‘Jane, don’t,’ he said sharply.
‘Roderick, let me just say this—’
‘I don’t want you to say anything. I have made my decision and I won’t change my mind—’
‘Just hear me out, please,’ she said. ‘Just let me say one thing and then I promise I won’t say another word on the matter.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘Please, Roderick,’ she repeated. ‘You have my word.’
‘Spit it out then,’ he said, unwilling to debate the issue. ‘But I warn you, no matter what your plea is you’ll be wasting your time. I’ve made up my mind.’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Then let me just say one thing. Two things actually.’
‘Ha!’ said Roderick.
‘The first is that, no matter what this young man has supposedly done—’
‘There’s no supposedly about it,’ said Bentley, growing angry now. ‘He’s been convicted. We live with a jury system and when a fellow’s convicted—’
‘Whatever this young man has done,’ she said, interrupting him, not wishing to get involved in a semantics debate. ‘I think it would be a very great disgrace for the nation for a cousin of the monarch, a third cousin,’ she added before he could say it, ‘for a third cousin of the monarch to be sentenced to death. I mean, what does that say about our society? The boy went to Eton for heaven’s sake. And I imagine the king would be very grateful to a judge who recognized that fact and let the boy off.’
‘I’m saying nothing,’ said Roderick. ‘Are you finished now?’
‘No, I have one other thing to add,’ she said, lowering her voice now. ‘This boy, this Henry Domson, what age is he again?’
‘Twenty-three,’ said Roderick, who could have recited any fact about the boy’s life without a moment’s hesitation after so many months spent learning about him.
‘Twenty-three years old,’ said Jane, shaking her head sadly. ‘Just a child. The same age as Gareth. Now imagine if the situation was reversed, would you want your son to meet such a fate?’
‘That would never happen,’ said Bentley. ‘As I told you earlier, Gareth may be a lot of things but he would never do the kind of things that Domson has done.’
‘You stepped in for him once before,’ said Jane. ‘Don’t you remember?’
He threw her a look; it was an incident he preferred to forget.
‘You put your ethics aside on that occasion to save him from expulsion, don’t you recall?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Roderick. ‘But that was a schoolboy stunt. It’s not the same thing at all.’
‘It was a violent act.’
‘It was a prank gone wrong.’
‘Well you’re a father, Roderick, just remember that. And this boy is just a boy.’
‘He’s twenty-three years old!’ he cried in protest. ‘He’s hardly a boy.’
‘Well I’ve said all I’m going to say on the subject,’ said Jane, as the Old Bailey appeared before them. ‘I’ll leave it to your conscience. I think you know what the right thing to do is.’
‘I believe I do,’ sniffed Roderick as the car pulled up and the newspapermen, a fresh pride, rushed towards them again. ‘Oh bloody hell. There’s reporters everywhere. Just keep your head down, hold my hand, and don’t speak to anyone until we’re inside the court, do you understand?’
An hour from now, he thought to himself, this will all be over and life can return to normal. The judge stepped into the melee and fought his way through to the steps beyond and the comparative peace and safety of his beloved courtroom.
7
‘THAT EULOGY YOU GAVE…’ said Stella Montignac, sitting in an armchair in the corner of her cousin’s room while tossing a tennis ball between her palms. ‘Well I never thought you had such poetry inside you.’
‘That surprises me,’ said Montignac, seated at the desk. ‘I’m not made of steel, you know.’
‘I know that,’ replied Stella quickly. ‘I didn’t mean…’ She trailed off and shook her head, sighing a little. ‘Don’t let’s fight,’ she said finally. ‘Not today.’
‘I’m not,’ said Montignac quietly. He looked across at Stella and was a little surprised to see how much trouble she had put into her appearance for the funeral. She wasn’t normally given to elaborate outfits or a surfeit of make-up but she had put in an extra effort for her father’s burial. The dress was the same shade of black as her hair and she had smeared on a little mascara beneath her eyes too, which had stayed intact as she hadn’t shed any tears throughout the interment.
‘It was a very nice service too, all things considered,’ she continued. ‘Everything he would have wanted. Beautiful hymns, lovely flowers…’
‘Hymns,’ said Montignac irritably. ‘What use are hymns to anybody? And when was the last time you saw your father taking any interest in flowers?’
He looked down at the piece of paper on the desk in front of him and reread it quickly before signing it and putting it in an envelope. When Stella had come in a few minutes earlier he had been engaged in writing a letter to Nicholas Delfy, the owner of a small casino in the East End of London, to whom he owed a considerable sum of money. The amount had been outstanding and accruing interest for quite some time and hints, rather than outright threats, had started to come his way. He had been trying to find the right blend of words to employ in the letter, something between offhand humour which might imply what a trivial matter this was to a Montignac and bland sincerity, which might convince Delfy that he meant to pay him what he owed him, and soon. Within the next few days, in fact.
‘Actually, when I was a little girl he used to enjoy hymns and he took an interest in the gardens,’ insisted Stella. ‘But I suppose you’re right. They weren’t exactly his passions in life.’
‘Perhaps it was before I knew him then,’ said Montignac.
‘Perhaps,’ she acknowledged. ‘You are all right, Owen, aren’t you? You’re not too upset?’
He put his fountain pen down with a sigh and placed the letter in the top drawer of the bureau, which he promptly locked, placing the key in the pocket of his waistcoat. He turned around and looked at his cousin and found himself able to identify the sadness beneath her tough exterior. He began to feel something perilously close to affection for her. Whatever unexpected emotion it was, however, he quickly dismissed it.
‘They’re all still down there I expect,’ he said.
‘Quite a few. We really should go down. It’s very bad form for the pair of us to be sitting up here on our own like this.’
‘You go.’
‘They’ll expect to see you too. If it’s too upsetting—’
‘Oh, Stella, stop being such a martyr, would you please?’ he asked, growing irritable now and brushing a hand across his eyes. ‘He was your father, not mine. If anyone has a right to be upset it should be you, not me. And I think I have the strength of character to be able to sweep around a few nosy houseguests without breaking down in tears.’