by John Boyne
‘I was starting to worry about you,’ said Eleanor, taking her bag off the adjacent chair and placing it on the floor beside her feet. ‘I wasn’t sure how much longer I could hold on to your seat but I knew you wouldn’t miss this for the world.’
‘How could I?’ asked Jane. ‘It’s like I said to Roderick earlier, simply everyone is going to be here today.’
‘Not everyone,’ replied Eleanor with a knowing smile. ‘After all there are those who are conspicuous by their absence.’
Jane nodded. ‘The king, you mean? The Duke of York?’
‘Among others. They’re staying well out of it, aren’t they?’
‘Well do you blame them?’ asked Jane. ‘The poor man’s only been on the throne a few months, there’s all this talk of the American woman he’s going about with and now this. A killer in the family. All in all it’s not a very auspicious start to his reign. It makes you wonder what the next forty years hold.’
‘They have strange blood, if you ask me,’ said Eleanor.
‘The Windsors?’
‘Of course. You know they say that Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s husband, might have been Jack the Ripper. And he would have been the present king’s great-grandfather.’
‘Oh that’s just conjecture,’ said Jane with a laugh, who didn’t enjoy mystery novels quite as much as her friend. ‘Quite unlikely, I think.’
‘There is a difference, I suppose. The Ripper chose tarts as his victims. The new king chooses one as his mistress.’
‘Eleanor, really,’ said Jane, stifling a laugh. ‘Someone will overhear you.’
‘All the same,’ said Eleanor. ‘It’s hard to know who to trust, isn’t it? This one, though, this Domson boy, he has the look of the late king, don’t you think? Around the eyes, I think.’
Jane shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen him up close,’ she admitted. ‘Only in photographs.’
‘I’ve come every day,’ said Eleanor. ‘Haven’t missed a word. I practically gave up my life over these past few months to attend court. And Roderick’s been awfully good.’ Jane smiled and inclined her head a little at the compliment. ‘I don’t suppose you can tell me in advance what he’s going to say, can you?’
‘I don’t think so, sorry,’ said Jane.
‘But he’ll be announcing it in a few minutes. There’s no one I can tell.’
‘I’m sorry, no. There are certain secrets between a husband and a wife that must stay secret,’ she said, despite the fact that she too had no idea whether her husband would be sentencing the boy to a lifetime in Brixton prison or a trip to the scaffold. ‘And what kind of a wife would I be if I divulged them?’
The case of Rex vs Henry Domson had begun six months earlier when police had foiled a warehouse robbery near a jewel factory beside London Bridge. Domson had been the brains of the operation and had they been successful they would have succeeded in stealing almost two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds and other precious stones. However, one of the gang had been too loose with his tongue and the police had received a tip-off on the night of the incident. They arrested his three accomplices but Domson himself escaped and was chased along the docks until he was cornered by two policemen near a container lorry. When they moved in to arrest him, Domson pulled a gun from his jacket pocket and then shot the first officer—PC Peter Milburn, aged fifty-two—in cold blood. He would have shot the second too had his gun not stalled and he’d been overpowered in the ensuing struggle.
The newspapers had not made too much of the incident at first—crimes like this were two a penny after all—until it was discovered that Domson was a second cousin of King GeorgeV, and a third cousin to the Prince of Wales who, just after the trial began, had succeeded to the throne. Buckingham Palace had been conspicuously silent on the topic, refusing to comment except to say that no members of the royal family were either acquainted with Mr Domson or had ever even met him but the connection was enough for the case to constitute a scandal.
Throughout the trial several of the daily participants had become celebrated figures; the chief prosecutor, Mr Justice Harkman, his learned colleague for the defence, Mr Justice McAlpine, and of course the trial judge, His Honour Sir Roderick Bentley KC, in whose hands the case now lay.
Although it seemed like something of an open-and-shut case, Domson had pleaded not guilty and the trial had dragged on until the beginning of June when the jury had finally delivered a guilty verdict on the Thursday of the previous week. Domson had looked stricken in the dock when the announcement was made and there were those close to him who imagined he would disgrace his noble lineage even further by breaking down in tears but somehow he managed to keep control of his emotions, merely gripping the handrail in front of him for support.
The newspapers had been debating the matter back and forth ever since. Murder was a capital crime, often punishable by death. The murder of a policeman, killed in the line of duty, was even more heinous and there had never been a conviction in such a case leading to anything other than the death penalty. However, there had also never been a trial quite like this one before either. The majority of the newspapers believed that Judge Bentley would suspend the death penalty and sentence Domson to a life of hard labour on account of his royal connections. Indeed, such a given was it that editorials had started to be written about the injustice of such a sentence and how the class structure was as relevant to crime as it was to normal, everyday life. Unbeknown to anyone in the courtroom The Times had already prepared a leader for the following day’s edition attacking Roderick and calling for his removal from the bench, questioning whether the sentence would have been as lenient had the murderer been a poor, unemployed lad from Walthamstow rather than an ex-Etonian with dubious connections to higher powers.
‘Where’s Denis?’ asked Jane, looking around for her friend’s husband. ‘I would have thought he’d be here, considering he’s a solicitor himself.’
‘He’s at a funeral today,’ explained Eleanor. ‘Peter Montignac’s. Did you know him?’
Jane narrowed her eyes and tried to remember when they had last met. ‘A little,’ she said. ‘Not at all well. I used to know his wife, Ann, socially but we were hardly friends. Just people who sometimes got invited to the same functions.’
‘Ann was a dear woman,’ said Eleanor. ‘Very witty. An excellent mimic.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Quite the girl to have at a party in her younger days. Lost a little of her sense of humour after her son was killed, of course.’
‘Well that’s to be expected,’ said Jane, trying to stifle a laugh.
‘Oh I know, but she dragged it on a little too long if you ask me,’ said Eleanor. ‘Grief’s grief but it doesn’t do to dwell on it. It only embarrasses other people. Anyway, he died last week and Denis was his solicitor so he’s attending the funeral.’
‘I see,’ said Jane.
‘He’s staying down there overnight for the reading of the will in the morning so remind me to telephone him when we leave here to let him know the sentence. He’s been following the trial too and is distraught that he’s going to miss the climax. It’s like sitting through an entire murder mystery play and then being summoned away because the children are sick just as the curtain rises for the final act and all the characters have been gathered together in the living room to unmask the killer.’
Jane smiled; Eleanor Tandy was nothing if not colourful.
‘I presume you’ll be glad when this is all over,’ said Eleanor after a lengthy pause.
‘Roderick will, that’s for sure,’ said Jane. ‘We’re all sick of the reporters camped outside. And I’m sure that one of our neighbours, Catherine Jones, is preparing a complaint for the police.’
‘And you?’
‘Well,’ said Jane, considering it. ‘It’s taken its toll on Roderick, that’s for sure. I’d like him to take a holiday, if I’m honest. It would be nice if we could spend a little more time together now that the trial is behind us.’
After the verdict had been declared by the jury the previous Thursday, Roderick had announced that he would delay sentencing until Monday morning to give him time to consider his decision. Most commentators had agreed that he had been seeking advice on the legality of commuting the standard sentence to something less harsh and were poised to condemn him; but not only had he given himself a few days to think about it, he’d given his critics time to prepare their assaults too.
‘He was only doing what he thought right,’ said Jane, who was often critical of her husband in private but would be damned if she’d allow anyone else to be. ‘After all, a boy’s life hangs in the balance.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Eleanor. ‘It would take enormous courage to hang him.’
Jane opened her mouth to take issue with the implication but as she did so the clerk of the court called for silence and a hush fell around the courtroom while Henry Domson was led into the dock for the last time.
9
‘IT’S A GOOD JOB the old man’s dead,’ said Charles Malroy, chalking his cue and squinting with his bad eye to get a better view of the black. ‘Although I imagine he’d be turning in his grave if he knew what was going on.’
‘What is it with these Americans anyway?’ asked Samuel Levison. ‘One minute they want nothing to do with us, insist on running their damn country themselves, and the next they want to steal the bloody throne. Watch out or they’ll become even more imperialist than we ever were.’
Charles opened his mouth to reply but closed it again as Montignac stepped through the door of the billiard room and stood staring at them with an angry look on his face. Samuel took a surprise and mishit the white; it bounced clear off the table and rolled along the floor, stopping precisely in front of their host’s feet. Montignac looked down at it for a moment, as if unsure what a billiard ball could possibly be doing there, before reaching down and picking it up. He held on to it tightly, unwilling to replace it on the table.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said quietly.
The others, old and young alike, were unable to look him in the eye and had the good grace to appear a little ashamed of themselves.
‘Bad business,’ said one.
‘Terrible loss,’ muttered another into his beard.
‘I wanted to thank you all for coming,’ said Montignac quickly, in a voice which implied he wanted to do nothing of the sort. ‘Very good of you. My uncle would have been touched.’
‘He was a fine man, Montignac,’ said the retired Home Secretary, waddling over and slapping him on the shoulder. ‘One of the finest I ever had the good fortune to know. And I’ve known them all.’
‘Yes,’ replied Montignac in a non-committal voice. ‘Is everyone all right for drinks?’ They muttered that they were. ‘Because they’re serving tea and whiskies in the drawing room if you’d like to join them.’
A five-second silence, a quick glance at the retained white ball in Montignac’s hand, and the men took the hint and replaced their cues in the rack on the wall, shuffling past their host, unable to look him in the eye. Only Alexander Keys remained, his oldest friend, and Montignac glanced at him, not particularly wanting a conversation.
‘All right, old man?’ asked Alexander.
‘All right,’ replied Montignac quietly.
‘Want me to stick around later? We could have a few quiet drinks.’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I’m tired. We’ll see.’
They remained silent for a while and Montignac replaced the white ball on the billiard table, lining it up so that he had a direct view of the black and the left-hand corner pocket.
‘Sorry about all this,’ said Alexander, nodding at the table. ‘We couldn’t think of anything to do and just sort of drifted in here. We’d already started when we realized it mightn’t be quite the thing.’
‘Forget it,’ he said, shaking his head as if the matter was no longer of any interest to him. ‘What time do you think these people will leave at anyway?’
‘Soon enough, I imagine.’
‘God, I hate them,’ he added with a sigh.
‘Hate them?’ asked Alexander, laughing nervously. ‘That’s a bit strong, isn’t it?’
Montignac said nothing for a moment but slammed the white ball down the table with his hand, where it hit the black, sending it crashing into the corner pocket. The white bounced back, ricocheted off the cushion and crossed the table where its trajectory began to slow down as it approached the side pocket; it teetered there for a few moments on the edge before falling in. He frowned and shook his head.
‘Want me to drop a few hints out there?’ asked Alexander. ‘Get them to put a shake on?’
‘Be grateful if you would.’
‘Consider it done,’ said his friend, passing him by and leaving the room, tapping his arm for comfort as he went. ‘And if you want me to stick around later, you only have to ask. You know that. How’s Stella holding up, by the way?’
‘She’ll be fine,’ said Montignac. ‘I’ll see to that.’
‘Right. Good,’ said Alexander. ‘I noticed that Raymond fellow mooching around outside in the garden. You’d think he’d be taking care of her today rather than playing with the flowers.’
‘I can take care of her,’ said Montignac in a tone which made it clear to his friend that his presence was no longer required. After a few moments he heard the door close behind him and he turned around with a sigh, allowing his body to relax for a moment, glad to be left alone. In the corner he noticed a suit jacket that one of the men had left behind and stared at it, narrowing his eyes as he identified a bulge in the inner pocket. He walked over at a steady pace to where it lay, reached inside and withdrew a wallet. Opening it he saw a clutch of twenty-pound notes and selected five, placing them in the heel of his shoe, before returning the wallet to the jacket and leaving the room, closing and locking the door behind him.
* * *
RAYMOND DAVIS STOOD IN the grounds of Leyville, examining the different breeds of roses that were planted outside the living-room bay windows. His parents had been keen gardeners and had passed their passion for all things horticultural down to him, and he had been growing new strains of roses in the grounds of his own home a few miles to the east of Leyville for several years. One particular variety, a deep pink, yellow-striped Cabana Hybrid Tea with ovoid buds, had taken him the best part of four summers to perfect but it was doing excellently now and a cutting from it, planted in the flower beds here, had taken root and was beginning to prosper. He touched the petals of the flower, stroking them tenderly as he might a sleeping cat, and recalled how Stella had decided to plant the cutting close to the house so that their scent might rise up when the roses had grown sufficiently and infiltrate the atmosphere of her father’s bedroom, which was situated just above. Remembering this made him step back a little and he wandered down the steps into the garden proper. He didn’t want to seem macabre but his eyes plotted a trajectory of their own and he found himself staring at the large bay windows of Peter Montignac’s room some twenty feet above. They were locked now and the curtains were closed; they had remained so since his death.
Turning away he checked his watch and wondered why Stella had avoided him so completely today when he had hoped to be a source of comfort and support to her but she had spent most of her time with her cousin Owen instead, who Raymond only vaguely knew. They had been together for just over a year and he was keen for them to take the next step towards marriage but whenever the subject came up she dismissed it quickly and said they would talk of it another time. Their engagement had already been announced but Stella seemed to view that as something of no great importance. They had shared intimacies, however, and in a moment of weakness she had confided in him that she had been hurt before and that he should forgive her if she seemed difficult to grow close to.
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It had been his intention recently to take Stella out to dinner and make a more formal proposal, setting a date in their diaries for the nuptials; in fact he had gone to Peter Montignac only a week earlier and asked for his approval, which he had grudgingly given. However, events had seen to it that the proposal could not take place for the moment and he wondered about the etiquette of such a thing, how long one was supposed to wait after the death of a prospective bride’s parent before asking for her hand.
He turned to step back inside and looked up again towards the bedroom window where he saw the curtains twitch and suddenly open, followed by the windows themselves, and a shadow stepping away. He shivered, the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
* * *
THE GUESTS HAD LEFT now and Owen had declined Alexander’s offer to stay overnight. ‘Better if it’s just the two of us,’ he said. ‘Stella might want to talk in private. But thanks anyway.’
‘When are you coming up to London? We could go together. Make a time of it.’
‘Later this week, I expect. Lots to do. Lawyers and so on. Sick of it already and it’s only just begun.’
‘I could come with you, Owen.’
‘Yes, do,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow and we’ll arrange things.’
The house seemed empty now as he made his way upstairs, although he could hear the servants moving between the kitchen and the drawing room, cleaning up and chatting away without a care in the world. He noticed his reflection in the stairway mirror and discovered he had a smile on his face and immediately wiped it away. Stella had gone to her room and he could hear her gramophone playing quietly in the distance, a tune he didn’t recognize and didn’t much care for either.
Passing by his own door, he found his feet steering him along the corridor and up the small flight of stairs towards the room that had been his late uncle’s. The door was closed but unlocked and he turned the handle, stepping back slightly as he did so, as if he was afraid of what he might find inside. But as he looked around he found that everything was exactly as he remembered it. He looked from left to right and walked across the room towards the windows which had been closed since his uncle’s death a few days earlier; the atmosphere in the room was stuffy on account of it. He stood close to them and placed his hand on the latch, holding it there for a moment before pushing it open, and a rush of air came in, followed by the scent of roses.