Prisoner at the Bar
Prisoner at the Bar
Roderic Jeffries
© Roderic Jeffries 1969
Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 1969 by Walker Publishing Company Inc.
This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 1
Robert Bladen braked the Austin Countryman to a crawl as the headlights picked out the entrance to a lane on the left. “Let’s see where that leads to.”
“But it may be somebody’s front drive,” Katherine Curson protested.
He laughed. “We can always say we’ve come to supper.” The lane’s dirt surface was pot-holed and hard, there had been no rain for several days, and the car’s suspension was kept working. The lane turned right at a gnarled hornbeam, centuries old and with a main trunk hollow and grotesquely twisted, then passed between sprawling rhododendron bushes on either side. Fifty yards from the hornbeam, bushes ceased and there was an open area some twenty yards long. There was some grass here, but the continual passage of vehicles and people kept it stunted.
He put on the handbrake and switched off engine and lights. He left the car in gear as the ground gradually sloped to the edge, where it met the much steeper slope of the hill.
She settled back in her seat. “It’s a lovely sky. Mother always used to say that when the sky was like this she could begin to believe in immortality.”
The moon was almost full and its light softened the countryside giving it a dreamy character. Streaks of altocumulus spattered the sky, as if a circus of high-flying jets had just performed intricate aerobatics.
She half turned. “You’re very silent, Bob.”
“Am I?”
“You’ve hardly said half a dozen words since we left the restaurant.”
“When we were in the restaurant you told me to stop talking.”
“Only about one thing.” Her voice became softer. “Please, Bob, don’t be angry with me.”
He silently cursed. His anger was exclusively reserved for Elmer Curson, her husband. Elmer caused her endless hurt, yet was quite indifferent to the fact.
“Are… are you so very angry with me, Bob?” she asked. He looked at her. The moonlight was strong enough to show the general outline of her face. She had a rounded face, filled with warmth, with certain lines that indicated her strength of character. Her nose was cheerful, with the hint of a turned-up end. Her eyes were large and blue and when, as they sometimes were on meeting, they were filled with misery, he felt a wild, impotent fury that churned up his guts.
She raised her hand on to the back of the seat and rested her fingertips on his neck. “Please say something.” She laughed a trifle uncertainly. “Your silences get so loud and fierce!”
He kissed her with an aching longing. For a time she responded to his passion, then she began to draw away from him. He tried to hold her close.
“No, Bob.”
“You’re always saying no,” he muttered thickly.
“One of us has to say it.”
“Why?”
“You know as well as I do.”
“I don’t.”
“Don’t make it too difficult for me, Bob.”
“Difficult? What d’you think it is for me when I want you and need you so much it gets like a pain?”
“I know what it’s like.”
“But you won’t do anything about it. What’s the matter? Scared? Or are you really just a teaser?”
“You… you don’t really think that, do you, Bob?”
“No,” he muttered. “God knows, I don’t! I know you love me as much as I love you. Yet knowing that, I can’t understand… I can’t understand how you can stop.”
“Sometimes I’m scared I won’t be able to.”
“Scared?”
“Afterwards, I’d have to live with myself. I mustn’t be a traitor to myself.”
He reached down to his pocket for his cigarette case. How many times had they said these things? How many times had he tried to persuade her that her sense of loyalty towards Elmer was so terribly mistaken and she should seize the happiness she so desperately desired and needed?
He handed her a cigarette and took one himself. He put the case back in his pocket, brought out a lighter, and was about to flick it open when he chanced to look past her, through the side window. The nearest rhododendron bush was ten feet away and in it, picked out by the moonlight, he seemed to see the outline of a face.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“I’m not quite certain.”
“What is it? Have you seen something?”
The moonlight, filtered by the high cloud, softened and blurred all outlines so that it was difficult to be certain of any form. One moment he was convinced it was only a combination of dark and light around some of the leaves, the next he could pick out a face. “Katherine, can you make out anything in that bush there, halfway up?”
She did not immediately look round, but stared at his face. “What kind of something?”
“It could be a man’s face.”
Instinctively, she pressed against him to gain the comfort of physical contact. “Why should anyone be there?”
“If there is someone, that’s going to be my first question,” he said quickly, as he put his hand on the door handle.
“Wouldn’t it be better…” She stopped.
He opened the door and the inside light automatically came on. He climbed out and shut the door.
Seen direct, and not through a window, the bush was clearer. There was certainly no face there now. He came up to the bush and began to walk round it and thought he heard a thumping noise, as of someone running, but as he stopped and concentrated on the noise of a hotted-up Mini, with crackling exhaust, as it went along the road. When it was past, all was quiet. He returned to the car.
“Was there anyone?” she asked.
“I don’t really know. I didn’t see anyone, but I heard something which could’ve been someone running away.”
She gripped his hand. “He must have been a peeping Tom, if there was anyone?”
“Small change he’d have got out of watching us.” He laughed. “Unfortunately.”
“It makes me feel all shivery.”
He put his arm round her shoulder and she snuggled up against him.
“Why do they do it?” she asked.
“They’re a bit cracked.” He changed the subject, to try to divert her mind. “When’s our next time out together going to be?”
“D’you want to see me again?”
“What a damn fool question.”
She kissed him. “Can’t I go fishing for compliments?”
“Since when have you had to bait a hook to get me to tell you I love you, I want to see you every minute of every day, and if only you’d let your terrible sense of duty go hang I’d whip you off on a cruise to lonely golden beaches under a golden sun.”
“Sometimes, when I feel extra miserable, I dream of our going off together and finding a world of our own. The only trouble with dreaming is that when I come back to the real world it seems just that little bit ha
rsher.”
“Why won’t you leave Elmer?”
“You know why,” she answered, her voice suddenly weary.
“Loyalty’s fine unless, and until, you waste it on someone who doesn’t understand it. Katherine, happiness is more important than loyalty.”
“Only if you’re selfish.”
“Then for once be selfish.”
“Bob, you know I can’t.”
He could just see the expression of anguish on her face: he could not see the unshed tears, but knew they would be there. He hated himself for stirring up such bitter and conflicting emotions, but knew that nothing would ever stop him from trying to get her to break away from Elmer.
They were silent. Below them, the countryside spread out to the coast and on Joumelle Point they could see the red flashing light of the lighthouse, which marked the dangerous sector. Phillipe de Joumelle had set sail for France in 1347. A blasphemous man, he had refused to pray for a safe voyage but had sworn that the devil would protect him. A rising south-westerly gale drove the ship on the rocks five hundred yards out from the point and all hands had drowned. The ghosts of the unfortunate men were said to cry to Heaven whenever a south-west gale was imminent.
“D’you see that ship?” she said suddenly.
“Right out on the horizon? She looks like a pretty big passenger ship.”
“Maybe we’ll be on her one day, Bob, going to those golden beaches.”
Maybe, he thought. But the chances seemed too thin to get excited about.
*
James Thompson wheeled the bicycle along the side of the end cottage and round to the wooden shed that was next to the outside privy. Before leaning the bicycle against the shed side, he cleaned it down with a duster, even though it was not in the least bit dirty: it was one of his most treasured possessions.
He went into the cottage, one of four in the ragstone building. There were two rooms downstairs and two upstairs: there were no amenities beyond a copper, a rusting range, one cold tap, and electricity. The landlord, when this had become possible three years before, had wanted to modernise by knocking the four cottages into two and installing in each unit a bathroom, lavatory, and hot water system. The weekly rent would have risen from nine shillings to forty-five. Thompson had refused to pay and so numbers one and two remained as they had been, with number two empty, whilst numbers three and four had been transferred into a pleasant and modern house.
He went through to the dining room. Here, there was a battered wooden table, three ugly wooden chairs that were usable and a fourth that was not, a broken-down sideboard, a framed print of George the Fifth, and a television set. Nothing in the room had altered from the day his mother died except for the addition of the television set.
He opened the right-hand cupboard door and brought out a blue-covered exercise book and three pencils, two of which were coloured. He sat down at the table, opened the book, and slowly and laboriously read down the lists on the first two pages. There were four columns on each page and in the first three were dates, places, and sometimes initials: in the fourth column were symbols, written in either ordinary lead, blue, or red. Certain memories brought a glint to his soft brown eyes.
He made a fresh entry on the last line of the second page. The date was the eighteenth of September, the place was Rhodendram, the initials were B and C, and the symbol was a circle, drawn with the lead pencil. He sucked his lower lip. If only he could have used the blue or red pencil.
After a while, he shut the exercise book and replaced it in the cupboard, together with the pencils. He switched on the television set to the commercial channel and sat back in the chair, ready to enjoy whatever programme happened to be on. He found reading difficult and so never bothered with newspapers and books. He never went out to the cinema, to the pub, or to visit anyone. He had only three pleasures in life: the television, gardening, and peeping.
Chapter 2
It was Monday, the thirtieth of September. A gale, which had blown down trees, lifted tiles off roofs, and badly damaged yachts in the marina at Patchington, had passed but left behind unsettled weather. There were frequent heavy showers and cold winds during the day yet, infuriatingly, the nights were warm and clear. Late holidaymakers in the camps along the coast mournfully had to work hard at enjoying themselves, whilst bed-and-breakfasters, turned out of their lodgings at ten and not allowed to return before five, mooched the streets and dismally worked out how long it would be before they could return home.
Paraford Cross, ten miles inland, was less immediately affected by the weather. Few holidaymakers went there because it offered them little, being a market town that was suffering from an ever-increasing split character. On the one hand there was the market, the old family businesses, the family stores which gave personal service but no bargains, on the other hand there were the growing number of supermarkets with windows garishly plastered with notices of bargains, chain-stores, and cut-price stores, which gave no service.
Bladen’s flat was in a large Victorian house in Church Street, at the back of the High Street. The flat was neither comfortable nor attractive, the conversion having been clumsily carried out by a local firm whose tastes were Philistine. Bladen didn’t care what the flat was like, even though he appreciated both comfort and beauty.
The alarm bell went off at seven o’clock, but he lay in bed until half-past. As a profession, the law had several disadvantages, but it did allow a man a bit of a stay in bed. He’d never liked getting up: not for him the cold shower and six-mile run before breakfast to tone up the liver. Gwyneth had been even more stay-abed than he had: given the opportunity, she probably wouldn’t have got up before midday.
He had a quick shower, hot, and because he was appearing in court he dressed in his dark suit. He checked that there were two clean wing collars and two sets of tabs in his wig-box, returned the box to his red bag — presented to him three years before by a London silk — and then went through to the kitchen and cooked himself an egg and bacon breakfast.
He had a cigarette with his coffee and noticed it was the last one. He told himself he must cut down on the number he smoked, but knew he wouldn’t. Gwyneth had always been promising to smoke less but had never done so, even though in those days they’d desperately needed the money.
He tapped ash from the cigarette into an ashtray. It was just about the eighth anniversary of his marriage to Gwyneth, which meant it was about seven years since he’d realised what a disastrous mistake that marriage was. She’d been pretty with a soft and appealing manner that made a male think she couldn’t cope with life without his support: the attitude was a flattering one to the male ego, but one that became infinitely less attractive when it was discovered to be no pose. She really had been unable to cope with life. A barrister, unless exceptionally lucky or married to a solicitor’s daughter, did not make a reasonable living when he first practised, even though things were not as bad as they had been twenty years before. Gwyneth’s answer to financial trouble had been to pretend it wasn’t true and to go on spending, even at an accelerated rate. When he’d tried to tell her she couldn’t continue like that, she’d burst into tears and accused him of all sorts of things.
He poured himself out a second cup of coffee and carried it from the kitchen to the telephone in the hall. He put the cup down on the shelf and dialled 0. He asked the operator for Tenlington 383. The ringing tone began. His mind flicked back four years and he remembered the young, embarrassed policeman who had come to chambers to tell him there’d been a car crash, the lady driver was very seriously injured, and papers in her handbag identified her as Mrs. Gwyneth Bladen. He could still remember his own thoughts…
“Mr. Curson’s residence,” said a plum-pudding voice. The butler, Rollo, was tubby, round-faced, and lardy.
“I’d like to speak to Mrs. Curson.”
“One moment, please, sir.”
Bladen stirred the coffee and drank some of it. Did Rollo concern himself very much in the telephone cal
ls?
“Hullo,” said Katherine.
“From the sound of it, you’re still in bed?”
“I’ll bet I got up earlier than you did.”
“I don’t think I’ll take you on. Is it still all right?”
“Yes.”
“The usual place at seven?”
“I’ll be there.”
He said goodbye and rang off. Thank God Elmer hadn’t changed his mind and cancelled his trip to London. Why didn’t some young awkward policeman turn up at Forden House to say it was all terribly unfortunate but a gentleman called Elmer Curson had just crashed his Rolls and spattered himself over the windscreen? Why did Katherine let herself suffer so much misery solely because of a misplaced loyalty? Sure, she’d married Elmer in church and promised to love, honour, and obey him until death did them part, but in this day and age that was hardly taken seriously. The first requirement of a marriage was to make the parties happy — their marriage made her very, very unhappy. So why wouldn’t she come to him? They were so in love it was painful to be together — but still more painful to be apart. Happiness was the most precious jewel of life. It wasn’t everyone who was offered the chance of deep happiness — how could she turn down such a priceless gift?
He stubbed out his cigarette in the saucer, an action which reminded him of how Gwyneth had railed at him for so disgusting a habit: the lower orders did that sort of thing. She had been a firm believer in lower, middle, and higher orders.
He carried the cup and saucer through to the kitchen and put them on the draining board. He checked on the time. Where should they eat tonight? There was a new chef at the motel and the standard of food was said to have risen. After that, they could go for a drive. A car provided them with a personalised world, inhabited by no one else.
*
Katherine Curson sighed. She shut the accounts book. Even after four separate attempts, the figures refused to balance. When Elmer checked the accounts, he would once more coldly show her where she had gone wrong. Why did a man as rich as he bother about a few odd pounds?