enter. A girl in a faded denim jacket
protested. It was the young juror.
“Get to the back,” shouted one of the security guards.
“I’m counsel,” I said as arrogantly as I could.
“’Fraid everyone’s got to be ticked off.” The guard wore his peaked cap at an irritating angle. “Guvnor’s orders.”
“Listen,” I panted. “I’m late.”
“More than me job’s worth.”
“Judge Manly’s waiting and—”
“Orders is…” He paused and looked at me, digested my words and blushed suddenly. “You had better go through, sir.”
I didn’t bother to robe but dashed straight to Court 8, slipping on the newly polished stone steps. What excuse would I use?
I pushed past a solicitor’s clerk reading a copy of
Viz
. Suicide at South Kensington. Oh, M’Lord, you wouldn’t believe the chaos. I turned the corner past the lifts and was astonished
to see a quiet crowd milling outside Court 8. Davenport had his grubby hands on Justine’s shoulders, and she didn’t seem to
mind.
Emma rushed over to me as I put down my briefcase. I said, “You wouldn’t believe the mess at South Ken. Some idiot only goes
and jumps under the—”
“Shut up, Tom.” There was sadness in her voice.
“Was Payne lying then?” I asked. “Have they not found the second girl?”
It didn’t seem as if Emma was listening. The shorthand writer staggered out of court supported by Norman who was buckling
under the strain. He had his newspaper tucked under his armpit and his much-chewed biro tucked behind his ear. He hadn’t started
the crossword—something was seriously wrong.
“What’s wrong, Emma?” I asked again.
She did not reply.
“What is it, Emma? No witness?”
Her bottom lip quivered slightly. “No judge,” she said. “No judge.”
Hilary Hardcastle wore her familiar judicial frown in Court 4 as she muttered something to Leonard. Years before, Leonard
had come south at the same time as Hardcastle when she descended from the legal wastelands north of Stockport to dispense
justice to us soft southerners. Leonard said that Hardcastle’s greatest regret was that she was elevated to the Bench after
the abolition of the death penalty. Naturally, Leonard approved.
“Has the jury been brought in and discharged?” asked Hardcastle. That was the usual procedure after the death of the trial
judge.
“Yes, M’Lady,” said Davenport. “Mr. Justice Gritt did that when Mr. Fawley
finally
arrived.”
“Oh, none of this ‘M’Lady’ palaver, Mr. Davenport.” Hilary Hardcastle prided herself on being the salt of the earth, the people’s
judge, a grammar school in Blackburn and Manchester University, straight-talking, full of bluff northern common sense. “No,”
she said, making her magnanimous concession to the march of democracy, “just call me ‘Your Honor’—that will do.”
“Indeed.” Davenport bowed obsequiously.
“So what remains?” she asked.
I got to my feet. It was now approaching lunchtime and the trial was in tatters. “There still remains the question of bail,
Your Honor.”
Hardcastle fixed me with her reptilian eyes. If Hieronymous Bosch had turned his talents to gargoyles, Hilary Hardcastle would
have been one of his most treasured creations.
“I wasn’t addressing you,” she lashed. “What about the question of bail, Mr. Davenport? The Crown objects… I assume?”
Hardcastle’s court was in that ancient part of the Old Bailey. The courtroom was cramped and uncomfortable, full of dark wood
and unnerving memories. It was the set you saw in every Agatha Christie court scene; at any moment you expected Charles Laughton
to lurch across the room.
“Mr. Davenport?” repeated Hardcastle. “Where I come from, it is a common courtesy when people are addressing you to—”
“I suppose things have—altered somewhat,” he said. “And… taking into account the recent developments—”
“Oh, for goodness sake. Do you oppose bail or
protested. It was the young juror.
“Get to the back,” shouted one of the security guards.
“I’m counsel,” I said as arrogantly as I could.
“’Fraid everyone’s got to be ticked off.” The guard wore his peaked cap at an irritating angle. “Guvnor’s orders.”
“Listen,” I panted. “I’m late.”
“More than me job’s worth.”
“Judge Manly’s waiting and—”
“Orders is…” He paused and looked at me, digested my words and blushed suddenly. “You had better go through, sir.”
I didn’t bother to robe but dashed straight to Court 8, slipping on the newly polished stone steps. What excuse would I use?
I pushed past a solicitor’s clerk reading a copy of
Viz
. Suicide at South Kensington. Oh, M’Lord, you wouldn’t believe the chaos. I turned the corner past the lifts and was astonished
to see a quiet crowd milling outside Court 8. Davenport had his grubby hands on Justine’s shoulders, and she didn’t seem to
mind.
Emma rushed over to me as I put down my briefcase. I said, “You wouldn’t believe the mess at South Ken. Some idiot only goes
and jumps under the—”
“Shut up, Tom.” There was sadness in her voice.
“Was Payne lying then?” I asked. “Have they not found the second girl?”
It didn’t seem as if Emma was listening. The shorthand writer staggered out of court supported by Norman who was buckling
under the strain. He had his newspaper tucked under his armpit and his much-chewed biro tucked behind his ear. He hadn’t started
the crossword—something was seriously wrong.
“What’s wrong, Emma?” I asked again.
She did not reply.
“What is it, Emma? No witness?”
Her bottom lip quivered slightly. “No judge,” she said. “No judge.”
Hilary Hardcastle wore her familiar judicial frown in Court 4 as she muttered something to Leonard. Years before, Leonard
had come south at the same time as Hardcastle when she descended from the legal wastelands north of Stockport to dispense
justice to us soft southerners. Leonard said that Hardcastle’s greatest regret was that she was elevated to the Bench after
the abolition of the death penalty. Naturally, Leonard approved.
“Has the jury been brought in and discharged?” asked Hardcastle. That was the usual procedure after the death of the trial
judge.
“Yes, M’Lady,” said Davenport. “Mr. Justice Gritt did that when Mr. Fawley
finally
arrived.”
“Oh, none of this ‘M’Lady’ palaver, Mr. Davenport.” Hilary Hardcastle prided herself on being the salt of the earth, the people’s
judge, a grammar school in Blackburn and Manchester University, straight-talking, full of bluff northern common sense. “No,”
she said, making her magnanimous concession to the march of democracy, “just call me ‘Your Honor’—that will do.”
“Indeed.” Davenport bowed obsequiously.
“So what remains?” she asked.
I got to my feet. It was now approaching lunchtime and the trial was in tatters. “There still remains the question of bail,
Your Honor.”
Hardcastle fixed me with her reptilian eyes. If Hieronymous Bosch had turned his talents to gargoyles, Hilary Hardcastle would
have been one of his most treasured creations.
“I wasn’t addressing you,” she lashed. “What about the question of bail, Mr. Davenport? The Crown objects… I assume?”
Hardcastle’s court was in that ancient part of the Old Bailey. The courtroom was cramped and uncomfortable, full of dark wood
and unnerving memories. It was the set you saw in every Agatha Christie court scene; at any moment you expected Charles Laughton
to lurch across the room.
“Mr. Davenport?” repeated Hardcastle. “Where I come from, it is a common courtesy when people are addressing you to—”
“I suppose things have—altered somewhat,” he said. “And… taking into account the recent developments—”
“Oh, for goodness sake. Do you oppose bail or
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