Next of Kin

by John Boyne

‘She would be willing to reject the title of queen; instead she could use the consort equivalent of one of the king’s other titles. The Duchess of Cornwall is the preferred option.’

  ‘And the king would be happy for that to be the case?’ asked Roderick.

  ‘I think it would be stretching things to say that he would be happy,’ said Monckton with a laugh, knowing the character of his master only too well. ‘Between ourselves he would prefer to make her queen and for their children to be the heirs but—’

  ‘That would be unacceptable!’ shouted Keaton. ‘Unacceptable!’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Altringham.

  ‘I said that would be what he would prefer,’ said Monckton, clarifying that. ‘Not what he is willing to accept. He knows that the government would never agree to that, even if the British people appear to be on his side, and so he is willing to accept their demands should they be willing to agree to the marriage.’

  ‘Well I think that under those circumstances,’ said Roderick, ‘a deal could be brokered.’

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said Keaton, sitting forwards. ‘What exactly is the function of this group? To advise the prime minister, am I right?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Lord Hailsham.

  ‘And he would pass that advice on to his ministers and together they would effectively tell the king what he can and cannot do?’

  ‘Well it’s a rather blunt way of putting it,’ said Hailsham. ‘But I suppose that’s the long and the short of it.’

  ‘Well then I don’t think we can just decide on a whim, in one meeting, whether or not such a thing is acceptable. We’re talking about the throne of England here, not a decision on whether or not he should visit the Italian Riviera for his summer holidays.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Monckton. ‘But in principle, the idea would seem an acceptable one?’

  ‘To me, yes,’ said Roderick.

  ‘And to me, no,’ said Altringham.

  ‘And to me, definitely no,’ insisted Keaton. ‘Don’t you see that a proposal like this could lead us back to the Middle Ages?’

  Monckton sat back in his seat and raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘The Middle Ages?’ he asked. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that it’s all well and good to say that the king accepts such an idea and that his offspring can go off and live dilettante lives somewhere when they grow up with no concern for their duties but who’s to say that that’s what will happen?’

  ‘Well … we are, I suppose,’ said Hailsham. ‘That’s the whole point.’

  ‘We’ll be dead and gone in forty years’ time,’ protested Keaton, his voice rising in anger. ‘Let’s say the king dies, and the throne passes to York or his daughter—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then the king’s son, should he have one, decides that he himself never made any such agreement and refuses to renounce the throne.’

  ‘Well he’d be legally obligated to,’ said Monckton irritably. ‘We would draw up a document to ensure that it was the case.’

  ‘My God, man, haven’t you read your history? You think that a legal document would suffice? Any son of Edward VIII would have built up his own court and his own following. He’s not going to be foolish enough to sell away his birthright for an American woman. He’s going to demand it. When someone’s birthright is stolen from them, they will go to extraordinary lengths to win it back. We’d be going back to the days of Lancaster and York. The War of the Roses.’

  ‘Keaton, I hardly think that would happen in this day and age,’ said Hailsham. ‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little bit?’

  ‘I most certainly do not. Wars are fought over thrones, Hailsham. They’re fought all the time. We’re talking about the empire here. Do you seriously think that the king’s son, the natural heir to the throne, would not set about winning it back? Wouldn’t you?’

  The men went silent for a moment as they considered it.

  ‘We could have a situation where the king’s son is leading one army, the Princess Elizabeth is leading another—’

  ‘Oh come on, Keaton!’

  ‘What?’ he protested. ‘Why is it so difficult to comprehend? The law would say that the throne is hers but the natural law would say it’s his! And the moral law … well that would be open to conjecture. And whatever happens, whoever ends up winning, the other side would always make a case that their man, or woman as the case would be, is the rightful monarch. You would be creating a schism that might take centuries to resolve itself.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Altringham, nodding his head forcefully. ‘He’s absolutely right. The morganatic marriage doesn’t work.’

  Hailsham inclined his head slightly and shrugged. Keaton was not one of the people he most admired—after all he had made no secret of wanting his job and his talk of schisms was no doubt prompted by his belief that his own family had long ago been robbed of high office—but he was a senior judge and the prime minister had insisted on his being appointed to this committee. And, he had to admit, he might have a point.

  ‘If such a thing were possible,’ said Roderick, the voice of reason, ‘I think it would be foolish of us to discount it. And Keaton makes a powerful argument.’

  Monckton’s mouth fell open. He had hoped that the idea was a reasonable one and they would give their consent. He tried to imagine the scene that would ensue if he went back to his master with this response and he dreaded it; the man’s temper was appalling and infantile at times.

  ‘But there is another possibility,’ suggested Roderick after a suitable pause, while they were each considering the green fields of Albion lying splattered with their English dead. ‘We could simply allow the king to do as he pleases.’

  The other four men stared at him, Keaton and Altringham in horror, Hailsham and Monckton in interest.

  ‘Go on,’ said Hailsham. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ said Roderick, ‘throughout this whole business the question has always been whether the people would accept the marriage, whether the government would accept the marriage, whether Stanley Baldwin would accept the marriage—’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry much about him,’ grunted Monckton, no supporter of the prime minister.

  ‘But maybe we should just step back from it and say the king is the king, he has been anointed by God, and who he chooses to take as his wife, and when, are matters for him and his conscience. And, come that day, he can explain them to his maker if needs be.’

  The room went very silent for a moment as they took this in.

  ‘After all,’ continued Roderick. ‘What are the people going to do? Take to arms over a wedding? Pull down the palaces? Personally, I don’t believe they really care all that much. Have you seen the letters they’ve been writing in support? They’ve been goaded into it by the secrecy that’s surrounded this relationship from the start but if it was over and done with they’d get used to it very quickly. If the whole matter was finished and put to bed, so to speak, well they’d be back to worrying about the price of fish tomorrow or the conditions in the pits. Is it really too ridiculous to suggest that the whole thing might just blow over?’

  Keaton could hardly contain himself. His own argument had been powerful, if bellicose, but surely these were the rantings of a madman. He looked around, waiting to see who would kick Roderick from the room first.

  ‘There may be something in that,’ said Hailsham after a moment.

  ‘The mob do get bored very quickly,’ said Monckton.

  ‘He is the king, I suppose,’ said Altringham, the least convinced. ‘But still, the idea of an American woman—’

  ‘I think we need to call this meeting to an end for today,’ said Keaton immediately, sensing the tide beginning to turn against him. ‘It’s inconceivable that we make a decision of such importance without due consideration. We need to step away and consider things. You’ve all heard my argument and I believe it stands strong—’

  ‘Yes, it’s a powerful case,’ said Hail
sham. ‘And we’ve heard Roderick’s which is unusual but also persuasive.’

  ‘Then I suggest we allow cooler minds to make a decision and consider both sides of this debate over the next week. And then return here to make a decision.’

  ‘A decision I can take to the prime minister?’ asked Hailsham, looking around at them. ‘Because he wants an answer as soon as possible.’

  ‘A decision I can take to the king?’ asked Monckton. ‘Because he’s losing patience.’

  ‘We all vote next week,’ said Keaton. ‘And the majority rules.’

  ‘Very fair,’ said Altringham.

  ‘I think so,’ said Roderick, convinced he had won the debate anyway.

  ‘All right,’ said Monckton and Lord Hailsham together.

  ‘One week from today,’ said Hailsham quietly. ‘And I cannot stress how important it is that you do not reveal anything of this discussion to anyone.’

  ‘Of course not,’ they said, filing out.

  Keaton watched as Roderick slipped down the stairs, glancing at his watch anxiously. He probably had a meeting with his son’s barrister to get to, he considered. But it all depended on him. It wouldn’t be difficult to bring Altringham back from the other side. Monckton obviously wouldn’t change and Hailsham was an unknown quantity. So Roderick was the one.

  It was time for end game.

  SIX

  1

  BREAKFAST WAS SERVED AT seven o’clock but he was allowed to shower before it was brought to him and to change into the new suit that his mother had brought to the prison the previous day. Although he had barely left his cell since his incarceration, he felt physically exhausted and stood with his head under the spray for a long time, appreciating the rare privacy offered there as he tried to wash the sleep from his eyes. Afterwards, dressed and alone in his cell he found that he couldn’t sit still and paced the floor over and over, wishing they had allowed him a watch so he would know how much longer he had before it was time to leave.

  On most nights over the previous two months he had managed to sleep quite comfortably, desperate to return to that state when his eyes opened in the morning to face another tedious day, but the night before the trial began he was too nervous to fall asleep. His old life—that aimless, peaceful, uneventful existence—seemed like a dream now, something that he had taken so much for granted but had been stolen away from him without his even knowing why.

  The sound of a key was heard in the lock and his stomach churned with tension as one of the warders walked in, followed by Sir Quentin Lawrence and James Lewis, the instructing solicitor.

  ‘Not too long now, gentlemen,’ said the guard, collecting the breakfast tray and leaving them alone together in the cell. ‘I’ll give you a call when it’s time to go.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Sir Quentin, sitting down on the only chair in the cell while Gareth sat on the bed and Lewis stood. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘No, it’s just you,’ explained Gareth. ‘In your wig and gown. I haven’t seen you dressed for court before. Did you get it from Ede and Ravenscroft?’

  ‘Why on earth do you want to know that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Gareth, smiling to himself. He had given up wishing he could go back to the day of his own fitting and attend it after all. ‘The whole thing seems a lot more real suddenly. Like it’s actually going to happen.’

  Sir Quentin snorted. ‘Well of course it’s going to happen, my boy,’ he said, pulling his timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and flipping it open. ‘In about twenty or thirty minutes in fact. I just wanted to check on you. See that you were feeling all right.’

  Gareth shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ he said. ‘I don’t have much choice, do I? It can’t be much worse than what I’ve been through already.’

  The barrister and solicitor exchanged an anxious glance before looking at him again.

  ‘I should warn you,’ said Sir Quentin. ‘There’s probably going to be rather a lot of people in court today. In the spectators’ gallery, I mean. But you shouldn’t let it worry you. Just ignore them and keep your eyes focused directly ahead.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Gareth. ‘Why would there be so many people?’

  ‘Well there’s been rather a lot of reporting on this matter. Your father being who your father is and all that. You must remember he wasn’t very helpful to the reporters earlier in the year when the whole Domson case was running. I think they’re rather getting their own back on him now by rubbing his nose in it.’

  Gareth felt his whole body slump and he wanted to bury his face in his hands. ‘He doesn’t deserve that,’ he said quietly. ‘Neither of them deserve what I’ve done to them.’

  ‘You haven’t done anything, remember?’ said Sir Quentin sharply. ‘Or are you having a last-minute change of heart and changing your plea to guilty?’

  ‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I still want to plead not guilty.’

  ‘Quite right too.’

  ‘The fact that I can’t remember doing it surely counts for something, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Well, we’ll have to wait and see what the judge and jury think of that,’ said Sir Quentin, who had worked long and hard on his defence of Gareth Bentley but still knew that it would be an uphill battle; he wasn’t feeling particularly hopeful.

  ‘They still have to prove it, though, don’t they?’ asked Gareth.

  ‘Beyond a reasonable doubt, yes,’ he replied.

  ‘And it’s going to be difficult to prove, right?’

  Sir Quentin didn’t like to answer that; considering that he had been found alone in the flat with the dead body, smeared in the blood of the deceased and with his fingerprints all over the murder weapon. It all came together, he knew, to form damning evidence.

  ‘You do know the procedure for when we get into court, don’t you?’ asked James Lewis, the young but promising solicitor that Roderick had hired to instruct Sir Quentin.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Stand up when the judge comes in,’ said Lewis, ignoring what Gareth had just said. ‘And when he asks how you plead, answer him in a loud, confident voice. Other than that, don’t say a word. If a witness says something that you disagree with or you know to be false, you are not to say anything at all. Not under any circumstances. There’s nothing worse than a defendant who makes a scene in court. Just write a note and hand it to me and I’ll see to it that Sir Quentin gets it.’

  ‘I did study law at Cambridge,’ pointed out Gareth irritably. ‘I know the procedures.’

  ‘You may have studied it but you never practised it,’ said Lewis. ‘And you’re the defendant here, not the barrister, so you need to be careful you don’t confuse your role. That’s all I’m saying. The worst thing that could happen is that the jury sees you in a negative light.’

  ‘All right, Lewis, that’s enough,’ said Sir Quentin irritably, seeing how little of this Gareth was actually taking in. ‘He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing, isn’t it?’ said Gareth quietly. ‘If I had simply used my senses I would be your pupil now, going into cases like this with you and afterwards … afterwards going for celebratory drinks, I suppose,’ he added.

  ‘It was too many drinks that got you into this mess in the first place, young man. I wouldn’t spend too much time thinking about things like that if I was you.’

  ‘Do you know who’s up first?’ asked Gareth.

  ‘The pathologist,’ said Sir Quentin. ‘That’ll probably take most of the morning anyway. We’re looking at two weeks in total, I would think, until jury deliberations.’

  ‘And then the sentencing,’ said Gareth.

  ‘Don’t be so pessimistic. We haven’t even started yet. You need to cheer up, only don’t look too happy out there. Feel free to look outraged and appalled by the whole business. As if you can’t believe the injustice of your being there.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say. Somehow I don’t have a good feeling about this,
though.’

  In fact no one in the room, if they were honest with themselves, did.

  Some miles away, Roderick and Jane were getting into their car and escaping the phalanx of reporters who had been waiting on their doorstep for them since early morning. When they managed to close the doors and drive off, Jane was close to tears.

  ‘Catherine Jones phoned this morning,’ she said bitterly, referring to the next-door neighbour who had seen red over the encampment of reporters earlier in the year. ‘First thing too. Can you believe it? I was hardly out of bed. And said that she hoped that everything would go all right for us today but would it be possible to ask the young men on the street to move along to the Old Bailey instead? It lowers the tone, according to her. If I hadn’t been in my dressing gown I would have gone next door and throttled her.’

  ‘That would be all we need,’ said Roderick. ‘Two trials.’

  ‘Don’t be flippant, Roderick.’

  ‘Well just ignore her then,’ he replied. ‘We have more important matters to worry about than the neighbours’ concerns for the value of their houses.’

  They drove on in silence for a few minutes until Jane broke it with a quiet comment.

  ‘I’m frightened,’ she said. ‘I never knew I could feel quite so frightened.’

  He opened his mouth to reassure her but found that the words wouldn’t come; he had been in the law long enough to know how a case looked and the last thing he wanted was to offer false hope.

  ‘We’ll be there together,’ he told her instead. ‘Both of us. And we’ll be there for Gareth, whatever happens. You simply have to block everyone else out of your head.’

  ‘It’s not everyone else I’m worried about, Roderick. It’s Gareth. It’s our son. It’s the thought of what could happen to him if … if he’s found guilty.’

  She could barely bring herself even to suggest it but the possibility was there, it was more than a possibility, she had been married to a barrister for long enough to know that.

  ‘It’s what they’ll do to him then. At the sentencing.’

  ‘I told you that you can’t worry about that now,’ said Roderick, his vision blurry with tears as the idea came into his head too. ‘Remember, there’s no mandatory sentence here. Even if he was found guilty—and there’s no guarantee of that—but even if he was, well he could be sentenced to a few years perhaps—’