Two framed photographs sat on either side of his desk and he looked at them tenderly. The first was of Jane, taken two years earlier on the occasion of her fortieth birthday party. She had barely changed in all the years he’d known her and even in that picture she could have passed for a woman ten or twelve years her junior. She was as strikingly beautiful—and difficult—as she had been when they had first met, when he was a barrister in his late twenties and she a debutante ten years his junior, the daughter of an ageing colleague on the lookout for a potential husband and a comfortable lifestyle.
The second was of their son, Gareth, a picture taken the summer before when he’d gone sailing with a friend of his from Cambridge, a boy who’d been the cox in the boat race if Roderick remembered correctly, when they’d won by about four lengths. He was grinning madly in the photograph, Gareth’s arm wrapped around the other man’s shoulders, his hair too long for a boy, his attitude too carefree for someone who had yet to settle down and find suitable employment. He’d been considerate over the previous few months, however, knowing the pressure that his father had been under. He’d made the odd supportive comment whenever he’d been around but that was a rare enough thing these days. Roderick found that he could go almost a full week at a time now without laying eyes on his son, who kept unusual and antisocial hours with his set, a group that seemed bent on achieving nothing else from their twenties other than the pursuit of hedonism and gaiety. Roderick knew that the boy kept out of his way so they wouldn’t have to finally engage in the conversation which would lead to his finding work; he had been neglectful as a father in this respect in recent times. That too would have to change after today.
It was all so different from when he had been that age. He’d always wanted to study the law but hadn’t come from a particularly wealthy family so it was a struggle to see his studies through to their conclusion. Certainly, once he began to practise he had quickly made a name for himself as one of the brightest of the new men at the Bar, but then every day of his twenties had been put into building his reputation, achieving success in a variety of trials and impressing Sir Max, who hinted that he might head chambers himself one day in the distant future, long after Sir Max was dead of course, if he kept up his volume of cases and didn’t allow distractions to enter his life. And publish of course. Publish or perish.
And distractions had been few and far between until the arrival of Jane, who had made him realize there was more to life than work; how it all meant nothing really, without love.
Now, all these years later, he was indeed head of chambers and a wealthy and celebrated man; wealthy enough, it seemed to him, for his own son to assume that he was under no obligation to find a life or career of his own when his father’s bank account could support him forever. A twenty-three-year-old man needed a career, though, Roderick was sure of that. And weekly mentions in the social pages could not be considered as an alternative.
But what right had he, he thought, to debate how a young man should live his life? For after all, at the same moment that he sat there in his elegant home surrounded by luxury and symbols of his own success, debating the merits of how his son frittered away his time, another twenty-three-year-old man was no doubt awake in his prison cell, nervous and frightened at what the morning might bring, for in a few hours’ time Mr Justice Roderick Bentley KC would be taking his seat in the courtroom and informing him whether he was to serve at his majesty’s pleasure in prison for the rest of his natural life or whether he would be taken away to another place until a time could be fixed for his execution, when he would hang from the neck until dead.
Had Roderick broken his cardinal rule and read The Times that morning he would have found that both twenty-three-year-old men were indeed mentioned, one on the front page, and one in an indirect fashion on the seventh page where matters of society and parties and engagements and social events were gossiped over and dissected with languid humour and tedious puns. Fortunately for his blood pressure, however, he would never see either.
The kettle began to whistle in the kitchen and Roderick snapped out of his thoughts and headed in that direction. He wanted tea, he wanted a very strong cup of tea.
3
‘THE PROBLEM IS THAT one runs out of things to say. It seems so insincere to offer the same old condolences over and over.’ This now from Mrs Sharon Rice, a widow who lived three miles east of Leyville with her son, a successful banker whose wife had left him in a scandal.
‘But the alternative, my dear, is simply to ignore him and pretend that this is just another party,’ replied Mrs Marjorie Redmond, looking around at the gathered guests in their dark and sombre attire and wondering what was the significance of wearing black to a funeral. It only succeeded in making people feel even more depressed than they already were.
‘I very much doubt that Owen Montignac will be hosting any parties for a long time. I don’t expect to see the inside of Leyville again this side of Christmas.’
‘No, the young people never hold on to the old customs,’ said Mrs Rice with the offended sniff of one who knew that her most vicious days were behind her. ‘Of course he won’t remember the parties that used to be held here. Back in the day, I mean.’
‘But do we know that it is actually his?’ asked Mrs Redmond, looking around cautiously and lowering her voice. ‘After all, he was only the nephew. By rights everything should have gone to Andrew but it’s always possible that Stella will be the beneficiary.’
‘The Montignacs have always let their money inherit by the male line,’ replied Mrs Rice. ‘And Peter Montignac was a stickler for tradition. Stella will be taken care of, I have no doubt about that, but no, I imagine Owen will be a very wealthy man when the will has been read.’
‘Do you think that’s what accounts for the eulogy?’
‘My dear, I wanted to applaud him. There are far too many people who bottle their feelings up, if you ask me. And after all that Peter did for that boy, taking him in as he did despite what his father had done, of course he needed to say what he felt. I rather admire him, to tell you the truth.’
* * *
THE MEN AT THE billiard table debated a separate issue back and forth, trusting that they would not be disturbed by anyone as they competed against each other. One of their number, a young man named Alexander Keys who had been to Eton with Montignac, had wanted to ask permission of their host before playing as he felt it might be considered inappropriate during a day of mourning, but their host was nowhere to be found and so they had begun anyway and agreed on only a small wager, just to keep things interesting.
‘Keep that door closed,’ suggested one.
‘So we’re agreed then?’ asked Thomas Handel, lining up a shot. ‘The man should be allowed to do as he pleases?’
Alexander snorted. ‘I don’t see that we are in agreement. You believe that it’s no one’s business but his own, I don’t. There’s such a thing as duty, you know.’
‘Glad to hear you say that,’ said an older man, leaning on his cue for support. ‘Too many of you young fellows don’t believe in it. Think you can do whatever you want and hang the consequences. Duty’s exactly what it’s all about. I’m with you, sir.’
‘Nothing will come of it anyway,’ said Thomas. ‘You mark my words. There was that other woman, a year or two ago. What was her name again?’