked up into Julia’s eyes.

  – Will you do me a favour as well?

  – Of course. Anything.

  Jenny handed over the diary.

  – Look after this for me. Keep it in your room. I’m so angry with Daddy for reading it. I know he won’t come in here for it. Promise you won’t read it.

  Julia turned the bound leather book over in her hands and felt the cold of the little metal lock.

  – Don’t you worry … I’ll take care of it for you. I really don’t think Daddy will try and read it again. Now, let’s sort out your make-up. You’re going to look lovely tonight. Forget about me and Daddy, for this evening at least. Just enjoy your evening with Simon … and don’t be too disappointed if he doesn’t propose. There’s all the time in the world for him to do that.

  – I really want you to meet him. Will you? Next time he’s in London.

  – I’d love to meet him.

  And using some blusher and face powder Julia hid away all signs of Jenny’s tears. She went over to the full-length mirror to admire herself and smiled her thanks to Julia. Samuels knocked on the door and announced the arrival of Captain Jenkins. Jenny beamed.

  – Have a wonderful evening, Jenny.

  – I’ll tell you all about it in the morning. Wish me luck.

  And then she was out of the door and Julia heard her footsteps clattering down the stairs to the hall.

  Chapter Sixty-four

  (Saturday 8th March 1941)

  There were two packets of ten Embassy cigarettes on his dresser and a note in Blytheway’s now familiar handwriting:

  “A little treat for you ahead of Monday. Don’t worry, sweetheart, everything is under control. I’ll see you on Sunday.”

  Adam smiled to himself and picked up one of the cartons, caressing the cardboard, flipping back the top, and pulling away the tin foil protecting the contents. The blackout shades were already down and the small lamp beside his bed gave the room a warm glow and drew refractions of light from the crystal obelisk
next to his bed. Delia had grown and was no longer a kitten. She was sleeping soundly in her basket. He looked around his little home. He had been here over two months now and his natural untidiness had been tempered by Blytheway, who had insisted on being given a key and who would drop by with little gifts.

  Blytheway had come round to see Adam on the Thursday evening, after Novak’s acquittal, and had been appalled to find a suit jacket on the back of Adam’s chair with the trousers draped haphazardly over the top of it. Adam had tried to thank him once more for what he had done at the Old Bailey, but Blytheway’s mind had been elsewhere.

  – I sometimes think that I am making absolutely no progress with you! Will you never learn?!

  – I’m sorry, Roly. Truly I am. I’ve learnt a great deal, and after what has happened over the last few days I feel that I will be in very safe hands when the trial begins on Monday. I promise you. I have learnt from my mistakes.

  – I’m not talking about Novak. Or about next Monday. I’m talking about the way you treat your clothing! How can you possibly succeed in life if you don’t look after your suits?

  Adam wanted to speak with him about Pemberton’s petition, which was due to be heard in a matter of days, but Blytheway would have none of it.

  – You don’t even appear to have an iron. And I noticed that during the Novak trial you wore one of your shirts two days in a row!

  – Please, Roly, won’t you talk to me about the trial. I trust you but I am getting very nervous … scared even … as it gets closer.