Next of Kin (47 page)

‘I know, I know. But nevertheless I was rather impressed by your decision at the time.'

‘You were?'

‘Of course,' said Keaton with an honest shrug. ‘I followed the case quite closely actually and thought you handled it extremely well. I could see that the fellow was guilty as hell and showed no remorse. And I knew that if any other fellow was standing in the dock there was no question that he would swing for it. But I really didn't think you'd sentence him to death.'

‘Like you say, if it was any other fellow—'

‘Yes, but with the mass of public opinion to contend with. All the people who thought it was somehow going against God's will to execute a member of the royal family, albeit such a distant one.'

‘Hardly a member of the royal family,' said Roderick with a laugh.

‘And then all the people who said he should be treated the same way as the common folk. As themselves. You had the weight of the aristocracy on one side and the voice of the mob on the other and you chose the mob.'

‘I chose my own sense of judicial righteousness.'

‘It was a brave thing to do.'

‘I didn't see it like that,' said Roderick.

‘And now here you are,' said Lord Keaton. ‘The father of a son in the exact same position as Henry Domson. Fighting to prove his innocence. Knowing that if he is found guilty, he will be executed for the crime.'

Roderick gasped; to hear it put in such stark language shocked him.

‘
When
he is found guilty,' Keaton said, correcting himself. ‘Because you know that he will be. He hasn't got a prayer.'

‘I'd rather you didn't…' Roderick found himself stumbling over his words. ‘Please don't…'

‘There's an ironic inevitability about it, though, isn't there?' asked Keaton, settling back and starting to enjoy himself now. ‘That you should lose a son to the same fate. Mr and Mrs Domson must be loving every moment of it.'

‘Keaton, I don't wish to discuss this any further,' said Roderick, appalled by how cold-hearted the man was being; he was aware that they were fighting different sides in a debate but to speak so callously to him was unacceptable.

‘Well you're going to have to face up to it sooner or later, Roderick. Unless someone comes along who can change things for you, they're going to have a noose around your boy's neck in a matter of weeks.'

Roderick frowned. ‘Unless someone comes along…?' he began.

‘What would you say,' asked Keaton so quietly that both men had to lean forwards, closer to each other, ‘if I was to tell you that I could see to it that a conviction in this case would definitely lead to a less severe sentence?'

Roderick didn't know what to say; he was unsure what his colleague was trying to tell him.

‘What if I was to tell you that I have the means to ensure that your boy gets a much lighter sentence, say a number of years in prison with time off for good behaviour. Mitigating circumstances and all that. What if I could give your son back to you and spare him his life?'

‘You could do that?' asked Roderick, sitting back slowly, his face covered in confusion at what was being suggested.

‘I can do that,' acknowledged Keaton. ‘I have the power and authority to influence the sentencing in this case. And all I would need is for you to do one simple thing for me.'

Roderick's mouth opened slowly. It hit him immediately and he could scarcely believe that this was being asked of him.

‘You want me to change my vote,' he said in an awed voice. ‘You want me to vote against the king.'

Keaton sat back and smiled, raising an eyebrow to acknowledge that yes, this was exactly what he wanted him to do.

4

THE TRAIN WAS SURPRISINGLY
busy and Montignac was irritated that he could not locate a compartment of his own; instead he found one that was less crowded than the others and opened the door to it, revealing a young couple sitting very closely together and laughing at a shared joke.

‘This seat is empty?' he asked, poking his head through the doorway, and they looked up at him with a look of disappointment on their faces to be intruded upon, but nodded. He had almost missed the train and as it had pulled out, they probably thought they were going to have the place to themselves.

Montignac settled down opposite them, watching as Liverpool Street Station disappeared in the distance, and took the newspaper from his bag. Two headlines caught his eye. The first was above the fold and said in stark black letters:

Judge's Son Has Violent Past

He read on:

It emerged in court today that Gareth Bentley, son of the eminent High Court Judge Mr Justice Roderick Bentley KC, has a history of violent behaviour brought on by overconsumption of alcohol. Bentley, who is standing trial at the Old Bailey for the murder of Raymond Davis of the Royal Horticultural Society in August of this year, sat expressionless in the dock yesterday while Mr Justice Harkman questioned Aidan Higgins, a former schoolboy friend of Bentley's, who had been seriously injured in an assault some years ago. Higgins testified that he was part of a group of Harrow boys who, at the age of fifteen, had indulged in an evening of drinking and that a fight had ensued later that evening which resulted in Bentley fracturing his friend's arm in a number of places and dislocating his shoulder. Prosecution counsel questioned why Bentley had not been sent down for the offence but Higgins was unable to provide an answer. Another school friend, Paul O'Neill, also stated that Bentley had claimed to remember nothing of the attack the following day and that he had blamed the violent outburst on his excessive alcohol intake during the evening in question. Mr Justice Harkman pointed out to the court that on the night of Mr Davis's murder, Bentley had been observed drinking approximately twelve pints of beer and half a dozen shots of spirits at the Bullirag public house on Air Street.

The article went on with some further details of the afternoon's business but Montignac tired of it; it was clear that no one was in any doubt regarding Gareth's guilt. It occurred to him for the first time that his defending barrister should have persuaded him to plead that way, as the sentence may well have been lighter.

Below the fold, there was another short article, bearing the headline:

Further Talks In Simpson Matter

More gossip, thought Montignac as he scanned the article.

London society is abuzz with rumours that an announcement is expected before Christmas regarding the possibility of a marriage between His Majesty, King EdwardVIII, and Mrs Wallis Simpson, an American divorcée. Although there is some public support for the union between the two it is believed that the Prime Minister, Mr Stanley Baldwin, is firmly opposed and that he has empowered a committee of leading legal minds to discuss the proposals and rule on their legitimacy.

‘Excuse me,' said a voice from across the compartment and he looked up and saw the young woman, who couldn't have been more than about twenty years of age, speaking to him. ‘There's nothing in there about the king, is there?' she asked.

‘Actually I was just reading about it,' said Montignac.

‘Oh tell us what it says,' she said eagerly. ‘It's so hard to get any information on it and I'm fascinated. They never talk about it on the wireless at all.'

Montignac nodded and read the article aloud. The young couple listened intently, shaking their heads.

‘Well it's not right, is it?' she said when he reached the end. ‘Imagine him going after a harlot like that. It don't bear thinking about.'

‘We just got married yesterday,' explained the young man, reaching for his wife's hand and holding it up to display her wedding ring as if to confirm their legitimacy. Montignac wasn't sure if he had ever seen such a tiny diamond before, if diamond it was. ‘So why Jenny's so opposed to him doing as he pleases is beyond me. Why not, if he can have a bit of happiness, that's what I say.'

‘Oh no, I don't hold with that,' said Jenny. ‘Surely there's plenty of European princesses out there who would do anything to land the king. I think he's just doing it to be clever, don't you?'

‘I'm sure I don't know,' said Montignac, who had an hour's journey ahead of him and wasn't sure he wanted to get involved in a long discussion about the rights and wrongs of regal matrimony. He closed the newspaper and handed it across. ‘Here,' he said, hoping to distract their attention. ‘Please. Be my guest.'

They took the paper gratefully and started to read it between them as Montignac looked out the window at the countryside rolling by. It was extraordinary, he thought, how time could change a person's emotions. Ten years ago when he was fifteen he had loved the train rides back and forth to Leyville during term breaks or the long vacation. He could never sleep on the nights leading up to it, the idea of getting home, getting back to the freedom of Leyville, returning to Stella.

Their relationship had changed after a fight he had with Andrew when he was fourteen and his cousin was seventeen. It had been over something trivial and whether the older boy was in a particularly bad mood or had just built up a resentment against his young cousin, Montignac did not know, but he had had the better of him in the fight and he went home with blood pouring from his nose and from a gash above his eye.

‘Good God,' said Stella when she saw him slink unhappily through the front door. ‘What on earth happened to you?'

Montignac shrugged; he didn't want to admit that Andrew had been able to overpower him. She could see that he was embarrassed and so didn't push him further.

‘There's no one else at home,' she said. ‘We better get you cleaned up before Mother and Father get back. Come upstairs with me.'

He followed her up to the bathroom where she washed out his cuts and dabbed a little iodine above his eye, where some grit had stuck in the wound, before covering it with a plaster. ‘There,' she said. ‘You don't look so bad now.'

The whole process had taken no more than ten minutes but in those ten minutes, their lives were to change. They had never sat so close together, nor touched in this intimate way before. Stella had found that the more she reached across and wiped at her cousin's skin the more she wanted to touch it. The more she looked at that shock of white hair on his head, the fringe of which held flecks of red from the blood, the more fascinated she became by it.

When she was finished they sat there for a few moments, staring at each other and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, they leaned forwards and kissed.

‘We're going on our honeymoon,' said Jenny and Montignac snapped out of his daydream and glanced across at her.

‘What was that?' he said.

‘We're going on our honeymoon,' repeated her husband, Jack. ‘Off down to Cornwall. I have family down there, you see, so like as not they'll have a spread laid on for us when we get there.'

Montignac smiled and tried to resist a laugh; they obviously wanted to share their good news with someone and he was the only available person.

‘We're both in service at a house in London,' said Jack. ‘That's where we met. We got twenty pounds as a wedding present from the master and mistress. Can you believe it? Twenty pounds,' he repeated as if the fact of his good fortune was still a matter of amazement to him and he should have considered marriage years before.

‘Congratulations,' said Montignac. ‘But you're very young, aren't you?'

‘I'm nineteen,' said Jack.

‘And I'm twenty-one,' said Jenny. ‘I'm his older woman.'

Montignac smiled. The older woman. They had spent eighteen months making jokes about that, he and Stella. She was less than a year his senior but it didn't matter, it amused them to think of it in those terms; it made their relationship even more exciting.

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.