At the Dark Hour

by John Wilson

  And with a slight bow he let himself out.

  Chapter Eighty-five

  (Tuesday 22nd April 1941)

  Adam lit a match and looked at his alarm clock. It was four in the morning. Sleep was slow in coming. The blackout was not due to end for another ninety minutes but the air was quiet. He climbed out of bed and went over to the window. Slowly he pulled down the shades. The air was clear and bright. He pulled open the window and looked down at Inner Temple Lane.

  He had found it difficult in getting to sleep, and as he looked down at the moon-washed alleyway he was unsure if he had slept at all. He had been thinking of Jack and Margaret Storman again. Blytheway’s description of her terrible injuries. He remembered that Roly had a “photographic memory” – everything he saw that morning would remain with him forever. He had also been assailed by dreams. Blytheway, inevitably, was present asking questions. Betty was telling her old stories and other voices were invading. Jones was talking about Bateman’s insurance policy and its ultimate rewards; and Pemberton was talking about Mrs Bateman lying dead in the street whilst Bateman was in bed with Mrs McKechnie. And finally there was Betty, from an earlier dream, telling him that the insurance company wouldn’t pay out because she had been wearing a flashing straw hat at the time of her husband’s death. There was a message in there somewhere. Look at the evidence, darling.

  He had met Betty the previous evening in the same Lyons’ tea shop as they had met in before. He had paid for dinner and the purpose, for him, of their evening was to learn more about her husband, Joe, and the circumstances of his death. He had been unhappy about the fact, as teased out by Blytheway, that he knew so little about her life. He needed to know much more.

  Joe was a good, good-looking, man. He had loved Betty dearly and they had talked about setting up in business together when all of this was over. He had had a limited education but he was clearly intelligent and ambitious. He wanted them to have a big family and they had married just before he joined up for the British Expeditionary Force. He knew that he might die and that, in such circumstances, he would leave her without material support. In those circumstances, he had taken out some life insurance. He knew that it would be no good to him or to her if he was killed in France, because of the “enemy action” exclusion, but neither of them had any idea that it would apply if he actually got killed in her parents’ house in Islington.

  He liked music hall and he liked George Formby (even though Formby was from the North) and he would take her out on a boat on the Serpentine when he had the opportunity. He would write her poems in a touching doggerel that spoke of her beauty and kindness. He thought the war would be over soon and perhaps they would be able to move out of London to somewhere cleaner like Hertfordshire. She, for her part, made dresses and gloves, and, when they had evenings apart, would knit.

  He was from Haringey and she was from Islington. He got down on one knee when he asked her to marry him and he also asked her father’s permission and told him that his prospects, after the war, were good.

  He made it back from Dunkirk and was on leave when a bomb hit the house, destroying it and killing him. Her mum and dad were killed too. She tried to make a claim on the insurance policy but the circumstances of his death meant that the insurance company had a get-out clause. And so, with nowhere to live, no family and no source of income, she had, after much soul-searching, turned to prostitution. She showed Adam a picture of him in his uniform, posed in a studio. He looked like a decent sort of man.

  He learnt a lot more about Betty and Joe, but there was something in her story that continued to niggle at him, something important in there which he had not grasped.

  Looking down onto Inner Temple Lane, he breathed in the air and sensed the first green blush of spring.

  And then it hit him, with the force of a punch to the stomach. He was gasping for air at the realization. He needed to speak to Jones, urgently.

  Chapter Eighty-six

  (Wednesday 23rd April 1941)

  Adam waited in his room in chambers. Jones and Bateman were about to be shown up. This was an almighty gamble but, for the first time, he felt that Bateman might have a defence. He looked around his room, at the Chinese prints and the peacock feathers in vases, and he thought to himself – again for the first time – that he had got somewhere without Blytheway’s overt help. He had helped him in his dreams and in his approach to things, but he had left him alone to work it all out. And he felt that now, he had done so.

  He had been unable to sleep again that Tuesday morning, and as soon as it was proper to do so he had put a call through to Jones and asked for an urgent conference to be arranged in Lamb Building. He had been insistent that Jones bring a copy of the insurance policy that had paid out £10,000 on the death of Marjorie Bateman, and a photograph of her. He had a copy of the policy in his hands, which he read through as Jones and Bateman were being shown up to his room. It was all there. The documents ultimately told him everything in this case.

  Jones and Bateman were shown in. Adam stood and shook hands with them. He felt more assured than he had ever done. He enjoyed the way that his expensive suit moved in the right way as he moved his body. Understanding a situation gave him control. He was beginning to realise why Blytheway had so much self-possession. Perhaps he might be learning something from him?

  – Good evening, Mr Bateman, Mr Jones.

  – What’s going on? Why did you need to see the insurance policy all of a sudden?

  – You haven’t been telling me the truth, Mr Bateman.

  – Bloody cheek!

  – Tell me about the insurance policy. Why are you so upset about me looking at it?

  – Well, because it’s irrelevant, isn’t it? What has it got to do with anything?

  – It has an exemption in it, doesn’t it? An exemption for death from enemy action?

  – And?

  – Does Mr McKechnie have a similar policy for Victoria?

  – What if he does?

  – It just occurred to me that, if you worked for the same insurance company you’d have the same insurance policy.

  – Yeah. Well. Probably … we did. But I don’t see what that has to do with anything.

  – Please forgive me, Mr Bateman, for this, but it seems to me that, under the terms of the policy, if, for example, Marjorie had been killed in a house that was hit by a bomb you would not have got any insurance money, but if she had been killed by a car during the blackout you would.

  – What are you trying to say?

  – Mr McKechnie’s home was destroyed on the night of Marjorie’s death, wasn’t it?

  – Oh! I see! I see what you’re getting at!

  – May I indulge in a little theory, Mr Bateman? It goes like this: you fell in love with Victoria McKechnie. To be honest it doesn’t matter when. Everything about you – forgive me – tells me that you love her. But at the same time Mr McKechnie fell in love with Marjorie … though it may not have been love; I don’t know enough about either of you.

  – I don’t see where all this is going?

  – Bear with me. I think each of you loved your wives but – here’s the tragedy of it all – you loved the other woman more.

  – This is nonsense!

  – Bear with me again. Let us assume again, on the basis that I am right, that the four of you would go to the ABC cinema, would shrink down in the back row and then would leave before the second feature to be with each other’s spouses. If that hypothesis were right, then you would be at home with Victoria and Mr McKechnie would be at home with Marjorie.

  – What rot!

  – Have you brought a photograph of Marjorie?

  Adam watched Bateman closely. He was wearing the same loud pinstripe as at their first conference. He was sweating profusely and getting redder and redder as Adam spoke. He seemed relieved at the change of subject as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his wallet.

  It was a small black and white studio framed shot
. Marjorie was wearing a dark blouse and a delicate string of pearls. The picture caught her in profile; she was looking to her right. She had long dark hair and full lips held in a slight, amused smile. Adam gasped. She was beautiful.

  – How long ago was this taken?

  – Last summer.

  – How old was she when she died?

  – Thirty-one.

  – Had you seen this photograph before Mr Jones?

  Jones did not know where all this was heading and he did not like it. He looked up from his hastily scribbled notes and took the photograph.

  – No.

  – This changes my whole perception of your case, Mr Bateman. I confess I had overlooked Marjorie’s role in all of this.

  – I don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.

  – I’m just wondering, if the four of you were in the habit of going to the pictures as regularly as Victoria’s diary suggests, what was going on with Mr McKechnie and Marjorie whilst you were, allegedly, with Victoria?

  – I thought you were on my side!

  – Oh, but I am! But if I am going to be able to help you you’re going to have to tell me the truth.

  Adam looked over at Jones and saw a smile dawning on his face. The tenseness went out of his shoulders and he slapped his hand down on Adam’s desk with a sudden shout.

  – Of course!

  Bateman was angrier now than he had been when he had first met Adam in Stirrup Court.

  – What’s got into you two?

  – Mr Jones, why don’t you explain it?

  Jones was more than happy to oblige.

  – What Mr Falling is getting at is that if you were having an … um … intimate relationship with Victoria whilst, at the same time, Mr McKechnie was carrying on with Marjorie, then you may well have a defence to the petition.

  – What?!

  – If it is right that Mr McKechnie was, um, carrying on with Marjorie, then it can be said that he connived in your relationship with Victoria. He condoned it. In those circumstances, even if adultery is proven, he may not be entitled to a decree of divorce.

  Bateman’s mouth fell open as he looked from Jones to Adam and then back to Jones. Confusion struggled with hope and relief across his features.

  – You mean I won’t have to pay damages and I won’t have to pay his legal fees?

  – Probably not. In fact, he may have to pay your costs – and those of Victoria.

  – And he won’t be able to take Ernest and Susan away from her?

  – No. My only concern is that all three of you are at risk of prosecution for fraud.

  – What are you talking about?

  Adam took a deep breath and was overcome by a fit of coughing.

  – Here’s what I think happened that night: all four of you went to the pictures, as usual. Then before the second feature you and Victoria went back to your house and McKechnie and Marjorie went back to his. His house was demolished by a bomb that night. I believe he and Marjorie were inside and that was what killed her. She wasn’t hit by a car at all!

  – Where’s this leading?

  – McKechnie came and found the two of you, and between you all you decided to move Marjorie’s body into the road and you concocted a story for the coroner. You and McKechnie are both in the insurance business. You both knew about the exemption clause.

  – Why would we do such a thing?

  – For ten thousand pounds. McKechnie assumed you would share the money with him.

  – Marjorie was my wife!

  – That’s what really hurt, wasn’t it? She was your wife. You were the one with an “insurable interest” in her life. But she loved McKechnie. And he loved her. He helped you process the claim and when the money came through you kept it all for yourself. It was only after that that McKechnie started making the allegations of adultery. I’m right aren’t I?

  Bateman’s shoulders slumped and he looked down at his knees. When he spoke it was no more than a whisper.

  – Yes. It wasn’t my idea. Honest. But she was my wife!

  – Mr Bateman, I can only defend you now if you tell the truth to the court as you have told it to us now. You have a choice: either you do that and you can retain us as your lawyers or you persist in your story that you and Victoria were not having an affair. In those circumstances, I am afraid that we will have to cease to represent you.

  – Well, if it means one in the eye for McKechnie, I’ll happily tell the truth.

  – There is a risk that the fraud will emerge but it is not inevitable.

  – As far as I’m concerned it’s worth the risk. Easy come, easy go. Let’s give it a go!

  – Mr Jones, this changes everything. I must speak urgently with Victoria’s counsel. Mr Bateman, I want you to put your instructions to us in writing and sign them off. I will need you to provide the full story of your relationship with Victoria and McKechnie’s relationship with Marjorie.

  Adam brought the conference to a close, and as Jones and Bateman were leaving the room he put a call through to David Farquarson, Victoria’s barrister, and organised an urgent meeting for the following morning.

  Chapter Eighty-seven

  (Thursday 24th April 1941)

  Jones was as good as his word, and by the following morning a large buff envelope arrived. Inside were ten typed pages that set out the full story starting with an office party on 22nd December 1936 when Marjorie first met McKechnie and Bateman first met Victoria. A friendship developed between the four and then things took a turn for the worse. McKechnie had taken a shine to Marjorie and they had started an affair. Victoria found out what was happening and, distressed, had confided in Bateman and they had comforted one another. There had been arguments and tantrums, but over time the four had reached an accommodation that satisfied them all. A German bomb brought that to an end at the beginning of the Blitz.

  David Farquarson was five years senior to Adam and so it was necessary for him to go around to 3, Paper Buildings to see him. It was a short walk from Lamb Building, and after a brief wait he was shown up to Farquarson’s room. The tall, slightly stooped man greeted him with old-fashioned courtesy and listened quietly as Adam told his tale. When he had finished, Farquarson rose from his desk without speaking, and went over to the window to look out over Inner Temple Gardens, his silhouette still against the light. Adam began to think he would never speak. Finally, he turned back into the room.

  – I see.

  – I think he’s telling the truth at last. But I need to know what your client has to say about this.

  – I confess that I have been concerned about what she has told me, to date. To be honest, I sensed that she was becoming increasingly reluctant to stick to it.

  – I need her to confirm Bateman’s account. If she does, we both have a lot of work to do.

  – I’ll get my solicitor onto her and get back to you as soon as I can.

  – Try and call me later today.

  The two men stood and bowed slightly to one another, handshakes being out of the question, and Adam took his leave.

  Adam spent the rest of the day in his room in chambers waiting for Farquarson to call. It was almost five o’clock before the telephone rang.

  – She confirms everything.

  – Which of us should call Pemberton?

  – I think, in the circumstances, it should come from you. Let me know how he reacts.

  Adam put the phone down and stared at it for a long time. Finally, he picked it up and put a call through to Stirrup Court. At the other end of the line, Pemberton growled:

  – What do you want, Falling?

  – Bateman intends to change his case. He now accepts that he was conducting an affair with Mrs McKechnie and that adultery occurred on the dates set out in the petition.

  – Seeing sense at last! I knew that you would be too scared to fight against me! I take it your client will also be paying all my client’s costs?

  – Oh, I didn’t say that the petition was no longer defende
d. Farquarson and I will both be applying to amend our Answers. We shall be pleading condonation.

  There was a long pause.

  – Go rot in hell, Falling!

  And Pemberton put the phone down.

  Chapter Eighty-eight

  (Friday 25th April 1941)

  McKechnie was angry.

  – I thought we had had all the meetings we needed to have!

  – Mr Pemberton said that it was urgent.

  – He told us it was an open and shut case! He just wants to squeeze more money out of me. Him and that other useless bloke!

  – I’ve told you. You’ll get your costs back if you win.

  – “IF?!” You’ve never said “if” before! What’s going on?

  – There may have been some developments.

  – How could there be developments!? We’re talking about something that happened months ago.

  McKechnie’s solicitor was not enjoying this. He had told Mr Pemberton KC that it was extremely difficult for him to drop everything and come to a consultation just like that. He was extremely busy and he had the final preparations to do for the trial, which was due to begin on Monday. But Pemberton had been adamant.

  – Couldn’t it wait? We are nearly there and surely we could have a consultation on the morning. Before the case begins. They haven’t got a leg to stand on after all.

  – I spoke to Falling last night. They are changing their case. He and Farquarson intend to admit adultery and plead condonation. They’re saying McKechnie knew about it all the time. And if McKechnie knew about it, the only explanation I’ve been able to come up with is that he was having an affair with Bateman’s wife.

  – Oh shit! … Sorry for the obscenity, sir.