only after the verdict had been given that she gave a thought to the audience, to those closely packed benches where the relations and friends of the accused and the victim, the aficionados of murder, the casuals and the regulars, the morbid and the curious had sat and looked down impassively while, below them, the court played out its stately measure of advance and retreat. Now it was over and they would jostle down that bleak uncarpeted stairway and breathe the untainted air and relish their freedom.
She did not glance at Ashe, but she knew that she would have to see him. It was difficult to avoid at least a few words with a client who had been acquitted. People needed to express their pleasure, occasionally their gratitude, although she suspected that gratitude never lasted long, and for some no longer than the presentation of her bill. But it was only for the convicted clients that she felt even a trace of affection or pity. In her more analytical moments she wondered whether she might not be harbouring a subconscious guilt which after a victory, and particularly a victory against the odds, transferred itself into resentment of the client. The thought interested but did not worry her. Other counsel might see it as part of their job to encourage, to support, to console. She saw her own in less ambiguous terms; it was simply to win.
Well, she had won, and there came, as there so often did after the momentary exhilaration of triumph, a draining tiredness which was as much physical as emotional. It never lasted long but sometimes, after a case which had dragged on for months, the reaction of triumph and then exhaustion would come close to overpowering her and it would take an effort of will to collect her papers together, get to her feet and respond to the murmured congratulations of her junior and the solicitors. Today it seemed to her that the congratulations were muted. Her junior was still young and found it difficult to rejoice in a verdict which he thought wrong. Yet for once the tiredness was only momentary; she could feel the surge of energy and strength returning to muscles and veins. But never before had she felt such repugnance for a client. She hoped never to have to see him again, but this last encounter was unavoidable.
And now he came forward with his solicitor, Neville Saunders, in attendance, the latter wearing his usual schoolmaster’s expression of disapproval, as if about to warn his client against a recurrence of the events which had brought them together. Smiling his wintry half-smile, he held out his hand and said: “Congratulations.” Then, turning to Ashe: “You’re a very fortunate young man. You owe Miss Aldridge a great deal.”
The dark eyes looked into hers and she thought she detected for the first time a glint of humour. The unspoken message was clear: We understand each other. I know what got me off, and so do you.
But all he said was: “She’ll get what she’s owed. I’m on legal aid. That’s what it’s for, remember.”
Saunders, his face flushed, opened his mouth to expostulate, but before he could speak Venetia said, “Good afternoon to you both,” and turned away.
She had less than four weeks left of life. And she did not ask him then or later how he had known what spectacles Mrs. Scully had been wearing on the night of the murder.
Chapter 5
O n the same evening Hubert Langton left his Chambers at six o’clock. It was his usual time, and in recent years he had become obsessional about the small comforting rituals of life. But this evening there seemed no possible reason to return home, to the long lonely hours which stretched ahead. Almost without conscious thought he turned right, crossed Middle Temple Lane and passed under the arch by Pump Court and through the Cloisters to the Temple Church. It was open, and he entered through the great Norman doorway to the sound of the organ. Someone was practising. The music was modern, abrasive to his ears, but he sat
She did not glance at Ashe, but she knew that she would have to see him. It was difficult to avoid at least a few words with a client who had been acquitted. People needed to express their pleasure, occasionally their gratitude, although she suspected that gratitude never lasted long, and for some no longer than the presentation of her bill. But it was only for the convicted clients that she felt even a trace of affection or pity. In her more analytical moments she wondered whether she might not be harbouring a subconscious guilt which after a victory, and particularly a victory against the odds, transferred itself into resentment of the client. The thought interested but did not worry her. Other counsel might see it as part of their job to encourage, to support, to console. She saw her own in less ambiguous terms; it was simply to win.
Well, she had won, and there came, as there so often did after the momentary exhilaration of triumph, a draining tiredness which was as much physical as emotional. It never lasted long but sometimes, after a case which had dragged on for months, the reaction of triumph and then exhaustion would come close to overpowering her and it would take an effort of will to collect her papers together, get to her feet and respond to the murmured congratulations of her junior and the solicitors. Today it seemed to her that the congratulations were muted. Her junior was still young and found it difficult to rejoice in a verdict which he thought wrong. Yet for once the tiredness was only momentary; she could feel the surge of energy and strength returning to muscles and veins. But never before had she felt such repugnance for a client. She hoped never to have to see him again, but this last encounter was unavoidable.
And now he came forward with his solicitor, Neville Saunders, in attendance, the latter wearing his usual schoolmaster’s expression of disapproval, as if about to warn his client against a recurrence of the events which had brought them together. Smiling his wintry half-smile, he held out his hand and said: “Congratulations.” Then, turning to Ashe: “You’re a very fortunate young man. You owe Miss Aldridge a great deal.”
The dark eyes looked into hers and she thought she detected for the first time a glint of humour. The unspoken message was clear: We understand each other. I know what got me off, and so do you.
But all he said was: “She’ll get what she’s owed. I’m on legal aid. That’s what it’s for, remember.”
Saunders, his face flushed, opened his mouth to expostulate, but before he could speak Venetia said, “Good afternoon to you both,” and turned away.
She had less than four weeks left of life. And she did not ask him then or later how he had known what spectacles Mrs. Scully had been wearing on the night of the murder.
Chapter 5
O n the same evening Hubert Langton left his Chambers at six o’clock. It was his usual time, and in recent years he had become obsessional about the small comforting rituals of life. But this evening there seemed no possible reason to return home, to the long lonely hours which stretched ahead. Almost without conscious thought he turned right, crossed Middle Temple Lane and passed under the arch by Pump Court and through the Cloisters to the Temple Church. It was open, and he entered through the great Norman doorway to the sound of the organ. Someone was practising. The music was modern, abrasive to his ears, but he sat
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