by John Wilson
– Never mind about that! I need to see McKechnie right now! And don’t tell him why I need to see him.
That had been all he needed! They had been seated for less than five minutes before Arthur breezed in and invited them to follow him to Mr Pemberton’s room. It was two in the afternoon. Sunlight drifted in and the sound of birdsong could be heard from the open window. The supernumerary Perkins was sitting at his little desk – cowering, more like, McKechnie thought. Jeremy Pemberton KC had all the papers ranged out across his desk. He did not look particularly happy.
– What’s all this about? I had piles of work to get through! I’ve got to be out of the office most of next week, d’you remember?
Pemberton raised his hands in a way that was almost defensive and tried to fan his client into silence. When McKechnie had subsided he leant forward and said, in what was an attempt to be consolatory and unconcerned:
– Mr Falling telephoned me last night. He may have raised a problem for us. I mean for you.
– For me, not us?! I thought we were on the same side.
– It is just a small point and I am sure that we will be able to sort it out very quickly.
– Falling’s raised a problem? A problem that means I have to drop everything? You’ve been telling me all along that he is hopeless! How could he have raised a problem that means I have to come here at the last minute?
– I’m sure it is nothing. But Falling tells me that he and Victoria’s barrister are intending to amend their cases.
– What does that mean?
– They are both going to admit that he and Victoria were having an affair.
McKechnie took a deep breath and sighed with relief. He began to smile.
– Well then. There’s nothing to worry about is there?
– Not exactly.
McKechnie’s smile faded.
– Why ever not?
– Apparently, they are going to be pleading condonation.
– “Pleading condonation”? Speak to me in English for Christ’s sake!
– Look. I’m sorry. What they are saying, in essence, is that they were having an affair but that you knew all about it and didn’t do anything about it. That you let it happen.
– But that’s ridiculous! And anyway, even if I did know, he was still screwing my wife!
– But did you know?
McKechnie was no fool. He realised that the question was loaded. Collins had told him about how barristers had to pull out if you changed your story. He paused for a long time. Probably slightly too long a time.
– Of course I didn’t! Why would I let something like that go on? Under my nose. Here. Look.
He produced a photograph of Victoria McKechnie and handed it to Pemberton, who took it and studied it carefully. Mrs McKechnie was without doubt an attractive woman although, in his view, she looked slightly common.
– Very pretty …
– Why would I let another man have his way?
– Well. I have been wondering about that. Even without seeing such an attractive portrait. I was pretty much stumped, I must confess. I looked at all the possibilities and almost none of them made any sense …
– Almost none of them?
– The only one that made any sense at all – forgive me, Mr McKechnie – was that you were engaged in a relationship with Mrs Bateman, and, in such circumstances, allowing Mr Bateman to “carry on” with your wife may have seemed like, shall we say, an adequate quid pro quo.
– What’s a “quid pro quo” for fuck’s sake?!
McKechnie was becoming increasingly agitated. Pemberton needed a drink – quickly.
– A “quid pro quo” is Latin. It means “something for something”. “A favour for a favour”.
– What the hell are you talking about?
– I am saying that, next Monday, it may be suggested that you were content for your wife to sleep with Bateman if in return he did not kick up about you sleeping with Mrs Bateman …
– Well. This is absurd. You told me I had a good case.
– You still do have a good case … unless you knew about the affair all along, particularly if you were sleeping with Marjorie Bateman. Were you sleeping with her?
McKechnie felt something cold enter into his stomach. He had to choose his words carefully. A lot might depend upon what he said next. Bateman’s barrister knew about the inquest and what was said at it. He said nothing for a long time.
– Come on, Mr McKechnie. It is not a difficult question. The answer is either “yes” or “no”.
– NO!!
The word roared out of him as though it had been wrenched from deep inside him. He could sense Pemberton and Collins beginning to relax as the tension of the previous minutes passed. Even Perkins looked up from his desk and gave a little smile. There was relief in his voice when the smiling KC eventually spoke.
– Well. That’s all right then.
– So, I’ve still got a good case then?
– Yes, Mr McKechnie. If you are telling us the truth.
– Why would I lie?
Pemberton could think of many reasons why he would lie about this. But he had done his duty. He had given his client the opportunity to change his story and that opportunity had not been taken. His conscience was clear. If he was lying – and was found out in the lies – he was going to lose. But it wouldn’t be his fault. The only embarrassment for him would be that Falling would have beaten him in a case that Pemberton had told his client it was impossible to lose. A splinter of shame entered his heart at the thought. And he abruptly stopped smiling. He stood and ushered everyone out of his room. He had a lot to do and tomorrow he had to go to St Luke’s Cemetery in Bromley for the funeral of Margaret Storman.
Chapter Eighty-nine
(Saturday 26th April 1941)
Magpie Hall Lane consisted of a series of Mock Tudor villas designed to accommodate the prosperous middle class. St Luke’s Cemetery was there but it was just over a mile from St Luke’s Church. Adam knew this because he had taken an early train from Victoria to Bromley South and then walked along Bromley Common so that he could see both the church and the cemetery. Roly had counselled that he should arrive a little late at the service, and this he intended to do. Throughout the short time he had known Blytheway his advice had been faultless, and although he had ignored it in the past he had no intention of repeating those mistakes. However, just because he intended to join the service a few minutes late did not mean that he had to be late in getting to Bromley.
The train journey had taken him through Dulwich and he had thought with a pang of all that he had lost. His wife was still there. His daughter was in Suffolk for the duration of the war. Or at least for the duration of the Blitz – assuming London survived it. Blytheway, true to his word, had taken over the organisation of the funeral. He had heard little of Storman, nor had he even seen him. The word was that he was in a bad way. Roly had provided him with a copy of the Order of Service. Thick cream high-quality card, edged in black, that Adam turned over and over in his hands as he walked back towards the church. There were to be a number of pieces of music and a eulogy in the middle. It was not clear who was going to make that eulogy.
He retraced his steps along Southborough Lane and onto Crown Lane Spur. Then back into Bromley Common. He would be at the funeral service but he would be the last to enter the church. He stood by a privet hedge about a hundred yards from the entrance. He was wearing a black mourning suit that Blytheway had given to him (after it had been suitably taken in) and his shoes had been polished to a high shine. Blytheway’s influence upon him went beyond the court and the conference room. He intended to stand by the privet hedge, stock-still, and watch the people entering the church. Roly had taught him that you did not need to hide to be hidden.
The service, according to the programme in his hands, was due to begin at 11 a.m. He had stepped off the train just before ten. It was now 10.45. He watched as the mourners arrived. First, to his surprise, was Barr
y with an attractive blonde lady whom he assumed to be his wife, Jean. They were wearing their formal best and took copies of the Order of Service from the liveried man waiting on the door. Then came Pemberton, in company with Peter and Cara Preston. They were all dressed in black and an air of sincere sadness hung off them. Then, a few minutes later, came Julia Pemberton. His heart leapt at the sight of her. Her head was bowed and she was wearing a black mantilla, probably the same veil that she wore to Jenny’s funeral only about a month ago – and to her aunt’s funeral the day after they had begun their affair.
Where was Catherine? He had been certain that she would be there. Blytheway had told him that Storman had left her a message to call him just hours before Margaret was killed. That he had been concerned about how she was getting on. The service was due to begin in about ten minutes and still there was no sign of her. On the other hand, unless they were already inside, there was no sign of Blytheway, Storman, or Margaret’s coffin. Then he saw her. Marching along Bromley Common he could recognise her from her silhouette, from the way she walked: that urgent, thrusting walk. She was wearing a black overcoat and had a small black cloche hat on. Her face was so pale it was almost white and she seemed thinner than when he had last seen her. At first he did not think that it could be her because she was pulling someone along behind her. A child. He realised with a shock that it was Deborah, his daughter. What was she doing in London?
At five minutes to eleven he heard the clip-clop of hooves. A horse-drawn hearse pulled up outside the church. There were four black Friesians, each wearing a head-dress of ostrich feathers, dyed black. The door to the carriage opened and Blytheway climbed out. He was wearing a dark outfit: a frock coat covered by a black damask cloak which covered his arms. He was followed by Storman and then Caldwell. Two other men, neither of whom were known to Adam, also emerged, and then the coach-driver himself – who, from the way he held himself, did not seem like someone who did this for a living – climbed down. All the men were wearing black silk top hats. The horses neighed and stamped their feet and Adam saw their breath rising steamily. Then they were still.
The six men reached inside the hearse and pulled out the coffin. Carefully, it was lifted onto their shoulders with Storman and Blytheway at the front. It was topped with white lilies and it did not appear to weigh much. They made their way into the church and as they approached the organ struck up. A slow continuo. Then the strings joined in, following the main theme. The music carried a sense of quiet completion tinged with sadness. Everything was now done. Then the strings began to improvise on the initial theme. Adam sensed an Italianate grandeur underlying it all. But, ultimately, it was the music of tranquillity. Of heaven. The coffin-bearers entered the church and closed the door behind them and the music became more muffled. There did not seem to be anyone else expected and so he made his way to the door, opened it and entered. There was an overpowering smell of fresh flowers. The music was still going on. He looked down towards the nave and saw that there was a string quartet playing. Looking up, he had the slightest view of the organist and his mirror. Lilies and white roses spilled out from large ornamental vases on either side of the nave. The coffin had been placed on a dais between the north and south transepts. In front of it there was a large framed photograph of Margaret Storman in a ball gown. The picture was garlanded with tiny pink and white roses. Adam saw Blytheway’s hand at work in this unconventional flourish.
The place was full. He had been so much concentrating on certain individuals that he had failed to register how many people had entered. There was nowhere to sit, but he was happy to stand at the back. Looking around the church, his eyes sought out Catherine before he looked for Julia. She was standing near the back. Deborah was holding her hand and looking around in every direction. He knew that she must be looking for him. He cowered. Then he saw Julia and he realised that, for everything – for whatever he wanted – he still loved her. He did not want to, but he felt a physical lurch just at the sight of her. This was something he could not understand. But as a physical reality it was there. How do you deal with that sort of thing? That ache?
He let his eyes leave her and move on to Pemberton, Preston and the Stirrup Court crowd. They were sticking together. He sensed small talk between the two silks, although the overall atmosphere was one of mourning. They all knew and respected Storman. They were there to pay their respects to the ending of his true life. Adam sensed that this was not going to be a place for recrimination and blame, and he felt a part of himself relax.
Looking at the programme, he saw that the music was the Canon in D Major by Pachelbel. It had been beautiful. The coffin seemed very small. As he looked at the forlorn box the music struck up again. More ephemeral beauty. The timelessness of the music drew all eyes to the sad coffin sitting in the middle of everything: the ruins of the woman within – the woman who had been everything to Jack Storman, who was now gone and who would not be able to come back again. Adam looked again at the programme. It was “Salut d’Amour” by Edward Elgar, a song he had written as a wedding gift for his wife. “Love’s Greeting”. “Hello, my love”. The violin soared over the other instruments telling its sinuous story of love and yearning before fading out on a long sustained high note as the rest of the quartet subsided beneath it.
These two pieces of music seemed to have drained everyone present of anything but pity for Jack Storman and his adored wife. They filled the church with a sense of forgiveness and regret. Adam had no doubt but that this would fade away quickly; but for now, at least, the petty problems he had felt washed away. He looked around again. To Preston, who had told him he was out of his depth; to Pemberton, who thought he was an idiot and told him so; to Catherine, who told him that he didn’t know the difference between articulacy and eloquence; and to Julia, who had made it very clear that she did not love him anymore, whatever they had previously shared. And he felt a strange sort of peace. This would all be over soon. He need not worry. Then he saw his daughter in a dark duffle-coat, looking over her shoulder, searching around and around until she saw him. And when she did her face lit up and with an enormous smile she shouted, “Daddy! Daddy!” so that everyone turned around and looked at Deborah and then at him. And Catherine glanced briefly in his direction – her face a mask – and then patted his daughter on the head and told her to be quiet.
There was a brief period of rustling from the congregation as people adjusted their seats and studied their programmes. Then all was silent. The eulogy was to follow. Roland Blytheway stood up and walked to the centre of the church, his precise footsteps on the slate floor echoing through the silence. He stood to one side of the coffin and began to speak. He had no notes. His voice was grave.
– Jack asked me to say a few words on his behalf and for his beloved wife, Margaret. It is a profound honour to be able to do so. I have known Jack for almost thirty years and I knew Margaret for twenty-seven of those years. Margaret and Jack for all that time were two of my dearest and truest friends. We are a small profession and for many years Jack has been one of our great stars. It is a tribute to him – and to Margaret – that so many have made the difficult journey here this morning to share his grief at her loss. As I look around this church I see so many of our number from all around the Temple – from all of the Inns of Court. Barristers … Judges … solicitors … and, of course, everyone from Stirrup Court.
He cast a kind eye over Pemberton, Preston and all the rest.
– You must feel his loss particularly keenly, and all of us here understand that and extend to you all our greatest sympathy. I, of course, never shared chambers with Jack, but such is his standing with all of us that I feel as though somehow I have done. Yes. He is, and always has been a brilliant barrister. We all know that. But he is far greater than that. I only began to realise this when I met Margaret for the first time. For – forgive me Jack – she was more than your equal.
– Margaret was a very private person. I doubt that many of us had the privilege to ge
t to know her well. I was one of the fortunate few who was given that opportunity. Margaret scintillated in conversation. She seemed to know everything. I can think of very few people who could demonstrate her depth and breadth of learning. She also had a wicked sense of humour. On one occasion at the breakfast table, Jack came in with his face bleeding. She asked what had happened and he said that he had been practising his closing speech to the jury whilst shaving and had cut himself. He urged her to come and watch him at the Old Bailey and she did. Although his client was acquitted his speech was – forgive me Jack – overlong and ponderous. There was a heavy silence between them on the train back to Shortlands, and eventually Jack asked her what he thought of the speech.
– “Well,” she said, “if you want my honest opinion you should have concentrated on shaving and cut your speech!”
A murmur of laughter susurrated around the church.
– I had the good fortune to dine with Jack and Margaret on many occasions. Sometimes we shared tables with people who regarded themselves as “the intellectual elite”. Their view of themselves, not mine. She was their equal in every way. She and Jack shared interests that went well beyond the narrow confines of the Bar. She brought out the best in him, and, as someone who felt he knew her – and loved her – I understand only too well how devastating is his loss. I had also the great privilege to escort her to various events over the years when Jack was indisposed. Margaret was one of my favourite people. Her company was always a delight, and when she walked or danced she appeared to float a little above the ground. I shall miss her enormously and I, as a mere friend, cannot begin to fathom the depths of our dear friend’s loss.”
He motioned towards the rose-rimmed photograph in front of the coffin.