A Certain Justice (8 page)

And now Brian Cartwright was at her shoulder and scurrying beside her down the corridor with the bumbling persistence of an over-affectionate dog, euphoric with a victory which even with his optimism he had hardly dared to expect. Above the crisply laundered collar, the carefully knotted old school tie, the large pores of his strong red face oozed sweat as greasy as ointment.

“Well, we did for those buggers! Good work, Miss Aldridge. I did all right in the box, didn’t I?”

He, the most arrogant of men, was suddenly like a child avid for her approval.

“You managed to answer questions without betraying your strong dislike of the anti-blood-sports lobby, yes. We won because there was no clear evidence that it was your whip which blinded young Mills, and because Michael Tewley was seen as an unreliable witness.”

“Unreliable he bloody well was! And Mills was only blinded in one eye. I’m sorry for the lad, of course I am. But these people are keen enough to attack others and then scream when they get hurt themselves. Tewley hates my guts. There was animus, you said so yourself, and the jury agreed. Animus. Those letters to the press. The telephone calls. You proved that he was out to get me. You tied him up properly, and I liked that last bit, when you were making the speech for the defence. ‘If my client has such an ungovernable temper, such a reputation for unprovoked violence, you may find it surprising, members of the jury, that at the age of fifty-five he has never had a criminal conviction.’ ”

She began moving away, but he was at her shoulder. Venetia thought she could smell his triumph.

“I don’t think we need re-fight the case, Mr. Cartwright.”

“You didn’t say that I’d never before appeared in a court of law, though, did you?”

“That would have been a lie. Counsel don’t lie to the court.”

“But they can be economical with the truth, can’t they? Not guilty, then, this time and not guilty the last time. Lucky for me. It wouldn’t have been a good thing to come before the court with form. I don’t suppose the jury noticed the actual words you used.” He laughed. “Or didn’t use.”

She thought, but did not say: The judge did. So did prosecuting counsel.

As if he had read her mind, he went on: “They couldn’t say anything, though, could they? I was found not guilty.” He lowered his voice and glanced round at the almost empty hall. He paused. “You remember what I told you about the last time, how I got off?”

“I remember, Mr. Cartwright.”

“I haven’t told another soul but I thought you’d like to know. Knowledge is power.”

“Some knowledge is dangerous. I hope in your own interest that you’ll keep this particular knowledge to yourself. You’ll get my fee-note in due course. I don’t need additional payment in the form of private information.”

But the piggy bloodshot eyes were sharp. He was a fool about some things but not about everything. He said: “You’re interested, though. Thought you might be. After all, Costello’s in your Chambers. And don’t worry. I’ve kept it to myself for four years. I’m not a blabbermouth. You don’t get to build up a successful business if you don’t know when to keep your mouth shut. Hardly the sort of thing I’d sell to the Sunday tabloids, is it? Not that they’d ever get proof. I paid well the last time and I don’t mind paying well for this. I said to the lady wife, ‘I’m getting the best criminal lawyer in London. I’ll pay what it takes. Never economize on necessities. We’ll see these bastards off.’ Urban vermin, that’s what they are. They haven’t got the guts to ride a seaside donkey. I’d like to put them up on a hunter. They don’t know anything about the countryside. They don’t care about animals. What they hate is seeing people enjoy themselves. Malice and envy, that’s what it’s about.” He added, with a tone of surprised triumph, as if the words were inspired: “They don’t love foxes, they hate humans.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that argument before, Mr. Cartwright.”

He seemed now to be pressing himself against her. She could almost smell the disagreeable warmth of his body through the tweed. “The rest of the hunt won’t be too pleased with the verdict. Some of them want me out. They wouldn’t have minded seeing that saboteur win. They didn’t exactly leap into the box as witnesses for the defence, did they? Well, if they want to hunt across my land they’d better get used to seeing me in a pink coat.”

How predictable he was, she thought, the stereotype of the hard-riding, hard-drinking, womanizing, would-be country gentleman. Wasn’t it Henry James who had said, “Never believe that you know the last thing about any human heart”? But he was a novelist. It was his job to find complexities, anomalies, unsuspected subtleties in all human nature. To Venetia, as she grew into middle age, it seemed that the men and women she defended, the colleagues she worked with became more, not less, predictable. Only rarely now was she surprised by an action totally out of character. It was as if the instrument, the key, the melody were settled in the early years of life, and however ingenious and varied the subsequent cadenzas, the theme remained unalterably the same.

Yet Brian Cartwright had his virtues. He was a successful manufacturer of parts for agricultural machinery. You didn’t build up a business from nothing if you were a fool. He provided jobs. He was said to be a generous, open-handed employer. What hidden talents and enthusiasms, she wondered, might lie under that carefully tailored tweed jacket? He had at least had the sense to dress soberly for his appearance in the witness box; she had feared that he might appear in over-bold checks and breeches. Had he perhaps a passion for lieder? For growing orchids? For baroque architecture? Unlikely. And what in God’s name did the lady wife see in him? Was it significant that she hadn’t been in court?

Venetia had reached the door of the lady barristers’ robing-room. At last she would be free of him. Turning, she risked once more the vise-like grip of his hand, then watched him go. She hoped never to see him again, but that was what she felt about the defendant in every successful case.

A court attendant had come up. He said: “There’s quite a crowd of anti-hunt saboteurs outside. They’re not happy with the verdict. It might be wise to leave by the other door.”

“Are the police there?”

“There’s a couple of officers. I think they’re more noisy than violent — the crowd, I mean.”

“Thank you, Barraclough. I’ll leave as I usually leave.”

It was then, passing along the concourse to the main staircase, that she saw them. Octavia and Ashe. They were standing together beside the statue of Charles II, looking fixedly down the wide hall towards her. Even from this distance she could see that they were together, that this was no chance meeting but a deliberate encounter, a time and place they had chosen. There was a stillness about them, unusual in her daughter but known and recognized in Ashe. For a second, no more, her steps faltered, and then she walked steadily towards them. As she came within speaking distance she saw Octavia move her hand towards Ashe’s and then, as he made no response, as quietly withdraw it, but her daughter’s eyes did not fall.

Ashe was wearing a white shirt which looked newly starched, blue jeans and a denim jacket. Venetia could see that the jacket had not been cheap; somehow he had got hold of money. Beside his stylish self-confidence, Octavia looked very young and rather pathetic. The long cotton shift which she habitually wore over a T-shirt was cleaner than usual, but still made her look like a Victorian orphan newly released from a children’s home. Over the T-shirt she was wearing the jacket of a tweed suit. The cumbersome trainers on her feet looked too heavy for her narrow ankles and thin legs, adding to the impression of a vulnerable child. The thin knowing face, which could so easily assume a look of fatuous slyness or mutinous resentment, now looked peaceful, almost happy, and for the first time in years she looked steadily at her mother with the rich deep-brown eyes which were the only feature they shared in common.

Ashe was the first to speak. Holding out his hand, he said: “Good afternoon, Miss Aldridge, and congratulations. We were in the gallery. We were impressed, weren’t we, Octavia?”

Venetia ignored his hand but knew that this was both what he expected and what he wanted. Without looking at him, keeping her eyes on her mother, Octavia nodded.

Venetia said: “I should have thought you’d had enough of the Bailey to last a lifetime. I take it that you know each other.”

Octavia said simply: “We’re in love. We’re thinking of getting engaged.”

The words came out in a rush in her high childish voice but Venetia didn’t miss the unmistakable note of triumph.

She said calmly: “Indeed? Then I suggest you unthink it. You may not be particularly intelligent, but presumably you have some sense of self-preservation. Ashe is totally unsuitable to be your husband.”

There was no outburst of protest from Ashe, but, then, she hadn’t expected one. He stood regarding her with the same half-smile, ironic, challenging, tinged with contempt.

He said: “That’s for Octavia to decide. She’s of age.”

Venetia ignored him and spoke directly to her daughter. “I’m walking back to Chambers. I want you to come with me. Obviously we have to talk.”

She wondered what she would do if Octavia refused, but Octavia looked at Ashe.

He nodded and said: “Shall I see you tonight? What time would you like me to come round?”

“Yes please. Come as soon as you can. Six-thirty. I’ll cook something for supper.”

Venetia recognized the invitation for what it was, a declaration of defiance. Ashe took her hand and raised it to his lips. Venetia knew that the mock formality of the exchange, the play-acting, was for her benefit, as was the kiss. She was seized with an anger and revulsion so strong that she had to clasp her hands to prevent herself slapping his face. People were passing, barristers she knew and was acknowledging with a brief smile. They had to get out of the Bailey.

Venetia said, “Right. Shall we go?” and without looking again at Ashe, led the way.

Outside, the street was almost empty. Either the protesters had grown tired of waiting for her or had been content to heckle Brian Cartwright. Still without speaking, she and Octavia crossed the road.

It was Venetia’s habit to walk back to Chambers when she had finished a case at the Bailey. Occasionally she would vary the route. More often she would turn off Fleet Street at Bouverie Street, then down Temple Lane to enter the Inner Temple by the Tudor Street entrance. She would then walk down Crown Office Row and across Middle Temple Lane to Pawlet Court. This afternoon, as always, Fleet Street was busy and noisy, the pavement so crowded that it was difficult for her and Octavia to walk abreast and impossible to hear comfortably above the grind and rumble of the traffic. This wasn’t the time to begin a serious talk.

Even when they were in the comparative peace of Bouverie Street she waited. But once in Inner Temple she said, without turning to Octavia: “I’ve got thirty minutes to spare. We’ll walk in the Temple Gardens. All right, tell me about this. When did you meet him?”

“About three weeks ago. I met him on 17th September.”

“He picked you up, I suppose. Where? Some pub? A club? You’re not going to tell me that you were formally introduced at a meeting of the Young Conservatives?”

She realized as soon as the words were out of her mouth that they were a mistake. In her confrontations with Octavia she had never been able to resist the cheap gibe, the easy sarcasm. Already she realized with the familiar sinking of the heart that their conversation — if you could call it that — was doomed to acrimonious failure.

Octavia didn’t reply. Venetia said, keeping her voice calm: “I’m asking where you met him.”

“He crashed his bicycle at the end of our road and asked me if he could leave it in the basement area. He couldn’t get it on a bus and he hadn’t enough money for a taxi.”

“So you lent him ten pounds and — surprise, surprise! — he came back next day to repay it. And what happened to the bicycle?”

“He threw it away. He doesn’t need it. He’s got a motorbike.”

“The cycle had served its purpose, I suppose? Something of a coincidence, wasn’t it, crashing it outside my house?”

My house, not our house. Another mistake. Again Octavia was silent. Had it been a coincidence? Stranger ones had happened. You couldn’t be a criminal lawyer without encountering almost weekly the capricious phenomenon of chance.

Octavia said sulkily: “Yes, he came back. And after that he came back again because I invited him.”

“So you met him less than a month ago, you know nothing about him, and you’re telling me that you’re engaged. You’re not stupid enough to believe he loves you. Even you couldn’t be that deluded.”

Octavia’s voice was like a cry of pain. “He does love me. Just because you don’t, doesn’t mean no one else ever will. Ashe loves me. And I do know about him. He’s told me. I know more about him than you do.”

“I doubt that. How much has he told you about his past, his childhood, what he’s been doing for the last seven years?”

“I know that he hasn’t a father and that his mother chucked him out when he was seven and made the local authority look after him. She’s dead now. He was in care until he was sixteen. They call it being taken into care. He said it was being taken into hell.”

“His mother chucked him out because he was unmanageable. She told the local authority that she was frightened of him. Frightened of a seven-year-old. Doesn’t that tell you something? His life has been a series of unsuccessful fostering and children’s homes which moved him on as soon as they could persuade someone else to take him. None of it is his fault, of course.”

Octavia’s head was bent; her words were hardly audible. “I expect you would have liked to do the same with me, put me in care. Only you couldn’t because people would have talked, so you sent me to boarding school instead.”

Venetia willed herself to stay calm. “You two must have had an enjoyable three weeks together, sitting in the flat provided for you by me, eating my food, spending money I have earned and exchanging horror stories about your suffering. Has he told you about the murder? You do know, I suppose, that he was accused of slashing his aunt to death and that I defended him? You do realize that the murder happened only nine months ago?”