Next of Kin

by John Boyne

  ‘Roderick?’ said Jane after a moment. ‘Have you heard from them at all?’

  A question from one of the reporters had stuck in her head, something she’d never thought of herself over the previous few months, and it made her wonder.

  ‘Heard from who?’ he asked, turning back to look at his wife.

  ‘From the palace,’ she said. ‘The king. He hasn’t been in touch, has he?’

  Roderick laughed. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You don’t seriously think that the king would try to influence a court case out of personal interest, do you?’

  ‘Well I wouldn’t like to think so,’ admitted Jane. ‘But I wouldn’t be too sure either. He’s hardly the man his father was, now is he?’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there,’ said Roderick.

  ‘Do you realize that since the succession we haven’t been invited to Buckingham Palace once?’

  ‘My dear, it’s hardly as if we were regular visitors in the past!’

  ‘Not regular, no,’ admitted Jane, ‘but we were invited to the garden party in thirty-two, don’t you remember? When Queen Mary said such nice things to me about my hat.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roderick, who remembered the event but not the compliments and certainly not the pulchritudinous hat.

  ‘And then there was the dinner party after you received your knighthood. And Ramsay MacDonald was there too, you remember,’ she added.

  ‘Twice,’ said Bentley. ‘Twice in all these years does not make us intimates of the royal family.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Jane. ‘But I do think it would be nice to be invited to more functions, don’t you? After all, the new king is of the same generation as us. He might enjoy our company.’

  ‘The same generation as you, perhaps,’ said Roderick with a laugh. ‘I’m a good ten years older than him.’

  ‘Well a few years here or there hardly makes a difference. We should try to get an invitation to the next state dinner perhaps. How would one go about such a thing anyway?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he replied, not caring much either way, for social events like that didn’t interest him enormously.

  ‘At the very least we should be regulars at the garden party,’ she added. ‘If we got friendly with him there’s always a chance we could be invited to the coronation too next summer. Perhaps if I invited the Simpson woman to tea some afternoon. Would that be all right, do you think, or are we supposed to snub her until told otherwise?’

  The car came to a sudden halt and the Bentleys, husband and wife, fell forwards abruptly.

  ‘Sorry, Your Honour,’ said Leonard, turning around and shaking his head. ‘Boy selling papers,’ he added as a small child with a sandwich board and an armful of newspapers disappeared out of sight before Leonard could jump out after him. The sandwich board bore the legend: Royal Cousin Sentence Imminent.

  ‘I can’t get away from them,’ said Roderick irritably.

  ‘Of course,’ said Jane, settling back into her seat and removing her compact from her bag to check her hat was still in place after the incident. ‘We could be off the guest list at the moment because of the trial. The king mightn’t want to be seen to be influencing you in any way.’

  ‘I should think that’s a very reasonable assumption,’ said Roderick.

  ‘But he doesn’t know you, does he? He doesn’t know how incorruptible you are. How disgustingly honest,’ she added with only a touch of sarcasm. ‘Your famous integrity and ethics. The incorruptibility of the judicial system. He doesn’t know about any of that, does he?’

  ‘Well I would like to think that my reputation precedes me,’ he replied, trying to maintain his humility. ‘I have been a high court judge for fifteen years now after all, and I think I’ve achieved a certain level of respect.’

  ‘What do you think he thinks about it all anyway?’

  ‘The king?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the case, Roderick,’ she said irritably. ‘Don’t be obtuse. About Henry Domson. His cousin.’

  ‘His third cousin,’ he replied, correcting her. ‘Henry Domson has been convicted by a jury of his peers of killing a policeman in cold blood. A policeman whose ultimate responsibility is to the monarch. I imagine he thinks that the sentence should fit the crime.’

  ‘But his own cousin,’ said Jane.

  ‘His third cousin,’ insisted Roderick.

  They remained silent for a few moments. It was clear to both of them that there was something Jane was anxious to say but was unsure how to express it. Only once in their married lives had she actively tried to influence her husband on a decision regarding a case and he had taken it very badly at the time and they had had one of their very rare fights, which had resulted in her promising that she would never interfere in one of his trials again. But still, there was too much at stake here. Social position, invitations to garden parties at Buckingham Palace, a seat at the coronation … it was all there for the taking. The kinetic energy of the moment sat between them as they passed along Holborn.

  ‘Roderick,’ she burst out finally.

  ‘Jane, don’t,’ he said sharply.

  ‘Roderick, let me just say this—’

  ‘I don’t want you to say anything. I have made my decision and I won’t change my mind—’

  ‘Just hear me out, please,’ she said. ‘Just let me say one thing and then I promise I won’t say another word on the matter.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Please, Roderick,’ she repeated. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Spit it out then,’ he said, unwilling to debate the issue. ‘But I warn you, no matter what your plea is you’ll be wasting your time. I’ve made up my mind.’

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Then let me just say one thing. Two things actually.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Roderick.

  ‘The first is that, no matter what this young man has supposedly done—’

  ‘There’s no supposedly about it,’ said Bentley, growing angry now. ‘He’s been convicted. We live with a jury system and when a fellow’s convicted—’

  ‘Whatever this young man has done,’ she said, interrupting him, not wishing to get involved in a semantics debate. ‘I think it would be a very great disgrace for the nation for a cousin of the monarch, a third cousin,’ she added before he could say it, ‘for a third cousin of the monarch to be sentenced to death. I mean, what does that say about our society? The boy went to Eton for heaven’s sake. And I imagine the king would be very grateful to a judge who recognized that fact and let the boy off.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Roderick. ‘Are you finished now?’

  ‘No, I have one other thing to add,’ she said, lowering her voice now. ‘This boy, this Henry Domson, what age is he again?’

  ‘Twenty-three,’ said Roderick, who could have recited any fact about the boy’s life without a moment’s hesitation after so many months spent learning about him.

  ‘Twenty-three years old,’ said Jane, shaking her head sadly. ‘Just a child. The same age as Gareth. Now imagine if the situation was reversed, would you want your son to meet such a fate?’

  ‘That would never happen,’ said Bentley. ‘As I told you earlier, Gareth may be a lot of things but he would never do the kind of things that Domson has done.’

  ‘You stepped in for him once before,’ said Jane. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  He threw her a look; it was an incident he preferred to forget.

  ‘You put your ethics aside on that occasion to save him from expulsion, don’t you recall?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Roderick. ‘But that was a schoolboy stunt. It’s not the same thing at all.’

  ‘It was a violent act.’

  ‘It was a prank gone wrong.’

  ‘Well you’re a father, Roderick, just remember that. And this boy is just a boy.’

  ‘He’s twenty-three years old!’ he cried in protest. ‘He’s hardly a boy.’

  ‘Well I’ve said all
I’m going to say on the subject,’ said Jane, as the Old Bailey appeared before them. ‘I’ll leave it to your conscience. I think you know what the right thing to do is.’

  ‘I believe I do,’ sniffed Roderick as the car pulled up and the newspapermen, a fresh pride, rushed towards them again. ‘Oh bloody hell. There’s reporters everywhere. Just keep your head down, hold my hand, and don’t speak to anyone until we’re inside the court, do you understand?’

  An hour from now, he thought to himself, this will all be over and life can return to normal. The judge stepped into the melee and fought his way through to the steps beyond and the comparative peace and safety of his beloved courtroom.

  7

  ‘THAT EULOGY YOU GAVE…’ said Stella Montignac, sitting in an armchair in the corner of her cousin’s room while tossing a tennis ball between her palms. ‘Well I never thought you had such poetry inside you.’

  ‘That surprises me,’ said Montignac, seated at the desk. ‘I’m not made of steel, you know.’

  ‘I know that,’ replied Stella quickly. ‘I didn’t mean…’ She trailed off and shook her head, sighing a little. ‘Don’t let’s fight,’ she said finally. ‘Not today.’

  ‘I’m not,’ said Montignac quietly. He looked across at Stella and was a little surprised to see how much trouble she had put into her appearance for the funeral. She wasn’t normally given to elaborate outfits or a surfeit of make-up but she had put in an extra effort for her father’s burial. The dress was the same shade of black as her hair and she had smeared on a little mascara beneath her eyes too, which had stayed intact as she hadn’t shed any tears throughout the interment.

  ‘It was a very nice service too, all things considered,’ she continued. ‘Everything he would have wanted. Beautiful hymns, lovely flowers…’

  ‘Hymns,’ said Montignac irritably. ‘What use are hymns to anybody? And when was the last time you saw your father taking any interest in flowers?’

  He looked down at the piece of paper on the desk in front of him and reread it quickly before signing it and putting it in an envelope. When Stella had come in a few minutes earlier he had been engaged in writing a letter to Nicholas Delfy, the owner of a small casino in the East End of London, to whom he owed a considerable sum of money. The amount had been outstanding and accruing interest for quite some time and hints, rather than outright threats, had started to come his way. He had been trying to find the right blend of words to employ in the letter, something between offhand humour which might imply what a trivial matter this was to a Montignac and bland sincerity, which might convince Delfy that he meant to pay him what he owed him, and soon. Within the next few days, in fact.

  ‘Actually, when I was a little girl he used to enjoy hymns and he took an interest in the gardens,’ insisted Stella. ‘But I suppose you’re right. They weren’t exactly his passions in life.’

  ‘Perhaps it was before I knew him then,’ said Montignac.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘You are all right, Owen, aren’t you? You’re not too upset?’

  He put his fountain pen down with a sigh and placed the letter in the top drawer of the bureau, which he promptly locked, placing the key in the pocket of his waistcoat. He turned around and looked at his cousin and found himself able to identify the sadness beneath her tough exterior. He began to feel something perilously close to affection for her. Whatever unexpected emotion it was, however, he quickly dismissed it.

  ‘They’re all still down there I expect,’ he said.

  ‘Quite a few. We really should go down. It’s very bad form for the pair of us to be sitting up here on our own like this.’

  ‘You go.’

  ‘They’ll expect to see you too. If it’s too upsetting—’

  ‘Oh, Stella, stop being such a martyr, would you please?’ he asked, growing irritable now and brushing a hand across his eyes. ‘He was your father, not mine. If anyone has a right to be upset it should be you, not me. And I think I have the strength of character to be able to sweep around a few nosy houseguests without breaking down in tears.’

  ‘He was as much your father as mine, you know that,’ insisted Stella.

  ‘He was my uncle.’

  ‘But he thought of you like a son. Don’t deny that, not today.’

  Montignac nodded and remained silent for a moment. ‘I know,’ he muttered finally. ‘I know what he thought of me.’

  ‘Then we’re in it together and we’ll go down together,’ she continued. ‘Anyway, we should support each other at a time like this. That’s what families are for after all. You know some of the men are playing billiards down there,’ she added after a moment.

  ‘Billiards?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. Or so Margaret told me anyway. She doesn’t think it’s right.’

  ‘It’s not,’ replied Montignac, considering the etiquette of the matter. ‘I’ll go down and set them straight.’

  ‘But not with a scene.’

  ‘No. Perhaps not.’

  ‘And another thing,’ she said. ‘Denis Tandy came to speak to me earlier. About the will. He wants to set up the reading for as soon as possible.’

  ‘You’re not serious,’ said Montignac, appalled by the man’s insensitivity. ‘He came to you with that today? And why didn’t he speak to me about it anyway?’

  ‘Well he’d been looking for you but—’

  ‘He couldn’t have looked very hard then, and I do think he might have waited before burdening you with it. It’s not as if there are going to be any great surprises in there. You’re not worried about it, are you?’

  ‘No, no,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It was explained to me a thousand times how I would never be able to inherit for the extraordinary fact of my being a girl. The Montignacs always inherit on the male line,’ she chanted, looking away with a sneer. ‘Very modern of them, I don’t think.’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about, Stella,’ said Montignac, stepping forwards and taking her hand in his. ‘You don’t think for a moment that I’d let anything happen to you, do you? What I have…’ He didn’t go quite so far as to suggest that what he had, she had too, and she noticed this and let the sentence hang in mid-air between them.

  Stella looked down and noticed the way his fingers slotted in perfectly between her own and welcomed the touch, the first time he had held her hand like that in many years now. Her eyes lifted and met his and he held them there for a moment before releasing her and turning away.

  ‘Anyway, I told him tomorrow morning would be fine,’ she said to his retreating back. ‘He’ll be here around eleven. I don’t suppose it will take very long.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Montignac, whose mind was elsewhere, lost in bitter memories. ‘I better go downstairs anyway.’

  The two cousins stood and walked towards the door together. ‘I’ve never understood why we have to have wakes anyway,’ said Stella. ‘Everyone gets so upset at a funeral that it seems like a pointless prolonging of the pain to invite people over for the next best thing to a party.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have bothered if it had been down to me,’ he said. ‘But form’s form. People come over automatically. It’s not as if we specifically sent out invitations.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We should have lunch together tomorrow,’ he suggested. ‘Just the two of us. After the reading of the will, I mean. To discuss plans. For the house and so on.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Stella, nodding her head. ‘I think some of the staff are worried. Margaret overheard Annie complaining that she was going to lose her job.’

  ‘She would have lost it years ago if I’d had my way,’ he said quickly. ‘She drinks more than anyone else in the house and smokes like a chimney. But we’ll talk about it tomorrow, it’s not important right now. We should go downstairs and start trying to get rid of some of these bastards or they’ll never leave.’

  Stella blinked in surprise. She almost never heard her cousin use language such as that—he prided himself on his elegance and gen
tlemanly behaviour—and it seemed particularly inappropriate for a moment like this, when they were almost close, when they were almost talking again like they did when they were teenagers. There was a violence to the sound of the word, an anger that reminded her of things she preferred to forget.

  She stared at him now as he examined himself in the full-length mirror, pulling his jacket down to displace the creases. She remembered when he had first been brought to the house at the age of five, short for his age, slightly grubby, with freckles, buck teeth and a French accent. And that hair, of course, that unmistakable shock of snow-white hair upon his head that had made her mouth drop open in surprise when she’d first laid eyes on him. The way his blue eyes had seemed to pierce right through her. And now here he was twenty years later, master-designate of the Montignac estate, six feet tall, his naturally pale skin coloured slightly by regular exercise and healthy eating. He was as handsome now as he had been charmless then. He had changed in so many ways in the two decades in between that she could barely count their number. But she had welcomed him then, she and Andrew had both welcomed him, and had never made him feel like an outsider despite his insistence on placing himself in that very position time and again.

  ‘I wanted to tell you,’ she said as they walked out on to the landing. He stopped short and looked at her expectantly. ‘I was very proud of you today. I don’t think I could have got through it without you. I found myself missing Andrew terribly—the whole thing brought back such bad memories—but having you by my side, well it was a comfort. Of sorts.’

  Montignac placed his tongue in the corner of his mouth and bulged it out slightly as he considered this, taking the compliment with a slight nod before stepping briskly down the stairs and leaving her alone at the top.

  8

  JANE BENTLEY MADE HER way directly to the gallery of Court no. 1 at the Old Bailey, where she spotted her friend Eleanor Tandy sitting in the front row and took a seat beside her. Beneath them the phalanx of court reporters, solicitors, barristers and policemen were moving into position like the actors in a play before curtain-up and the crowds of interested spectators—the ones lucky enough to have secured a seat by arriving early—were settling into the stalls out front. The only things missing were an usherette patrolling the aisles with ices and the sounds of the string section being tuned up.