Next of Kin (3 page)

He had known Peter Montignac for almost forty years and had slowly moved from the position of lawyer to close friend and confidant in midlife, before returning to the role of functionary and employee during Peter's final years as the old man grew grouchy and despondent. It was the death of his only son, Andrew, that had brought this on; anyone with even a slight acquaintance with the older Montignac knew that he had never quite got over the tragedy. The boy's death in a shooting accident at the age of eighteen had never been explained to the father's satisfaction; Andrew had been an experienced marksman after all, Peter pointed out whenever the subject came up. And he knew how to clean a rifle. It was too ridiculous to suggest that he would have made such a fatal error.

The relationship between lawyer and client had been fractious at times over the years but he knew that he would miss him nonetheless, his unpredictability and charm, the bursts of anger and venom he reserved for his enemies. Peter Montignac had been a man of extremes, capable of the fiercest loyalty to his friends but also willing to exact bitter revenge against those who had betrayed that friendship over the years. Sir Denis knew him well enough to feel pleased that he had managed, for the most part, to stay on the right side of him.

He had spent a half-hour since returning to Leyville from the funeral trying to locate Owen Montignac in order to arrange a suitable time for the reading of the will, but Peter's young nephew was nowhere to be found. He had certainly come back with the party—that unmistakable shock of white hair had been visible emerging from the first car to arrive back at the house—but he had failed to put in an appearance since then, which Sir Denis found to be in poor taste. Mourning was mourning, of course, but it should be kept to private time and not allowed to surface when there was a house full of guests. And as for that eulogy he'd delivered; well, he could just imagine Peter turning in his grave at the thought of such stark emotion.

Sir Denis wanted to arrange the reading for as soon as possible and planned to fortify himself with several stiff brandies before it began as he could not imagine the interview having a happy conclusion. He glanced at his watch; if Montignac did not appear within the next half-hour, he decided he would speak to Stella instead; she had also kept a low profile throughout the day but was managing to contain her grief with a lot more dignity than her cousin had displayed. And this despite the fact that she was the man's natural child.

It was in this house that Peter and Sir Denis had drafted his original will many years before, leaving all his money and interests to his now late wife, Ann; it was here that it had been amended in favour of his son, Andrew, within hours of the boy's birth. It was here that allowances for Stella and his nephew, Owen, had been added as a codicil and here that the entire thing had had to be changed again after Andrew's death.

He didn't relish the idea of the reading, wondering how the relatives would react when they heard the news. Perhaps it wouldn't be unexpected, despite the Montignacs' sense of tradition; perhaps they might have predicted one final outburst of spontaneity from their late patriarch. It was difficult to know. Sir Denis couldn't even guess at their reaction for they were a strange family, given to unpredictability and capriciousness.

4

RODERICK BENTLEY HELD THE
breakfast tray gingerly in his hands as he opened the door to the bedroom, trying his best not to surrender the carefully balanced contents to the carpet beneath him as he stepped inside. Jane was already awake but dozing and sat up in bed with a sleepy smile when she saw her husband appear.

‘Darling,' she said. ‘What a perfect servant you are.'

He smiled and stood before her like a well-trained butler while she arranged the pillows behind her back, and then settled the tray on her lap carefully.

‘Breakfast, madam,' he announced in an affected voice and she smiled and took the lid off the plate to reveal a selection of scrambled eggs, bacon and sausages.

‘Scrambled,' she said with a frown. ‘I'll have to speak to Nell about that. They're very twenties, don't you think? But she refuses to poach, for some unfathomable reason.'

‘I'm afraid I'm not up to date with the current fashions in eggs,' said Roderick, settling himself in an armchair by the window as his wife buttered a slice of toast.

‘You should have brought up another cup,' said Jane, pouring herself some tea. ‘There's enough in the pot for two.'

‘No, I've had enough tea,' he said, shaking his head. ‘I've been up since five o'clock drinking the stuff and I better stop or I'll have to keep excusing myself from the bench this morning.'

‘Five o'clock?' she asked, turning to look at him in surprise. ‘Why on earth—?'

‘I couldn't sleep,' he said. ‘I'll be all right once today's over.'

‘You do look tired,' said Jane after a pause, a suitably sympathetic look crossing her face. ‘Poor Roderick. It's really taken it out of you, hasn't it?'

A loud commotion muffled its way up to the window from the street below and Roderick stood up and parted the curtains slightly to see what was happening out there.

‘Oh for heaven's sake,' he said in an exasperated tone.

‘What?' asked Jane. ‘What's going on?'

‘It looks like two reporters are getting into a fight over who has the better position on the pavement and the others are cheering them on,' he said, closing the curtains again. ‘Probably taking bets on it too, the bloody parasites. Perhaps they'll knock each other out.'

‘The neighbours won't be sorry when this is all over,' said Jane. ‘Catherine Jones called me yesterday to ask when you would be passing sentence.'

‘And what did you tell her?'

‘I said you never discuss your cases at home. That there's such a thing as judicial integrity. Well, I didn't put it in quite such stark terms but I think she got the idea.'

‘Good girl,' said Bentley, nodding his head in approval. ‘You did right.'

‘Roderick?'

‘Yes?'

‘You will be passing sentence today, though, won't you?'

Roderick thought about it and bit his upper lip, breathing heavily through his nose as he did so. Jane had been right about one thing; he never did discuss his cases at home. But then he had been a judge for almost fifteen years and he had never presided over a case with quite so much notoriety and public interest as was attached to this one. Nor had he sat on the bench for one which had caused this level of difficulty and media intrusiveness for his family. Or his neighbours. He decided that on this occasion, and on this occasion alone, it would not damage his integrity too much if he bent one of his rules a little.

‘Yes,' he said finally. ‘Yes, it will all be over today. You can be sure of that.'

‘And what will it be?' asked Jane in as casual a manner as possible, not looking in his direction now but scooping a little of the offending scrambled eggs on to a slice of toast in order to imply her lack of interest in the answer. ‘Life or death?'

‘Now, Jane,' said Roderick, smiling slightly at the wiles which his wife employed to trick him into answering; he had grown familiar with her tricks over the years and rarely found himself trapped. ‘You know I can't tell you that.'

‘Oh for heaven's sake, Roderick,' she said as if it was a trivial matter and hardly worthy of her time anyway. ‘You'll be telling the whole world in a couple of hours. You can tell me now, can't you? If I promise not to say anything to anyone in the meantime?'

There was a polite tap on the bedroom door and Jane frowned and called for the visitor waiting outside to enter. It was Sophie, the maid-of-all-work, with the morning edition of
The Times
which had just been delivered.

‘Oh thank you, Sophie,' said Jane. ‘Just lay it on the bed there, would you? And could you run my bath for me too please? I'll be getting up in a few minutes.'

‘Already, ma'am?' asked Sophie, surprised, for her mistress normally liked to luxuriate in bed for a little longer before rising to face an inferior world.

‘Yes, I'll be accompanying the judge to the Old Bailey this morning so it's rush-rush and all hands to the pumps.'

‘Yes, ma'am,' said Sophie, leaving the room quickly and heading in the direction of the bathroom.

‘You're coming to court?' asked Roderick when she had left. ‘You're attending the sentencing?'

‘I decided last night,' said Jane. ‘You don't think I'd miss it, do you? I want to show you some support. To let you know that you're not alone in that chilly courtroom. And besides, everyone will be there.'

‘
Everyone
won't get in,' said Roderick irritably. ‘There's not enough room for
everyone
.'

‘Well there'll be room for the judge's wife, I expect,' she said, setting her tray aside, the food only half eaten. ‘What time is it now anyway?'

‘Ten past nine,' he said, unsure whether he should be flattered or nervous about his wife's presence in court. She always attracted the attention of the reporters and seemed to thrive on batting their questions aside like a skilled cricketer.

‘Oh my,' she said. ‘Well then, I better hurry. What time are you leaving at, around ten?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well
don't
,' she said, stressing the word, ‘leave without me.'

Roderick nodded and watched as his wife got out of bed and went to the wardrobe for her robe. Even now, even after all these years, he could barely take his eyes off her. It wasn't just that he had been inexperienced with women when they had first met and it wasn't just that she'd given him the kind of sensual life over two and a half decades that he had never previously imagined would be part of his destiny. It was also the fact that she was the type of woman who grew more and more attractive with age and every day brought fresh delights. To be by her side, to enter the Old Bailey with her on his arm, made him feel like a young man in the throes of his first romance again. Everything about her energized him; he loved her.

As a young woman Jane's hair had been a pretty shade of blonde and now that she was in her forties the brightness of it had faded a little but that only made her seem even more knowing, more complex, more attractive. And she had cut it shoulder length recently too, a brave move that had worked wonders. Jane Bentley was not a woman who had any intentions of pretending to be anything other than her years and knew that her forties could be just as sensual as her twenties or thirties, even more so, if she allowed them to be. She didn't suffer fools and had an aristocratic bearing that had taken her years to perfect.

‘What?' she asked, turning around and noticing her husband staring at her. ‘What is it?'

‘Nothing,' said Roderick, shaking his head. ‘You're a beautiful woman, Jane. Do you realize that?'

She opened her mouth to make a joke but saw that he was being serious. She felt a rush of warmth for him, a gushing wave of appreciation. She had chosen well all those years ago, there was no question of that. Marriage to a kind and decent man who she didn't love, or the creeping misery of remaining a spinster daughter in a family whose wealthy days were long behind them; there had been no real difficulty in making her decision. His comment required no reply; it was an honest compliment and she decided to take it as such.

Passing by the bed she picked up
The Times
for a moment and glanced at the headline, turning it around to face her husband for a moment, who looked away, closing his eyes.

‘Tomorrow's fish wrappers,' he said.

‘
Royal sentence expected today
,' she announced, reading it aloud. ‘
Bentley expected to be lenient
.'

‘Don't,' said Roderick, shaking his head.

‘Royal sentence indeed,' said Jane. ‘The boy is a third cousin of the king's. It's not as if he was in the direct succession. We're all probably royal if those are the requirements.'

‘Well that's the newspapers for you,' said Roderick, harking back to his favourite theme. ‘They will exaggerate. That's how they've sold so many papers off the back of this case. I should be on some sort of percentage commission.'

‘Nevertheless,' she said. ‘Oh look, there's a rather good picture of him here too. That's unusual. Not a bad-looking boy I suppose, if you see him in the right light, although I've never been a fan of that Hanoverian jawline. None of them has a chin, it seems to me.'

‘He was on trial for the murder of a police officer, Jane,' said Bentley. ‘Not for the aesthetic charm of his appearance.'

‘It's sad, though, isn't it?' she asked. ‘He's only the same age as Gareth. To have the rest of your life…' She looked at her husband who was giving nothing away. ‘Well whatever happens to him, whatever the sentence, it's unfortunate. I can't imagine how his mother must feel, how
I
would feel if our son was in such a situation. I know it's a terrible cliché but it's impossible not to blame the parents in such a case, isn't it? They must have set him a dreadful example.'

‘Our son would never find himself in such difficulties,' insisted Roderick. ‘But it doesn't matter who the defendant is, the law is the law. Whether you're a third cousin of the king's or the youngest and most illegitimate son of a fish trader from Cockfosters. The law is the law,' he repeated.

Jane nodded and threw the paper back on the bed. ‘I'll read it in the car,' she said. ‘I better go and have my bath. And you can't be the most illegitimate,' she added for she was a stickler for grammar. ‘There are no superlatives. One is either a bastard or one is not.'

Roderick shrugged it off and continued to watch her as she left the room although he stayed seated until he heard her footsteps padding up the stairs to the bathroom on the third floor. Only then did he walk across to the bed and—against his better judgement—pick up the newspaper and look at it. It wasn't the article he wanted to read, there was nothing that the reporters could tell him about this case that he didn't already know; rather, he wanted to see the picture.