A Certain Justice (16 page)

He had been walking for over half an hour. He had only a confused recollection of the route he had taken, but could remember pacing restlessly back and forward along the Embankment, then past Temple Place before striking northwards up an unremembered street to the Aldwych and along the Strand to the Royal Courts of Justice. And now it was time to start the working day. He had at last made up his mind. If invited, he would stay on for a further year but no longer, and in that year he would make up his mind what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

Pawlet Court was deserted. Only a few ground-floor windows of adjoining chambers showed a pattern of light where clerks as punctilious as himself had already started their working day. The air smelt mistier than it had in the Strand, as if the small court still held some of the raw dampness of the October night. Round the great trunk of a horse chestnut the first fallen leaves lay in sluggish disorder. He took out his bunch of keys and felt for the straight edge of the one for the Banham security lock, and then the smaller Ingersoll above it, which he turned to open the door. Immediately the alarm system gave out its insistent high-pitched warning. He moved unhurriedly, knowing to a second how long he had to switch on the light in the reception office and insert his smallest key in the control panel to turn off the alarm. Beside the panel was a wooden board with the names of members of Chambers lettered on sliding panels to show whether they were in or out. The board showed that all were absent. The members were not always conscientious in their use of the board, but the theory was that the last member out should slide his peg across and then set the alarm. Mrs. Carpenter and Mrs. Watson, the cleaners, arriving at half past eight at night, were usually the last people in Chambers. Both were scrupulous in ensuring that the alarm was set before they left at ten o’clock.

He cast his eye critically over the reception room, which was also a waiting area. Valerie Caldwell’s word processor under its cover was precisely placed in the middle of her desk. The two-seater sofa, the two armchairs and the two upright chairs for visitors were in place, the magazines on the table neatly arranged on the highly polished mahogany. All was as he had expected to find it, with one small difference: it looked as if neither Mrs. Carpenter nor Mrs. Watson had vacuum-swept the carpet. The office machine, bought six months previously, was as formidable in power as it was in noise, and usually left telltale lines on the carpet pile. But the floor looked clean. Perhaps one of them had run the carpet-sweeper over it. It wasn’t his job to oversee the cleaners and, with women from Miss Elkington’s admirable agency, no supervision was normally necessary, but he liked to keep an eye on things. The reception room was a visitor’s introduction to Chambers and first impressions mattered.

Next he looked briefly into the library and conference room, to the right of the front door. Here, too, all was in order. The room had something of the atmosphere of a gentlemen’s club, but without its comfortable intimacy. Even so, it had its graces. To the left and right of the marble fireplace the leather spines of books gleamed behind the glass of the eighteenth-century bookcases, each topped with a marble bust, on the left of Charles Dickens and on the right of Henry Fielding, both members of the Honourable Society of the Middle Temple. The fitted unglazed bookcases on the wall facing the door held a more utilitarian library of law reports, bound statutes,
Halsbury’s Laws of England
and books on various aspects of criminal and civil law. Ranged on the lower shelves were red leather-bound volumes of
Punch
from 1880 to 1930, a parting gift from a previous member of Chambers whose wife reputedly had insisted on their disposal before moving to their smaller retirement home.

The four leather armchairs were placed about the room with an eccentric disregard for the conveniences of intimate conversation. Much of the floor space was occupied by a large, rectangular table in old oak, almost black with age, with ten matching chairs. The room was seldom used for Chambers meetings; Mr. Langton preferred to hold them in his own room and, if there were insufficient chairs, colleagues would carry in their own and sit informally in a circle. But occasional suggestions that the conference room should be given over to a new member of Chambers in the interest of productive use of space were always resisted. The table, which had once been owned by John Dickinson, was the pride of Chambers and no other room could suitably accommodate it.

There were double doors opening from the reception room into the clerk’s office, but they were seldom used and the normal entrance was from the hall. As he entered he could hear the occasional bleep of the fax machine spewing out yesterday’s judgements. He went over to read the messages, then took off his coat and hung it on the wooden coat hanger bearing his name on the peg behind the door. Here in this cluttered, over-furnished but ordered space was his sanctum, his kingdom, the powerhouse and very heart of Chambers. Like all clerks’ rooms he had ever seen, it was cramped and over-furnished. Here was his desk and the desks of his two junior clerks, each with its word processor. Here was the computer to which he had at last become accustomed, although he still missed the early-morning walk over to the Law Courts, the chat with the listing officer. Here was his wall chart, setting out in his small meticulous handwriting the court appearances of each member of Chambers who worked from Pawlet Court. Here, tied up in the large cupboard against the wall, were the rolled briefs, the red ribbon for defence, the white for prosecution. The room, its smell, its organized clutter, the chair on which his father had sat, the desk on which his father had worked, were more familiar to him than his own bedroom.

The telephone rang. It was unusual for anyone to want him so early. The voice was unfamiliar to him, a woman’s voice, high, anxious and with a faint note of incipient hysteria.

“It’s Mrs. Buckley speaking. I’m Miss Aldridge’s housekeeper. I’m so glad there’s someone there. I did try even earlier. She always told me that you opened the office just after eight-thirty, if there was something important.”

He said defensively: “Chambers are not open at eight-thirty but I am usually here by that time. Can I help you?”

“It’s Miss Aldridge. Is she there please?”

“No one has arrived in Chambers yet. Did Miss Aldridge say that she’d be in early?”

“You don’t understand.” The voice now held a definite note of hysteria. “She didn’t come home last night, that’s why I’m so worried.”

He said: “Perhaps she spent the night with a friend.”

“She wouldn’t do that, not without telling me. And it was ten-thirty when I went off duty — and up to my room. She wasn’t expecting to stay out all night. I did listen for her but she’s always very quiet coming in so sometimes I don’t hear her. I took up her tea at half past seven and the bed hasn’t been slept in.”

He said: “I think it’s rather early to become seriously worried. I don’t think she’s here. There were no lights on in the front when I arrived, but I’ll go and have a look. Wait for a moment, will you please?”

He went up to the front room on the first floor, which Miss Aldridge occupied. The heavy oak outer door was locked. This was not in itself particularly surprising; members of Chambers who wanted to leave important papers on their desks did sometimes lock their rooms before leaving. But it was more usual to leave the oak unlocked and to secure only the inner door.

He went back to his own room and picked up the receiver. “Mrs. Buckley? I don’t think she’s in her room but I’ll just unlock the door. I won’t be long.”

He had a spare key to each room, jealously guarded, tagged and kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. The key to Miss Aldridge’s room was there. It opened both the oak and the inner door. Again he went up the stairs, this time aware of the first prickings of anxiety. He told himself that it was unnecessary. A member of Chambers had chosen to spend a night otherwise than in her own home. That was her affair, not his. Probably even now she was putting the key in her front door.

He unlocked the oak door and turned his key in the inner door. Instantaneously he knew that something was wrong. There was a smell in the room, alien and faint but still horribly familiar. He put out his hand to the switch and four of the wall lights came on.

What met his eyes was so bizarre in its horror that for half a minute he stood rooted in disbelief, his mind rejecting what his eyes so plainly saw. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be true. For those few seconds of disorientated incredulity he was incapable even of terror. But then he knew it was true. His heart leapt into life and began a pounding which shook his whole body. He heard a low incoherent moaning and knew that this strange disembodied sound was his own voice.

He moved slowly forward as if drawn by the inexorable pull of a thread. She was sitting well back in the swivel chair behind her desk. The desk was to the left of the door, facing the two tall windows. Her head was slumped forward on her chest, her arms hung loosely over the curved arms of the chair. He couldn’t see her face but he knew that she was dead.

On her head was a full-bottomed wig, its stiff curls of horsehair a mass of red and brown blood. Moving towards her, he put the back of his right hand against her cheek. It was ice-cold. Surely even dead flesh couldn’t be as cold as this. The touch, gentle as it had been, dislodged a globule of blood from the wig. He watched, horrified, as it rolled in slow spurts over the dead cheek to tremble on the edge of her chin. He moaned in terror. He thought: Oh God, she’s cold, she’s dead cold, but the blood is still tacky! Instinctively he clutched at the chair for support and to his horror it swung slowly round until she was facing the door, her feet dragging on the carpet. He gasped and drew back, looking appalled at his hand as if expecting it to be sticky with blood. Then he leaned forward and, stooping, tried to look into her face. The forehead, the cheeks and one eye were covered with the congealed blood. Only the right eye was unsullied. The dead unseeing stare, fixed on some far enormity, seemed, as he gazed at it, to hold a terrible malice.

Mesmerized, he slowly backed away from her. Somehow he managed to get out of the door. With shaking hands, he closed and locked both doors behind him carefully and quietly, as if a clumsy move could wake that terrible thing within. Then he pocketed the key and made his way to the stairs. He felt very cold and he wasn’t sure that his legs could support him, but somehow he staggered down. And at least his brain was clear, miraculously clear. When he picked up the phone he knew what he had to do. His tongue felt too swollen and unyielding for a mouth grown suddenly taut and dry. The words came, but the sounds were harshly alien.

He said, “Yes, she is here, but she can’t be disturbed. Everything’s all right,” then he put down the receiver before she could answer or ask any further questions. He couldn’t tell her the truth, it would be all over London. She would know all about it in good time. Now there was a higher priority; he would have to telephone the police.

He reached again for the receiver and then hesitated. He had a sudden vivid picture of police cars racing up Middle Temple Lane, of loud masculine voices, of members of Chambers arriving to find the court cordoned off. There was a higher priority even than the police; he had to ring the Head of Chambers. The phone was answered quickly by a male voice. Mr. Langton had left for Chambers fifteen minutes earlier.

He felt an immense weight lifted from his shoulders. It would only be about twenty minutes before the Head of Chambers arrived. But the news would be horribly shocking to him. He would need some help, some support. He would need Mr. Laud. Harry telephoned the flat at Shad Thames and heard the familiar voice.

He said: “It’s Harry Naughton, sir, ringing from Chambers. I’ve just telephoned Mr. Langton. Could you come at once, please? Miss Aldridge is dead in her room. It isn’t a natural death, sir. I’m afraid it looks as if she’s been murdered.” He was surprised that his voice could be so strong, so steady. There was silence. He wondered for a moment whether Mr. Laud had taken it in, or whether shock had rendered him speechless, whether he had even heard the message. He began tentatively: “Mr. Laud, it’s Harry Naughton…”

And then the voice answered. “I know. I heard you, Harry. Tell Mr. Langton when he arrives that I’m coming immediately.”

He had telephoned from the reception room, but now went back into the hall and waited. There were footsteps, but heavier than those of Mr. Langton. The door opened and Terry Gledhill, one of his junior clerks, came in, carrying as usual a bulging briefcase which contained his sandwiches, a thermos and his computer magazines. He took one glance at Harry’s face.

“What’s up? You all right, Mr. Naughton? You look as white as that door.”

“It’s Miss Aldridge. She’s dead in her room. I found her when I arrived.”

“Dead? Are you sure?”

Terry went towards the stairs but Harry moved instinctively to block his path.

“Of course I’m sure. She’s cold. No Point in going up. I’ve locked the door.” He paused and said: “It Wasn’t…it wasn’t natural, Terry.”

“Christ! You mean she was murdered? What happened? How do you know?”

“There’s blood. A lot of blood. And, Terry, she’s cold. Ice-cold. But the blood is tacky.”

“You’re sure that she’s dead?”

“Of course I’m sure. I told you, she’s cold,”

“Have you rung the police?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting for Mr. Langton.”

“What can he do? If it’s murder you want the police, and we ought to ring them now. No point in waiting till all the staff arrive. They could muck up the scene, destroy clues. The police will have to be called, and the sooner the better. It’ll look pretty odd if you don’t ring them at once. And we’d better warn security.”

The words were an uncomfortable echo of Harry’s own misgivings. But he heard in his voice the note of obstinate self-justification. He told himself that he was Senior Clerk, he didn’t have to explain his actions to his staff. He said: “Mr. Langton is Head of Chambers. He ought to be told first, and he’s on his way. I rang his flat and I’ve rung Mr. Laud too. He’ll be as quick as he can. It’s not as if anyone can help Miss Aldridge.”