And Is There Honey Still For Tea? (2 page)

2

1965

Wednesday, 3 March

Professor Francis R
Hollander
had not arranged for anyone to meet him at the airport. Apart from his solicitor Julia Cathermole, the Secretary of his Club, and the one or two colleagues who had to know, he had kept his plans to himself. It was not a social trip, and he was doing his best not to attract attention. If it were not for the interest he had recently aroused in the press, that would not have been a problem. Indeed, he might reasonably have assumed that his presence on board BOAC flight 247 from Washington DC to London Heathrow would pass entirely unnoticed. But as things were, he knew that the press might very well be lying in wait for him somewhere. In his mind he had created the spectre of a confrontation with reporters demanding a statement even before he boarded his flight in Washington. Mercifully, he had been spared that; there had been no obvious press presence there. But he had no way of knowing what awaited him when he touched down in London. It was not that he wanted to avoid the press; on the contrary, some carefully-planned publicity was exactly what he wanted and needed. But the operative words were ‘carefully planned'.
He had no desire to be jostled by a throng of reporters at the airport while he was tired and groggy. He preferred to meet them on his own terms – in central London, at a properly convened press conference, when he felt refreshed and awake.

Hollander was in his mid-thirties, tall and thin, with pale skin and thinning light brown hair brushed carefully back to reveal a prominent forehead. His habitually thoughtful look had resulted in a perpetually wrinkled brow. He had travelled, with no concession to the discomfort of the long flight, in his customary light brown suit, pale blue shirt with blue and yellow polka-dot bow tie, spectacles with light brown frames, and meticulously polished brown lace-up shoes – all of which he regarded as his trademark academic uniform. He had braced himself for an unwelcome reception, and had rehearsed a set speech a hundred times during the flight but, to his relief, when he emerged from Customs with his luggage into a cold, misty London morning, he was not aware of anyone paying particular attention to him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath with a silent prayer of gratitude. But even so, when the man approached as he stood, shivering slightly, in the queue at the taxi rank, Hollander was not particularly surprised.

‘Welcome to London, Professor Hollander,' the man said. ‘I'm sure you don't want to spend all morning standing in this queue. Why don't you let me give you a lift?'

Hollander was about to offer his prepared speech, but stopped himself almost at once as he realised his error. He knew almost instantly that he was not dealing with the press. Hollander was not exactly an expert in such matters, but he had made several trips behind the Iron Curtain, certainly enough to know when he had a minder. The man who had approached him was of average height, well short of Hollander's own six feet three, but he was well built and carried no extra weight. He was dressed in a light grey raincoat, the belt tied tightly around his waist, and a slightly darker grey trilby hat with a black band around the rim. Hollander put his age at late forties or early fifties. He had both his hands stuffed into the pockets of the coat. Even through his irritation Hollander could not resist a momentary smile at the blatant stereotype of the hat and coat. His instincts were awake now, and the glance over his shoulder to his left, his blind side, was automatic. Sure enough, the stereotype was complete. An almost identically dressed second man stood a few feet away, apparently uninterested, doing his best to blend in with the groups of passengers leaving and arriving at the terminal. It doesn't matter where you are, he reflected; some things never change. He knew the drill. He had a minder – whether he wanted one or not.

‘That's very kind of you,' Hollander replied, picking up his suitcase.

‘My pleasure. Allow me.' The man relieved him deftly of the suitcase, leaving Hollander to carry only his brown patent leather briefcase. Hollander was soon grateful for the gesture as the man led the way at a fast pace across the access road, through a number of bleak open concrete spaces, and into the covered car park. As they approached the black Humber Hawk, the driver climbed smartly out of his seat. He was a small man, dressed in a dark blue suit and tie. Without a word, he took the suitcase from the minder and consigned it to the boot. The minder ushered Hollander into the back of the car on the driver's side before walking around the back of the car to take his own seat beside him on the passenger's side. The second man had disappeared somewhere along the route.

‘My name is Baxter,' the man said, extending his hand, once the driver had left the car park and was threading his way towards the main trunk road leading into central London. Hollander nodded. He doubted the name was genuine, but everyone had to use some name or other, and it was of no consequence. He took Baxter's hand without enthusiasm.

‘Where are you staying?'

‘At my club – the Reform Club in Pall Mall.'

Baxter glanced up towards the driver, who indicated by a slight nod of the head that he had heard.

‘Very nice. We will get you there as soon as we can. Let's hope the traffic's not too bad.'

They drove on in silence for some time. Hollander followed the road signs, noting that the driver was indeed taking the shortest route to the city centre. He tried to sit back and relax, but he was unsettled. The press would have been unwelcome, but at least he would have known exactly what they wanted. He could have answered a few questions, promised more in a few days' time, and fought his way through to a taxi. But with Baxter, he was in uncharted territory. Why were they taking such an interest in him? It could be good or bad; but it was certainly not simply neutral. Baxter had not brought a car to meet him at Heathrow for the pleasure of his company.

‘Look, Baxter, I appreciate the ride into town, but …'

Baxter turned towards him.

‘Please don't be concerned, Professor,' he said. ‘I am here to help you – together with those I work for, of course.'

‘Help in what way? What interest do you have in helping me?'

Baxter smiled.

‘I think you know that without my telling you,' he replied. ‘But if I have to spell it out for you, we have a common interest in the outcome of the forthcoming legal action to be brought against you by Sir James Masefield Digby QC.'

Hollander turned his head away again to look straight ahead. Of course. He suddenly felt very stupid. How could they not take an interest? But the question was: what was their agenda? Whose side were they on? This was Digby's territory, after all. He felt any slight sense of security he had slipping away. The car's heater was beginning to have some effect and the windows were steaming up. With a gentle circular motion of the back of his right hand, he created a small area of clear vision on the side window to his right. But there was nothing worth seeing unless he kept looking straight ahead, past the driver, through the front windscreen. Traffic was light and they were making good progress towards town.

‘Naturally, we have read and analysed your article with some care,' Baxter was saying. ‘It seems obvious that you have information, and perhaps sources of information, which would be of interest to us.'

Hollander had no idea how to respond. Nothing very coherent came to mind.

‘I realise that Digby may well take legal action, of course,' he replied. ‘I and everyone involved with the Journal knew that there was a risk before we ever published…'

Baxter laughed out loud.

‘A risk? Professor, with all due respect, you know as well as I do that Digby has only one possible response to your article. He has no choice at all. In the eyes of anyone reading your article, anyone taking it seriously, his reputation is in pieces. You have destroyed the man. Of course he is going to sue.'

Hollander looked down at his feet.

‘This is not mere conjecture,' Baxter continued. ‘If you read the papers here, you would know that Digby has already made his intentions known quite clearly in the British press, and he has already retained solicitors and counsel. So it's no longer a question of risk; it is about to become a reality. To put it bluntly, he is going to sue you for everything you are worth. The action will be extremely expensive to defend, and should you lose, it will be ruinous.'

Hollander remained silent for some time. Baxter showed no inclination to press him further until he was ready.

‘All right,' he said eventually. ‘Let's assume you are right. What exactly is your interest in the matter?'

‘I should have thought that also was fairly obvious,' Baxter replied. ‘You have written an article in which you claim that Sir James Digby QC, a pillar of the community, leading barrister, Queen's Counsel, and all-round good chap, has been spying for the Russians for a number of years, giving away our secrets behind our backs.'

‘I am quite sure you knew that before you read my article,' Hollander rejoined.

‘A conclusion that you reach,' Baxter said, ignoring the comment, ‘without any actual evidence, as far as we can see: which means that Digby is going to have you for breakfast in court – unless, of course, you do in fact have some evidence. If you do, we would like to know about it for our own purposes. That, in a nutshell, is our interest in the case, Professor.'

Hollander smiled. ‘Yet, earlier, you said that we had a common interest …'

‘We do,' Baxter replied, ‘in certain circumstances. If what you wrote in your article proved to be a pack of lies, then we could not care less. We would happily sit back and watch while Digby gives you the thrashing you richly deserve. On the other hand, if there is substance in it, that is a matter in which we have a very serious interest, and we are prepared to offer you certain assistance in defending yourself against Digby's action – in our interests, of course, as well as yours.'

‘What kind of assistance?' Hollander asked cautiously.

‘The answer to that question is rather technical,' Baxter replied. ‘I would need to discuss it with Julia. But it would be designed, obviously, to make it worth your while to share with us any information, or sources, you may have which are not credited in the article.'

Hollander's jaw dropped. There were only four people, of whom he and Julia were two, who knew that he had retained Julia Cathermole as his solicitor. They had exchanged correspondence and a phone call, but …

‘How in God's name do you know about Julia?' he spluttered. ‘I have only just …'

Baxter laughed again. ‘Julia Cathermole's father was family,' he replied. ‘Nigel was a colleague for many years, and we have kept a benign eye on Julia's progress ever since she became a solicitor, and particularly since she started her firm. We have only had contact with her very occasionally. But we had an interest in one of the first big cases she handled, a few years ago. We haven't spoken to her about your case, but it wasn't too hard to find out that you were interested in having her represent you, and in our view you couldn't have made a better choice.'

Hollander shook his head and returned his attention to the small area of vision on his side window.

‘Our only reservation,' Baxter continued, ‘is that we are not sure you understand fully what your defence is going to involve. It is going to be a long and complicated case, and it is going to be very expensive. Cathermole & Bridger is not a cheap firm of solicitors. Have you thought about that?'

Hollander had, in fact, thought a great deal about that, without arriving at any real conclusion. He had some resources, or rather, potential resources which had been promised before the article was published, and he had reason to hope that sympathy for his stance would attract further support. But thus far, there was very little actual money in the bank. It was something he would have to raise with Julia immediately. He was suddenly quite sure that Baxter knew all that already.

‘We want to make sure that you don't have to worry,' Baxter said. ‘We will make certain arrangements. Tell Julia what I have said when you see her. She will know what to do. All you have to do today is to check into the Reform, have a nice quiet day, enjoy a good dinner, and get a good night's sleep.'

‘But …'

‘That's all you have to do.'

Hollander peered uselessly through his area of vision, which was now steaming up as fast as he could clear it.

‘I still don't really understand,' he said. ‘You are going to considerable lengths here.'

Baxter shrugged. ‘There's no great mystery, Professor,' he replied. ‘My superiors believe, rightly or wrongly, that they can't afford to have you lose this case, any more than you can afford to lose it.'

They passed the remainder of the trip in silence.

‘What is it about the Reform Club?' Baxter asked, as the car pulled up alongside number 104 Pall Mall.

‘What?'

‘There must be something about the place that attracts people like you.'

Hollander stared at him blankly for several seconds before opening the door.

‘People like me?' he asked.

‘People who are lost without a bit of intrigue in their lives,' Baxter explained.

‘They do a very nice dinner,' Hollander replied tartly, pushing himself out of the car on to the pavement, ‘and they have comfortable rooms. Perhaps you should find someone to propose you for membership.'

The driver deposited his suitcase on the kerb next to him with a friendly salute and climbed back behind the wheel.

‘Perhaps I should,' Baxter smiled.

Hollander closed the door, none too gently. Almost at once the driver pulled the car smoothly away from the kerb.

3

Monday, 8 March

Ben Schroeder knocked on the door and waited for Bernard Wesley's familiar shout of ‘Come!' before entering. Ben had been a member of Chambers for two years, and had adapted to the general practice of putting one's head around the door of any room which was not displaying a ‘Conference' sign without knocking. But the general practice did not apply to Bernard Wesley's room. Wesley was a Silk, and the Head of Chambers, and although he was capable of a great personal warmth and charm, he had never quite relaxed the formality he had learned as part of his own training at the Bar. The room reflected Wesley's temperament exactly. The inlaid top of his antique desk was a dark green, which complemented the lighter green leather of his sofa and armchairs to perfection. Much of the wall space was devoted to huge, deep bookcases, laden with handsome leather-bound volumes of the law reports. The remaining spaces were adorned by a number of original eighteenth-century racing prints. Wesley was standing by the window behind his desk, one of a pair of enormous sash windows which offered a panoramic view over the Middle Temple gardens. He turned towards Ben and moved back towards his desk.

‘Ben, come in. Have a seat.'

Ben lowered himself into the armchair to the left of the desk. He was a handsome young man of twenty-seven, almost six feet in height with a thin, lithe build. His hair was black, and his eyes a deep brown, set rather deep in his face because of strikingly prominent cheek bones, allowing him to fix a witness with a disconcertingly intense stare when he cross-examined. He wore an immaculately tailored three-piece suit, dark grey with the lightest of white pin-stripes, a thin gold pocket watch attached to a gold chain threaded through the middle button hole of his waistcoat, and a fluted white handkerchief in the top pocket of his jacket. As a young Jewish man from the East End of London, his pathway into the most conservative of professions had not been smooth, but a number of striking successes in the courtroom had made his place in Chambers secure, and had already brought him wider recognition at the Bar. If his place in the profession had ever been in doubt – and Ben's temperament had often led him to doubt it – he had every reason now to believe that the time for doubt had passed. The fact that he was to be Bernard Wesley's junior in this case was ample proof.

Ben laid his papers and notebook on the corner of Wesley's desk. The papers were wrapped in a backsheet which bore the name and address of the prestigious West End firm of Harper Sutton & Harper.

‘We don't have much from Herbert, do we?' he asked, ‘apart from the article itself.'

Wesley seated himself behind his desk.

‘No,' he agreed. ‘He won't have had much of a chance to go into it yet. It's all blown up too quickly, hasn't it? In any case, I strongly suspect that Herbert wants our advice before he digs too deeply into this particular hornets' nest. For one thing, Herbert is a strictly civil man, needless to say, and this may well have criminal implications. Merlin said he had referred Herbert to a criminal solicitor who can help out with that side of things, if needed. Is he going to be with us today?'

‘Yes, Barratt Davis, of Bourne & Davis. They send quite a lot of work to the more junior tenants in chambers.'

Wesley nodded. ‘I've heard Merlin mention them. Crime really isn't my field, as you know. Are they dependable? In a case like this …'

‘They are very good. They prepare a case well and they stay with it. I've done a fair bit of work for them, including that capital murder I did with Martin Hardcastle last year.'

‘Ah, yes,' Wesley said. ‘I remember that, of course.'

He paused.

‘Has that memory receded to some extent?'

‘To some extent,' Ben replied.

Wesley nodded his understanding. ‘That's a hard case to lose. But to those of us not involved, it did appear that the prosecution had an overwhelming case. And you came out of it very well in the Court of Criminal Appeal – as opposed to Martin Hardcastle. Has he been heard of since?'

Ben closed his eyes. A hard case to lose. Yes, a case which ended with your client being hanged certainly qualified as a hard case to lose; especially when your leader turned out to be an alcoholic who missed the most important day of the trial and then advised the defendant that there was no need for him to give evidence in support of his alibi. Ben had spoken out against Hardcastle's advice, but in vain; the QC had the client's trust. Predictably, Hardcastle's advice failed to prevent the verdict of guilty, but his professional failings attracted no sympathy in the Court of Criminal Appeal. Hardcastle's career lay in ruins, but Billy Cottage had been hanged, notwithstanding.

‘I believe he has retired from practice,' Ben replied, opening his eyes.

There was a silence.

‘Do you know Digby well?' Ben asked, anxious to change the subject. ‘I am sure you must.'

‘I know him,' Wesley replied. ‘But not well. He is a Chancery man, one of that rare breed who understands things like land law and trusts. He ventures out into the real world occasionally for a probate action or the odd defended divorce. I had one of those against him a year or two ago. He was called in 1935, I think, took Silk in the mid-1950s. Not the most exciting advocate, but a very sharp mind.'

‘That sounds very much like the Chancery Division,' Ben said, smiling. ‘But he doesn't sound like the sort of man who would get caught up in espionage, does he?'

Wesley looked up briefly at the ceiling.

‘What kind of man does get caught up in espionage?' he asked. ‘I've never seen the attraction myself, I must say. But I suppose a sharp mind would come in useful. He is one of the country's leading chess players. Did you know that?'

Ben shook his head. ‘No. Not something I follow, I'm afraid.'

‘Neither do I,' Wesley said. ‘I just about remember how the pieces move. But apparently, he is a very strong player. And I seem to remember hearing that he worked for the Security Services during the War.'

‘Really?' Ben asked. ‘Doing what?'

‘Interrogating suspected German spies, and the like. There were a number of members of the Bar who remained in practice and were called in when needed. Helenus Milmo was certainly very involved, and I think Digby was one of them also.'

‘And he has a title.'

Wesley nodded. ‘Yes. He is
Sir
James Masefield Digby, a baronet. It's a hereditary title. The family is from Lancashire, if I remember rightly, and the title goes back a couple of hundred years. The family has close ties to the Royal Family. Digby had an older brother who was first in line to inherit the title, but he died young. So when Digby's father died, the Baronetcy fell to him and he became
Sir
James.'

Ben nodded. He removed the ribbon from his papers, selected the document on top of the stack, and skimmed through it.

‘Well, I don't think Herbert needs our advice on whether or not the allegations Hollander makes are libellous,' he observed. ‘I would say that was a given, wouldn't you?'

Wesley thought for a moment or two.

‘Assuming them to be false,' he replied. ‘On that assumption, yes, I would agree.'