On one occasion he forged a slip from his uncle and aunt and left the school for the weekend, meeting Stella from her school and they spent an illicit Saturday together on the beaches at Brighton, hiding in coves together, making love furtively. They were enraptured with each other, with the surprise of a physical relationship, the lusts they felt. Montignac woke one morning with the certain knowledge that Stella was the only thing in the world that gave his life any meaning. He loved her, passionately, a love that made him feel weak inside and electrified him when she walked into a room. He just wanted to look at her all the time, to feel her presence, to receive that thrill that came when she turned in his direction and smiled or reached out for him and kissed him.
She said she was smitten by him, a word that vibrated within his soul, and they repeated it to each other for more than a year. It was the single word they used to describe their relationship. Smitten. Always smitten.
‘Of course,’ said Jenny. ‘People thought we were crazy getting married so soon—’
‘We’ve only known each other a few months,’ explained Jack.
‘But we just thought, when you’ve met the right person, you know it, don’t you? You know that no one else can ever match up to him. So there’s no point looking. Are you married, Mr…’
‘Montignac,’ he said. ‘Yes,’ he added after a moment. ‘Yes I am.’
‘Oh that’s good. How long for?’
‘A few years now,’ he lied.
‘And what’s her name?’
‘Stella.’
‘That’s a posh name,’ said Jenny. ‘Where is she then? Isn’t she travelling with you?’
‘Actually, I’m just on my way home to her,’ he said, wondering whether it really was his home any more. He turned his head to discourage further conversation and wished he’d picked a different compartment. The two young people seated opposite were smitten with each other too, he could see that, and it tore at his insides to have lost the only woman he had ever loved or ever would.
Of course, he knew that their relationship had never really stood a chance. But that it had come to an end in such a dramatic fashion made the memory of it even more painful. First there had been that awful morning, that most terrible morning of his life—he had to close his eyes to block the memory as it poured in upon him—when Andrew … Andrew …
He shook his head to dismiss it; he had done many unpleasant things in his life but thinking of that was not allowed. It was, he had decided long ago, injurious to his health.
And then a month or two later Stella had told him the awful truth and they didn’t know what to do. They had nowhere to turn, no one to turn to, and so she had taken a chance and called Margaret Richmond to her room and confessed everything to her, becoming almost hysterical with tears and upset as she did so, and Margaret had sat there, growing paler and paler as the story progressed, as they told her the things they had done, of what they should never have done, and the consequences that had suddenly landed on them.
She was shocked, of course. Almost speechless. Paced around the room, reeling from disgust and panic. She went to the bathroom and threw water on her face. But finally she had agreed to help them, the children she had never had. It was Margaret who had laid the seeds of doubt in Peter and Ann Montignac’s minds about the school Stella was in and it was she who had first suggested the finishing school in Switzerland. She only had to mention the names of aristocrats who sent their daughters there for them to be convinced and then soon enough, before she could begin to show, Stella had left Leyville, not to return for almost two years.
She hadn’t said goodbye to Montignac before going and had never spoken to him about the matter since. Once again it was left to Margaret to tell him what had happened. That she was safely in Switzerland and would remain there for now, and that the problem was behind them, there would be no baby now, and he must forget about it and never discuss it again with anyone. Not ever.
A sharp taste entered his mouth and he licked his lips, putting a finger to them which he drew back coated in blood. He had bitten right through his lip as he thought of the events of the past.
‘Oh my, you’re bleeding, Mr Montignac,’ said Jenny, reaching in her bag and extracting a handkerchief. ‘Here, hold this to it.’
She pressed forwards and went to hold it there herself—as Stella had done all those years ago—but he pulled back and took it off her with a grateful nod.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I can do it myself.’
The train was slowing down; they were two stops away from Leyville, a good hour’s walk or more. It was cold outside but something told him that if he sat there for a minute longer he would put his fist through the window in anger and he quickly grabbed his bag and, without so much as a goodbye, charged through the compartment doors and out on to the platform outside, where he gasped in the fresh air and hated his life and his history and everything he had become and everything they had turned him into. The young couple stared at him through the window in surprise as the train pulled away.
The Montignacs, those Montignacs, had stolen everything from him. His house, his money, his land, his family, his inheritance, his peace of mind, his child.
And here he was, answering a summons from the worst Montignac of all, as if he was little more than a servant. Why did she treat him like this? he wondered. Why couldn’t she see how much he loved her? How they were born to be together?
5
WHILE RODERICK BENTLEY WAS learning just what he needed to do in order to save the life of his only child, his wife Jane was also taking a break from the Old Bailey to speak to Sir Quentin Lawrence during the lunch recess. She had waited for him after the morning session but he had disappeared from sight as the judge had risen and the crowds of spectators blocked her view of where he went.
‘I’m going over to chambers,’ Roderick told her as he stood up to leave and collected his bag. ‘Do you want to come with me?’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I’ll have a sandwich here and see you later.’
He nodded and went on his way, grateful that he would not be forced to make hopeful conversation, and she waited for him to leave the courtroom before following him out and looking up and down the corridor for her son’s barrister. He was nowhere to be seen but then, by chance, she spotted James Lewis, the instructing solicitor, descending a staircase and she ran in his direction, her high heels making loud noises in the otherwise deserted corridor. Before she could reach him, however, he had stepped through the door of the gentlemen’s lavatory and she stood outside, waiting in desperation for him to emerge. After a few moments that felt like a lifetime, and looking to her left and right to ensure that no one was around, she followed him in.
It was a strange experience, walking inside. It occurred to her that she had never been inside a Gents room before in her life; it was colder than the Ladies and less well laid out. Standing with his back to her at one of the urinals, whistling a tune under his breath, stood the young solicitor.
‘Mr Lewis,’ she said and he jumped, startled, turning his head in amazement to see her standing there.
‘Lady Bentley,’ he said. ‘What the—?’
‘I’m sorry to burst in on you, Mr Lewis, but—’
‘Lady Bentley, this is the Gents! You can’t come in here!’
‘There’s just something that I—’
‘It’s for men only,’ he insisted. ‘You’ll have to wait outside until—’
‘Oh I don’t care about that, you stupid boy,’ she roared. ‘I need you to tell me something.’
Lewis glared at her and turned back to gather himself together and button his trousers up before stepping over to the wash-hand basin, his youthful face scarlet with embarrassment. ‘This is most improper,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘A chap goes to the bathroom, he should be allowed—’
‘Do you know where Sir Quentin has gone?’ she asked, uninterested in his rules of etiquette.
‘To lunch, I imagin
e,’ he replied.
‘Yes but where?’ she insisted; she had a slightly manic look in her eyes that unsettled James and he gave her the name and address of a pub down the road where he knew Sir Quentin often went for a steak and kidney pie during a trial.
‘I can’t guarantee he’ll be there,’ he shouted after her as she ran through the door again, just as an aged barrister stepped inside and stared at her departing figure in surprise before turning back to Lewis contemptuously. ‘Don’t ask,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and making for the door himself.
Fortunately for James, Sir Quentin was indeed in the pub he had suggested, sitting alone at a discreet corner table with a pie in front of him and a half glass of beer, The Times crossword laid out on the table beside him.
‘There you are,’ said Jane, sitting down opposite him. ‘I was waiting for you after court.’
‘Jane,’ he said, not entirely happy to see her there; he relished the peace and quiet of these brief breaks in proceedings and wondered how she had tracked him down. ‘Dear lady,’ he added in a patronizing tone.
‘Don’t “dear lady” me,’ she said crossly. ‘What is going on in there, Quentin? This morning just seemed … I’ve never heard such … what kind of people…?’ Her mind was so filled with misery and confusion that she could find no expression for her many complaints. Her hundreds of questions fought to be heard, like a crowd of angry villagers screaming in unison at a town-hall meeting.
‘Please, Jane,’ he said quickly. ‘Settle down. Let me get you a drink. What would you like?’
She sighed and tried to compose herself. ‘I don’t need to settle down,’ she cried in frustration. ‘I just need to—’
‘Sit down,’ he insisted. ‘I’ll get you a gin and tonic. That will calm your nerves.’
‘All right,’ she said, taking the chair opposite him and brushing her hair from her eyes; she caught sight of her reflection in a mirror for a moment and her skin looked pale and dry. Three months earlier she would never have allowed herself to leave the house looking like that. She looked away quickly.
Sir Quentin called over the waitress to place the order and she returned a few moments later with a glass that Jane started to sip from anxiously.
‘This morning,’ she said in a more even tone now. ‘It didn’t go well, did it?’
‘Those two boys, Higgins and O’Neill, they didn’t help matters, that’s for sure. It’s very unfortunate that the prosecution got a hold of them.’
‘Oh they probably contacted them themselves,’ she said bitterly. ‘I remember them well enough from when Gareth was in school. Terrible influences. They were the ones who were always goading him into doing these things. Drinking and causing trouble. Although they seem to have been able to hold their alcohol better than him. They probably read about the case in the newspapers and thought they’d make names for themselves.’
‘Young Mr Higgins did end up with quite severe injuries,’ said Sir Quentin carefully. ‘The prosecution were able to make a lot of hay from that.’
‘But you made no objections,’ complained Jane. ‘That’s what I don’t understand. Why didn’t you get to your feet more often?’
‘Because, dear lady,’ he said, ‘I objected at the outset. I told the judge that the evidence of a misdemeanour ten years earlier had no relevance to this case whatsoever and he overruled me. He felt that it spoke to the character of the defendant.’
‘Gareth,’ insisted Jane. ‘His name is Gareth.’
‘Yes, to the character of Gareth. He wanted the evidence to be laid out for the jury to hear. And having ruled on that I could hardly object to any of the young men recounting what had happened, could I? Harkman hardly had to lead them at all. But I couldn’t allow the jury to think we were afraid of it.’
‘It damaged us, though, didn’t it?’
‘Very badly, I fear.’
Jane sighed; she had hoped that he would say no, that it was not too important either way, but his tone said differently.
‘Well what are we going to do to counter it?’ she asked. ‘What will our defence be?’
‘Our defence remains what it has been all along,’ said Sir Quentin. ‘One, that there are no witnesses to the attack and no one, for that matter, even to say that the victim died in Mr Montignac’s flat.’
‘Well of course he died there,’ said Jane irritably. ‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes, but no one saw it. It’s a valid point. Two, that the defen—’ He quickly corrected himself. ‘That Gareth would not have been able to summon enough strength in his condition to fight and kill another person, let alone a sober, strong young man like Raymond Davis.’
‘That’s good,’ said Jane, nodding her head.
‘And three,’ said Quentin, ‘and perhaps most importantly, that he had absolutely no motive whatsoever. He didn’t even know who Davis was.’
‘Isn’t that enough?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t that a valid defence?’
Sir Quentin breathed heavily through his nose. He wasn’t sure how truthful she wanted him to be but if she was going to push him then he would not hold back. ‘Well that’s rather the problem, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘There are those who will see our third defence, the lack of motive, as potentially quite damning. It implies that Gareth was so drunk and out of his senses that in a blind fit he simply murdered an innocent man who had come to call on a friend. His future brother-in-law.’
‘He’s not her brother.’
‘Cousin-in-law then. If there’s such a thing.’
‘I wondered,’ began Jane, looking around to ensure that no one could overhear her, but the bar was relatively quiet at this time of the day, ‘whether there was any chance we might be able to do a little more than what we are doing.’
Sir Quentin frowned. ‘I assure you, dear lady, I’m doing all I can. As you know I’ve been practising at the Bar for over twenty-seven—’
‘I don’t just mean in terms of our defence,’ said Jane, holding his gaze. ‘I mean in terms of ensuring a favourable verdict.’
He stared at her and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Jane,’ he said, baffled, ‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Sir Quentin, you must have looked at them,’ she said.
‘Looked at who?’
‘The jury, of course.’
He nodded. ‘Well yes,’ he said, ‘I’ve looked at them. But I don’t—’
‘Where do they get these people from anyway?’ she asked with a bitter laugh. ‘They’re a rotten-looking bunch, don’t you think?’
Slightly offended for the integrity of the judicial system to which he had devoted himself throughout his life, Sir Quentin drew himself up in the chair and shook his head. ‘They seem like a perfectly sensible jury,’ he said. ‘Twelve good men and true. That is the foundation on which we base our system of justice after all.’
‘There’s a man in the front row who’s worn the same suit every day of the trial,’ she said. ‘The same shirt even. He must wash it out overnight and leave it on a hanger to dry. There’s a woman seated behind him who wears a hat that was in fashion for about three weeks in nineteen twenty-eight. There’s an older gentleman at the end of the front row who cycles to court every morning on an old boneshaker and brings his own sandwiches for the recess. Do you see what I’m getting at now, Sir Quentin?’
‘No,’ he said in a clear voice. ‘I haven’t the first clue if I’m honest.’
‘These are people who are not of solid means,’ she explained. ‘They are lower-middle-class, upper-working-class folk who are no doubt struggling from week to week to support themselves and their families. Trying to give their children a decent upbringing but finding that economic circumstance or just plain bad luck is getting in their way all the time.’
‘Perhaps,’ he granted her. ‘But that’s the way we do things. We don’t recruit our juries from the food halls at Harrods.’
‘Surely there’s a way that some of these people could be helped,’ she said gently, ignori
ng his attempt at humour. ‘Surely they would appreciate it if a charitable donation was made to them to help them out with their lives, with their children’s lives?’
Sir Quentin narrowed his eyes and laid down his knife and fork, his appetite for the steak and kidney pie destroyed at last. This was exactly why he didn’t like to be disturbed at lunch. ‘Jane, I’m going to stop you before you say anything else,’ he said.
‘Just listen to me,’ she said, interrupting him quickly.
‘No, I don’t believe I will—’
‘It wouldn’t have to be the whole jury, just two or three of them. Four or five at most. Enough to swing things our way. If we could just let them know, offer them—’
‘Jane, stop it!’
‘In a way it would be like making amends for what Gareth has done, trying to improve the lives of some needy people—’
‘Jane, I must insist,’ he shouted, his voice rising so high that the few other people in the bar turned and glanced coolly in the direction of the arguing couple in the corner, suspecting a love affair gone awry. Jane stopped talking and bit her lip, looking away from both them and him.
‘We’re not wealthy by any means,’ she said now, reaching forwards and pinning his hand to the table with her own. ‘But we’re extremely comfortable. We have the money. I have it myself if need be.’
‘Does Roderick know that you’re having this conversation with me?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘No, of course not. He’d lose his mind.’
‘I daresay he would,’ said Sir Quentin. ‘And for what it’s worth you could go to jail for what you’ve just suggested and while you’re at it you could ensure your son’s conviction and execution.’
She turned to stare at him again, her face suddenly pale as if he had slapped her.
‘That’s right, Jane,’ he repeated. ‘Execution. And if you ever make a suggestion like that again and anyone overhears you, that’s exactly what could happen. And I have to tell you, I am offended, mortally offended that you think I would go along with such a scheme.’
She leaned forwards, her lips seeming to recede slightly as she bared her lips, the lioness defending her cub. ‘Don’t play the high and mighty with me, Quentin,’ she said. ‘You don’t have any children, do you?’