‘Alfie says it’s a fad,’ said the second man. ‘I say not.’
‘What’s a fad?’
‘This new business. At funerals.’
‘Well what do you mean?’ asked Mrs Peters. ‘I’m not following you.’
‘You know,’ said the man. ‘Eulogies and the like. Pretty speeches. Children lamenting their parents and what not.’
‘Or uncles,’ said Mrs Peters. ‘If it’s Owen’s speech you’re referring to.’
‘Or uncles,’ admitted Alfie. ‘The whole emotional mess of it. I’m against it, that’s all.’
‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Mrs Peters, frustrated at the idiocy of men, how they had no problem fighting wars but baulked at the idea of fighting back a few tears. ‘It’s a funeral after all. If a boy can’t show a little emotion at his father’s funeral, well when can he?’
‘Yes, but Peter wasn’t Owen’s father, was he?’ pointed out Alfie.
‘No, but he was the closest thing he had to one.’
‘Perfectly understandable, if you ask me,’ said the second man.
‘I’m not criticizing him,’ said Alfie quickly, anxious not to be seen to be immune to the grief of a wealthy young man such as Owen Montignac who, after all, had just inherited one of the largest estates in England and was therefore not a man to alienate oneself from. ‘I feel for the fellow, I really do. I just don’t see why he needs to put on such a show for the whole world to see, that’s all. Keep it inside, that’s for the best. Nobody likes to see such a naked parade of emotions on display.’
‘What a miserable childhood you must have had,’ said Mrs Peters with a smile.
‘Well I fail to see what relevance that has to anything,’ said Alfie, standing to his full height, suspecting an insult.
‘Isn’t it outrageous the way the servants automatically hand tea to the ladies and whisky to the men?’ asked Mrs Peters, already bored by the conversation and desiring a change of subject to something a little more risqué. ‘I intend to leave strict instructions in my will that everyone must get merry at my funeral and do embarrassing things, boys and girls alike. If they don’t then I’ll come back to haunt them and see how they like that.’
2
THE JOURNEY FROM TAVISTOCK Square to the Old Bailey normally took no more than an hour on foot and throughout his career Mr Justice Roderick Bentley KC had always preferred to leave his Rolls Royce at home if it was a pleasant morning. The walk offered him a chance to think about the case he was working on at the time, to deliberate privately without the interference of barristers, solicitors, bailiffs or defendants; the exercise was good for him too, he reasoned, as a man of fifty-two could take no chances with his health. His own father had died of a heart attack at that exact age and with that in mind Roderick had approached his most recent birthday with fatalistic dread.
Today there was a distinct chill in the air and there had been rain a little earlier in the morning but even if the sun had been splitting the trees and the sky had been a perfect blue there was no question in his mind that he would have asked Leonard to bring the car around. Those damned newspaper men had been camped on his doorstep since Thursday evening after he had brought proceedings to a close and he had felt like a prisoner in his own home throughout Friday, Saturday and Sunday.
He had woken up early that morning, around half past four, and had lain in bed for another half-hour or so, willing sleep to return and allow him a little more respite before the trials of the day began but as daylight started to break through the curtains he knew it was pointless. Quietly, so as not to disturb his sleeping wife, Jane, he slipped out of bed and padded downstairs to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. It was too early for the post to be delivered yet but he noticed that yesterday’s edition of The Sunday Times was still sitting on the table. He reached for it eagerly but Jane had already completed the crosswords—both simple and cryptic—so he set it aside again with a sigh.
Typically, he had avoided the newspapers throughout the weekend. From his earliest days as a pupil at the chambers of Sir Max Rice KC, through to his years as a junior barrister scrapping for cases around the various law courts of London and the outer circuit, when he was permitted only to sit in the second row of the courtroom, whispering advice into the ear of his learned leader, and subsequently with his famous work as an advocate before he had taken silk, Roderick had avoided reading newspaper articles which referred to cases he was working on at the time. Since his appointment as a high court judge, presiding over some of the most infamous crimes of the day, this policy had become a matter of honour to him.
And considering the extraordinary amount of attention his current trial had received, he didn’t dare turn from the crossword to the front page for he knew how the headline would read; he declined to scan the editorials for he could not allow his decision to be influenced by public opinion or editors’ points of view or, worse still, readers’ letters. Instead, he threw the paper in the bin and made for his bath.
An hour or so later, shortly before six thirty in the morning, he sat in his study rereading the opinion he had written over the weekend, the cause of this morning’s sleeplessness, which he would be delivering at eleven o’clock precisely to an assembled court and representatives of the fourth estate. He read it thoroughly, checked and double-checked a few points of law against his impressive legal library for fear of error, and then sat back with a sigh, contemplating the fact that he was forced to make this decision at all.
To be a judge, he decided, was an odd profession. To have it within one’s gift to grant liberty or to deny it was a curious authority; to allow a man to continue his life or pronounce that it should be ended, a humbling power.
There were sounds of stirring in the house now and he guessed that Sophie, the downstairs maid, and Nell, the cook, would be up soon. His wife, Jane, never rose before nine o’clock and generally preferred to take breakfast in bed and he had an urge to deliver it to her himself that morning. She had been particularly thoughtful over the course of this difficult weekend, suggesting a quick overnight break to a hotel in the Lake District for Saturday night in order to take his mind off his worries. It would offer him a peaceful environment in which to write his opinion, she reasoned, but he’d declined the offer, imagining how it would look to the newspapers if he was holidaying in Wordsworth country while a man’s life was at stake.
‘Who cares what they say?’ she’d asked him, noticing how much greyer her husband had grown over recent months since this terrible trial had begun. ‘Who cares what they write about you anyway?’
‘I care,’ Roderick had replied with a sad smile and a shrug. ‘If they criticize me, they criticize the judiciary as a whole and I can’t allow myself to be responsible for that. Perhaps we’ll go away next weekend, when this dreadful business is behind us. Anyway, they’d only follow us down there and we’d have no fun at all.’
There were footsteps on the stairs now and he could hear the voices of Sophie and Nell as they descended together from the small flat they shared in the attic of the house. They were keeping their conversation low as they assumed that both the master and mistress were still asleep upstairs and he felt an uncommon urge to follow them into the kitchen and join in whatever trivial conversation they might be having, but of course it was out of the question. They would think he’d lost his reason entirely and if that got into the hands of the reporters, well it was anyone’s guess how the whole business would resolve itself then. There were spies everywhere and no one except his wife could be trusted; he’d learned that over recent months.