At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

He had got to know Caldwell relatively well over the previous two weeks. Always immaculately dressed in striped trousers, grey waistcoat and black frock-coat and wearing white gloves, he would bring Adam breakfast, lunch and dinner, sometimes preparing a separate bedside table so that Roly could share a meal with him. He would bring him the morning paper, and tea at four, as well as assembling and taking down the blackout shades at the appropriate hours. He also advised Adam which of Roly’s books he should read next. Caldwell was surprisingly knowledgeable about these – and about literature, art and culture generally.

  As the days had gone by the perfunctory courtesies attending the delivery of plates, glasses and cups became more discursive. Occasionally Caldwell would even take a seat by the bed, lowering himself awkwardly down and manhandling his damaged right leg until it was comfortable. He could not bend it. He would sit for perhaps ten minutes and chat before rising with difficulty to his feet again, using the arms of his carver chair as leverage to get him upright.

  Blytheway was still an enigma to Adam and he had tried, by oblique questions and targeted generalities, to glean from Caldwell a fuller picture of the man. However, Caldwell’s inevitable answer would be that Adam should ask Mr Blytheway. He was only a little less revealing when Adam asked him questions about himself. Whilst he was prepared to discuss art, literature, rationing, the war, he would not be drawn. Adam had asked him about the scarring to his face and the damage to his leg, and Caldwell said that these were things that he would rather not discuss. This was to become the stock reply, politely delivered, to any questions Adam put to him about his past. He did, though, open up briefly on one point.

  – Mr Blytheway told me when I visited last month that he had a “photographic memory”. Is that your experience?

  – Well, if Mr Blytheway has told you of it, sir, I can see no harm in commenting on it. He has a complete recall of everything. I found this quite disconcerting at first. There are, I suspect, some things that it would be better to forget. But I do not think Mr Blytheway is able to do that.

  – What sort of things?

  – Things, I am afraid, that I would rather not discuss. But I would say that he remembers, word for word, our every exchange. He remembers every meal I have ever prepared for him, every guest and precisely what he or she was wearing on any given day. That alone keeps me on my toes, so to speak, sir.

  The sound of the dinner gong shimmered up to them from the ground floor. Adam made his way slowly down the stairs, shuffling a step at a time and pausing several times for breath. Caldwell was waiting at the Salon door and opened it for him. The Salon was as he remembered it: the armchairs, coffee table and cocktail cabinet, the Meissonier table, the glass-fronted bookcases, and a profusion of burning candles giving everything a honeyed glow. And against the far wall was the chaise longue upon which Blytheway was reclining.

  He uncoiled elegantly and came over to greet him smiling warmly. Roly was wearing a single-breasted dinner jacket cut long, his dress shirt was the stiff stippled type, and the studs glittered with small diamonds. Around his waist was a narrow pearl-white cummerbund artfully highlighted with discreet splashes of yellow and green. Adam noticed a line of a similar green on the lower edges of Roly’s bow tie.

  They moved to the armchairs and Caldwell brought in an ice-bucket and two flutes. There was a watery clinking of ice against metal as he pulled out the bottle. As before he eased the cork off with a sigh rather than a pop, poured out two sparkling glasses for them, and then withdrew.

  – A quarter to eight and no sirens. I think we may be in for another night’s reprieve. Here’s to your safe return to the Temple.

  They clinked glasses and drank.

  – And to your kindness and hospitality. Roly, last time we were here you said that it was all right to smoke?

  – I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

  – But, Roly, it’s been nearly two weeks.

  – And you’re still alive. Cigarettes aren’t indispensable to happiness you know.

  – But they’re harmless enough. They’re meant to be good for clearing the chest.

  – I know what their advertisements say. However, it doesn’t tally with my own observations of those who smoke.

  – Please!

  – Oh, very well. You’re an adult, I suppose, and able to make your own choices.

  Blytheway leaned over towards the table, opened a drawer and pulled out the two packets of Embassy that he had given him a fortnight earlier. They were still spattered with Adam’s dried blood. He handed them over and placed an ashtray within reach.

  – I thought I’d leave the blood where it was as a grim warning. It set me to thinking. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day it becomes compulsory to decorate cigarette packets with blood or some such, just so that people know the risks they are taking.

  – Now you are being frivolous, Roly. That’s absurd – and besides I’m not taking a risk at all.

  Adam lit up and took in a deep lungful of smoke. As he blew it out he was overcome with a spluttering fit that left him red-eyed.

  – How nice to hear that sound again! It’s been such a while.

  – Sorry about that. I’m sure that was good for me. Clearing out my system.

  – If you say so. Are you really sure it is sensible for you to return to living alone in your condition?

  – How long have you been living here?

  He saw Blytheway register this evasion.

  – Since the end of the Great War. It has always been a very pleasant part of town, and such interesting neighbours. Bombs permitting, I think I shall stay here.

  – Did you entertain much?

  – Entertain and be entertained. But it’s a younger man’s game and, if I am honest – which of course I always am – I’m tired of it. That very nice lady Otteline Morrell, who died several years ago, lived just down the street and could always be counted on for an interesting soirée.

  – The Bloomsbury Set?

  – Oh, there was always an interesting crowd and I don’t deny that it was exciting at first to have them all come round here from time to time.

  – But you tired of it?

  – Please don’t get me wrong, Adam. I greatly admired a lot of their writings and their art, but after a while I found their conversations to be essentially frivolous.

  Adam tried and failed to smother a laugh and ended up coughing and laughing at the same time.

  – Now, Adam! But it wasn’t just that. I felt that they had an innate sense of their own superiority over the rest of society, and such an attitude is one that I have never been able to stomach. My memory was also something of a curse. I would always know when someone was misquoting something. I would put to a person something flatly contradictory that he or she had said at an earlier occasion and they would emphatically deny having said it. The arts of cross-examination and logic are utterly useless in such circumstances – and, worse, would be seen as bad manners.

  – So they stopped inviting you?

  – Not at all. I think they regarded me as something of an inoffensive gad-fly. But I had had enough and in the end there was an amicable parting of the ways and we all remained on good terms. Anyway, when the war came and the bombing started, those who were left all seemed to move out to the country.

  – Weren’t you tempted to do the same?

  – I wouldn’t dream of it. I want to be here. I want to see what happens. I’m not going to be taking silly risks, but if I did move out whilst all of this was going on I would never forgive myself.

  – You mentioned that you had a place in the country?

  – A lovely little place in Wiltshire with beautiful formal gardens and a small lake. That’s where I keep those peacocks I mentioned. I would go there for a few weeks in the summer and for the occasional weekend away. But that was enough for me. Believe me, Adam, if I am feeling so bored in London I would be utterly unbearable on an indefinite stay in the country. My housekeeper is looking after the place for me and s
he sends me regular reports.

  Caldwell entered to say that dinner was ready and they made their way through to the dining room. The room was laid out as before.

  By ten o’clock they were back in the Salon taking their coffee with some port. There had been no sirens or bombs. The meal, as before, had been excellent given the constraints: tinned vegetable soup, grilled and buttered Dover sole with potatoes and spring green cabbage from the garden, followed by steamed chocolate pudding made with milk powder. As before they shared just over a decanter of claret. Conversation was perfunctory but this did not concern Adam. He had been kept up to date with most developments (or at least those which Roly felt it relevant to impart). Any more serious discussions would be left for after dinner.

  – Where have you been all day, Roly?

  – Portobello Road in the morning, looking for antiques – I managed to pick up a rather good piece of Chinese porcelain – and then in the afternoon I thought I would amble around Bloomsbury. I try and do this about once a month to look at the bomb damage so that I have a record of how things are progressing. Perhaps deteriorating would be a better word.

  – Is it bad?

  – Very bad I’m afraid. The whole area around here and Holborn has taken a frightful battering. I won’t give you chapter and verse on every square but it is decidedly worse than it was in February. The raids over the last three weeks or so, including the one that got you, appear to have tipped an unseemly proportion of their loads right down on top of us. So many lovely buildings have just disappeared. It’s a tragedy. It is also absolutely filthy! Dust, soot and ash everywhere. I think I ruined the clothes I was wearing, and I had to spend over half an hour in the bath scrubbing away afterwards.

  – Do you think we are getting near to the end of it?

  – If I were Hitler – or should I say Goering – I would take one look at the reconnaissance photographs of all the destruction and I would press on until everything was gone. I don’t think London can take much more of this. Mind you, he made a complete mess of the Battle of Britain so we must live in hope.

  Blytheway stretched and yawned and then cupped his pocket watch to look at the time.

  – I rather like the Portobello Road. It’s rather seedy, I’ll admit. But lovely big houses. I’ve always wondered why the area is called Notting Hill. When I have a little more time on my hands I may look into that.

  He went off into a reverie, leaning back in his armchair and looking at the ceiling before taking a languid sip of port and closing his eyes. Adam thought he was about to drop off without telling him anything about his case.

  – Have there been any developments?

  Blytheway immediately sat upright and looked into Adam’s face. His eyes were alert and smiling.

  – I thought you were never going to ask.

  – I’ve learned my lesson,

  Adam said ruefully before continuing.

  – You said earlier that if you told me everything you would never stop talking. Have you told me everything about my case?

  – Of course not. It would be impossible to tell you everything.

  – Surely I have a right to know everything?

  – That depends upon what you mean by “everything”. There are facts, there are rumours and there are speculations, some of them mine. I really don’t think you are entitled to know all these things, particularly matters of speculation and rumour … and leaving such questions aside, whatever your “entitlement” I’m not sure it is actually in your interest to know everything.

  Adam sighed and slumped back in his armchair. On the one hand Blytheway had obviously been waiting for him to ask, and on the other he was holding out on answers. He had learned, however, that Roly would take things in his own way and at his own pace.

  – Tell me about Pemberton at least.

  – He doesn’t appear to have improved since the funeral. If anything he is drinking more. Last Thursday I was walking down Inner Temple Lane as he was walking – if that is a proper word to use – up. He was staggering in fact. His hair was a mess and he looked as though he had slept in his clothing, which to me is the surest sign of decadence. His spectacles were smeared and I am sure he did not recognise me until we were almost level with one another. I made to tip my hat when he recognised me and he let off a stream of abuse which took the breath away, some of it personal and unrepeatable. I must say he has a wonderful turn of phrase, even when drunk. Quite reminded me of the old days. The trouble was he was so loud, and quite venomous. Heads popped out of windows. I thought it best not to reply and went on my way followed by a fairly fluent bout of cursing – some fairly commendable alliteration if I might say so. I rounded the corner of the church, waited a moment and then stepped back to have another look. He was standing in a daze with people staring at him, as though he’d forgotten where he was going; then he turned and tottered back down the Lane to Stirrup Court.

  – He sounds as though he was in a terrible state.

  – If anything worse than when Joan died. I think Julia was an enormous help to him when Jenny was a baby, but when she began to grow up he took all the love that he had had for Joan and poured it all into Jenny. He put all his chips into one pocket of the wheel.

  – All of them?

  – A good question, and I am not sure that I am qualified to answer it. However, I can hazard a guess. If I am right (and I am rarely wrong) and to continue with my roulette analogy, if it is true that Jenny came more and more to resemble Joan as she grew up he may have started to transfer chips from Julia to Jenny, and this of course could lead to a very unhappy change in the balance of affections. Julia is not, I understand, a stupid person. She would have been aware, sooner or later, of what was happening. It wasn’t Jenny’s fault of course …

  Blytheway paused and looked across at him with that pitiless stare. Adam felt his eyes widening and his face colouring. This was not a hypothesis that had occurred to him – he had been so concentrated on Julia that he had not looked at the wider picture: at Pemberton and Jenny. He found himself searching his memory for any scrap or tittle from his locked store of forbidden memories that might confirm or refute what was being said.

  – You’ve gone strangely quiet, Adam. And you seem miles away. I won’t ask what you are thinking, and obviously you know Pemberton better than you knew either Julia or Jenny. But it seems to me that, even with your limited knowledge of the characters concerned, my hypothesis does not sound so far-fetched?

  – I’d never thought of things in that way.

  – If I’m right, Pemberton has bet everything on one person, and now that one person is gone. That is why I think it is even worse for him to lose Jenny. He has not only lost her and all the love he held for her, but he has also lost the posthumous investment of his love for Joan. He’s lost all his chips. And if all the love has been lost, then hate, I am afraid, can be quick to fill the vacuum. I can only say that the look that hit me from his murky pools was pure hatred – as though I personally was responsible for Jenny’s death. In fact, now that I think of it, he did blame me for her death.

  – He’s gone mad!

  – Oh, don’t underestimate him. He is no fool and I am sure he will try and pull himself together. But his hatred appears to be all-embracing. There are two silver linings to this cloud. I cannot believe he will be as challenging an opponent in McKechnie, or as difficult a witness in his own case. That can only be to your advantage … More port?

  Blytheway reached for the decanter and filled their glasses.

  – 1922 Fonseca. I couldn’t resist having it decanted although I am sure it would have outlasted the war. What do you think?

  Adam took another sip of the ruby and savoured the play of flavours across his tongue.

  – Very good.

  – I’m glad you like it. Perhaps we should try and finish it? It’s a Saturday after all.

  Blytheway also took a sip, rolled it around his mouth, swallowed and let a silence descend on the room.

&
nbsp; – You said there were two silver linings?

  – Oh? So I did. You see, I am not the only member of the Bar that Pemberton has taken to abusing. I am not sure he is always aware that he is doing it. There was an enormous reservoir of sympathy for him after Jenny died but he has performed superhuman feats to ensure that this has all now almost drained away. You don’t think I would have let you go back to Dr Johnson’s Buildings if it were otherwise, do you?

  – I see.

  – You should trust me more, Adam.

  – But if he’s behaving like that in public he must be abusing Julia terribly at home?

  – Oh, Julia moved out several days ago.

  – Moved out? Why didn’t you tell me?

  – I’m terribly sorry. It must have slipped my mind.

  – Nothing slips your mind. Where has she gone?

  – I’m afraid I really don’t know. Somewhere more central I believe.

  – Can you find out?

  – I am sure I could. But I don’t believe it is in your interests to know.

  – What right –?

  – Trust me, Adam.

  He realised again that Blytheway could not be pushed and that he should get what he could out of the man and be grateful for it.

  – What does Jenny’s death mean so far as her statement is concerned?

  – Well. I have seen a copy of it. It is fairly short, and although it would appear that she signed it, it was not witnessed. That creates some evidential difficulties, as you yourself must understand. It would not have mattered so much if she were alive: her statement was for the use of Mrs Pemberton’s lawyers, it was not for submission to the court or to the other legal teams. In the ordinary course of things it would have remained with the files of Randall, Beams and Purefoy, Jenny would have given her evidence, and then she would have been cross-examined on it. It was never intended to be an affidavit. Now that she is … dead, of course, she cannot give that evidence. If it had been witnessed, it would have been that much easier to get it admitted into evidence in her absence. That is considerably more difficult now.