And Is There Honey Still For Tea? (10 page)

Bernard was smiling but he had turned slightly red. She took his hand.

‘I am sorry,
chéri
, I embarrass you. I didn't mean to.'

‘There is no need at all to be embarrassed,' Ben smiled. ‘Not with us.'

‘I think that is very charming,' Jess said.

Bernard stood. ‘Why don't I help you clear away so that we can get to the next course?'

* * *

The remainder of the dinner had been superb, a classic country
boeuf aux carottes
, followed by a light lemon mousse. Jess volunteered to help Amélie clear away before she made coffee. Bernard steered Ben into the conservatory at the back of the house, which looked over Hampstead Heath, though tonight the darkness and the rain obscured any view. A tray with glasses and a decanter of Armagnac stood on an unfinished light wood sideboard. The chairs and tables were wicker, there were brightly-coloured red and green Indian rugs on the floor, and some vivid modernist paintings on the walls. The room felt intimate and cosy.

‘I really appreciate this, Bernard,' Ben said. ‘We have been worried about it.'

‘Of course, you must have been,' he replied, pouring each of them a glass of Armagnac. ‘But I meant what I said earlier. I am quite optimistic. They should be looking for a way out, it seems to me.'

He paused to swirl his Armagnac in his glass and take an appreciative sniff.

‘If you don't mind talking shop for a minute in the absence of the ladies…?'

‘No, of course not.'

‘Good. Tell me… what is your impression of Digby?'

Ben shook his head. ‘I'm not entirely sure,' he replied. ‘On the face of it, he is the innocent victim of a wicked libel and it's not hard to understand why he wants to do whatever he can to restore his reputation.'

‘On the face of it?'

Ben sipped his Armagnac. ‘He plays the part to perfection. But… there is something missing.'

Bernard nodded. ‘Yes. I have that impression too,' he agreed. ‘I'm not sure why.'

‘Perhaps he is not angry enough?' Ben suggested.

‘Perhaps. He got rather indignant when I tried to suggest that suing Hollander might have its own problems and there might be another way of dealing with the situation.'

‘Indignant, but not angry,' Ben insisted.

‘Yes,' Bernard said. He paused. ‘Well, perhaps that's just Digby's personality, or the way he was brought up. Perhaps that's all there is to it. He does practise in the Chancery Division, after all. They are all so damned civilised over there.'

Ben smiled. ‘Well, we may be imagining things.'

‘There is something else, though,' Bernard said. ‘I am still worried that Hollander has published such a serious libel without any evidence that we can see. I'm not satisfied with Digby's theory that he is just a publicity-seeking American academic who doesn't care how ruinous the proceedings are as long as he creates a sensation.'

‘No,' Ben agreed. ‘There must be easier ways to make a name for himself than this. So, what do you think he has up his sleeve?'

‘I'm not sure,' Bernard replied. ‘But he has something, Ben, I know it. Every instinct I have tells me so. How is Jess getting on with her research?'

‘It's going well. She is waiting for some written materials. She wants to read every word Hollander has ever written in any journal, anywhere in the world. That may help, but I have a nasty feeling that whatever real evidence Hollander has may not be easy to find.'

He sipped from his glass again.

‘Until it's too late,' he added.

14

Amélie and Jess joined them, bringing the coffee and cups, with a small silver tray laden with dark chocolates.

They sat down around the wicker coffee table, enjoying the quiet darkness of the Heath against the subdued lighting of the conservatory.

‘Jess has a question for you, Bernard,' Amélie said. ‘She is hesitant to ask you herself, although I told her not to be concerned.'

‘You must ask whatever you like, Jess,' Bernard reassured her. ‘Don't be shy about it.'

Jess was holding her hands in her lap, one gripping the other.

‘I am sure I am just worrying too much,' she said. ‘But I am not sure how this works exactly. You said you would talk to the other benchers of the Middle Temple and try to convince them that Ben and I have a serious relationship. But where would this happen? Can Ben and I be present? Can we say something, talk to them ourselves, so that we can explain the situation?'

Bernard sipped his Armagnac thoughtfully.

‘They have convened a committee,' he replied, after some time, ‘which means that they want to handle the situation relatively formally. I will arrange for Ben to appear in front of them – with me as his advocate, of course. I would imagine that will take some time to arrange, but that is a good sign. I am not going to press them. I don't think we should send the signal that we are anxious about it, or regard it as anything urgent. And the more time they have to think about it, the more opportunity they have to reflect on what they are doing and come to their senses.'

Amélie and Jess exchanged glances.

‘But Jess will also be there, at the hearing, of course?' Amélie asked uncertainly.

Bernard seemed uncomfortable. ‘No, I don't think so,' he replied. ‘Technically, this will be a disciplinary hearing against Ben. Jess is not a member of the Inn, and so they cannot accuse her of doing anything wrong. Technically, it doesn't concern her.'

‘But this affects Jess also,' Amélie protested. ‘It affects her future, and the future of the man she loves. Of course it concerns her.'

‘I said “technically”,' Bernard replied. ‘Of course it concerns Jess, and if the committee want to hear from her, they will let us know. But I don't think they will. I would prefer to keep this as simple as possible. I would like both Ben and Jess to prepare a short written statement, just to set out the history of the relationship: how they met; the fact that Barratt was already sending Ben work before they met; their plans for the future, and so on. Ben will be there to answer any questions.'

Ben looked at Jess. She seemed pale and was looking down. He glanced at his watch.

‘Amélie, it has been a delightful evening,' he said. ‘Dinner was wonderful. But we have to drive back to Islington. We should really be going.'

‘Of course,' Amélie replied, getting to her feet. ‘I am so glad you could come.'

She walked over to Jess and put her arms gently around her. At first she sensed Jess pulling away, but she held her in the hug for some moments and eventually felt her relax into it, and then felt a tear on her shoulder. She kissed Jess on the cheek, not a quick social kiss but a lingering, fond one, with understanding.

‘
Ne t'inquiète pas
,' she said, ‘
ça va se passer bien
. It will be all right.'

Jess nodded. Stepping back, she opened her handbag, took out a white lace handkerchief and dried her eyes.

‘I am here,' Amélie said, ‘any time you want to talk.'

‘Thank you,' Jess replied.

* * *

They drove back to Canonbury in silence. As ever, she drove skilfully and navigated her way effortlessly through the rain, past the dim street lamps and the faint black-and-white directional signs. But there was a hint of anger in her driving: in her acceleration away from traffic lights the instant they changed to green; in her unusually aggressive overtaking; and in the sharpness of her turns. Ben sat passively in the passenger seat, waiting for an opening to break the silence in a meaningful way. It never came.

She pulled up in front of his flat, put the car in neutral and engaged the hand brake, but did not switch off the ignition. She allowed her head to sink onto her hands in the middle of the steering wheel. Eventually, she raised her head, and turned to look at him.

‘I am going back my place tonight,' she said.

The words filled him with terror. Losing her was a nightmare that sometimes haunted his dreams. Never in these dreams had he been able to imagine how he would cope without her. He loved her completely. But he felt her withdrawing from him, and he felt powerless to prevent it.

‘Jess, please,' he began, ‘I know you're angry, but …'

‘Angry? Why should I be angry? Just because you and Bernard Wesley are going to huddle together in private with those old men in the Middle Temple and then tell me whether I am allowed to be in love with a member of your secret society?'

‘It won't be like that.'

‘Oh? That's what I heard Bernard say, Ben. I won't be there while my future is decided. It's a technical matter. You are the only one involved. You will let me know what happened after it is all over.'

‘Jess, if you would listen to me for a moment. It's all right.'

‘No, Ben,' she replied firmly. ‘It is not all right. It is not all right that I can't say a word in my own defence. It is not all right that they treat me like someone who doesn't even matter.'

She felt tears welling up again and grabbed the handkerchief from her handbag.

‘It is not all right, and I don't know what to do about it.'

He tried to put his arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged it off.

‘No,' she said. ‘You didn't say a word about it.'

‘What could I say?'

‘You could have … oh, I don't know … something, anything; something to show me that you at least care.'

He exhaled heavily.

‘Jess, look, we are both very tired. Switch the engine off and come upstairs. We will talk tomorrow, and I promise I will find a way to make this right.'

She shook her head.

‘I need some time,' she replied. ‘I am going back to Covent Garden tonight.'

Reluctantly, he opened the car door and began to get out, then he turned back.

‘Well, can I at least call you?'

She threw her hands in the air. ‘Yes, call me.'

‘When?'

‘I don't know, Ben. I need some time to be by myself and think this through.'

His heart was cold with fear as he closed the door. He watched until she turned the corner and was out of sight.

15

Monday, 12 April

It was almost 10 o'clock when Ben set out at a brisk pace to walk the short distance from the station along New Street to the magnificent Victorian Burlington Hotel. The journey to Birmingham had involved an early train from Euston, but he had timed it well, and was a few minutes early for his meeting. It had not been an easy appointment to arrange. B H Wood, the founder and editor of
Chess
, a popular and successful magazine, was a busy man. But the name of Sir James Digby had engaged his attention, and he had eventually agreed to meet Ben for an hour to offer some insight into the world of chess, and Ben's client in particular.

Ben was not feeling at his best. He had not had a great deal of sleep over the last week. After Jess's abrupt departure for Covent Garden on the Saturday night, now some nine days ago, he had felt alone and abandoned. He had spent much of that night lying wide awake on top of his bed, until he fell into an uneasy shallow slumber as dawn was approaching. Sunday was a little better, but not much. He felt listless, and tried calling her number repeatedly, but she did not answer. He felt that he was doing everything he could to resolve the suspicion of touting. What did she expect of him? The possibility that he might have lost her through some, God only knew what, careless word, preyed on his mind. He tried to concentrate on books he had borrowed from Islington public library, one dealing with the history of chess and one offering a basic introduction to the rules and strategy of the game, illustrated by a few games played by the great masters. There were also copies of articles written by Professor Francis R Hollander, which Jess had left after her latest research expedition to the libraries at LSE and King's College, and which he had hoped to read before the next conference with Sir James Digby. But his mind was wandering, and he found himself unable to focus for more than one or two minutes at a time. In mid-afternoon he gave up and walked aimlessly around his flat, snacking on instant coffee and biscuits, until he collapsed into bed shortly before midnight and finally managed a few hours of sleep. It was a pattern which was to repeat itself during the week. Each morning, the shrill ring of his alarm clock roused him in time to get ready for court. But he could find little enthusiasm for the work. Mercifully, Merlin had found him some simple enough cases in the county court, which did not tax his brain to any real extent, but they had nonetheless proved to be as much as he could focus on. After court, he declined drinks with members of chambers, and made his way back to his flat. This morning and the night that preceded it had passed just like the others – with Ben snatching at sleep until the alarm warned that it was time to get up and prepare for his excursion to Birmingham.

Wood was waiting for him at a corner table in the hotel's fine lobby. He stood as Ben approached, and they shook hands. Wood was tall and well built, dressed in a brown sports jacket and slacks, with a green and white chequered open-necked shirt. His dark hair was beginning to thin, but he had a ready smile, and there was a definite twinkle in his eyes.

‘I hope you haven't been waiting too long, Mr Wood,' Ben said.

‘Not at all. I've just arrived.'

‘Good. It was kind of you to meet me here, so close to the station.'

‘I am based in Sutton Coldfield,' Wood replied with a smile. ‘But no one ever knows where Sutton Coldfield is. Everyone seems to get hopelessly lost trying to find me. It is easier to meet in the city centre.'

‘Well, I appreciate it. How long have you been producing
Chess
?'

A waiter approached, and they ordered coffee.

‘I started the magazine in 1935,' Wood replied, ‘so it's been about thirty years now.'

‘That must have been quite an undertaking.'

Wood laughed. “Yes, you could say that. It was a gamble at the time. There was no way to predict whether it would be successful or not. I have been fortunate, but I suppose I give chess players what they want – some good games to play through, and a way of keeping up with the news.'

‘What led you to do it?'

‘It was a way of making a living from chess. This is a dilemma which haunts every strong British chess player. I know I have the ability to play at the top level, but I can only realise that ambition if I can devote enough time to the game – which means becoming a professional.'

‘But there is no way to make a living just by playing?' Ben asked.

‘Exactly. In the West, professional chess players spend more time writing books and articles, acting as referees and arbiters, perhaps teaching occasionally, than they do playing. It is necessary, to make a living. But it means that they don't have the experience of playing in the big international tournaments. Harry Golombek and Leonard Barden are good examples, as am I, except that I found my own individual way of doing things. Most of our stronger players do their best to combine chess with a career, fitting in the odd tournament here and there when they can, and having relatively little time to study the game – which you have to do constantly to compete at the highest levels. Hugh Alexander is a good example of that. So is Jonathan Penrose, who is probably the most naturally gifted player Britain has produced so far. But I don't think he will ever take chess up full time as a professional. You have one or two men – Peter Clarke, and Bob Wade, a New Zealander – who are giving it a go, but it is a hard life, with no guarantee of making enough money to live.'

The waiter brought their coffee, set it down, and walked quietly away.

‘You said “in the West”,' Ben observed.

‘Yes. The Soviets do things very differently. Chess is a national obsession in Russia, for one thing, so there is a much bigger market. But it's not just that. The Government has adopted chess as a national project. They set out to dominate the game, and they have. But, of course, they have done it by sponsoring promising young players, bringing them on from an early age, giving them the opportunity to study chess as a discipline in its own right, teaching it in schools alongside history and physics. They allow the best players to compete regularly in tournaments, both in Russia and abroad.'

‘That must be an expensive project,' Ben said.

‘It is. But they don't care about the expense. It is a form of propaganda for the communist way of life. Success comes from following the Marxist-Leninist path, which offers a combination of discipline and creativity. The State sponsors the art of chess as a statement about what communism can achieve.'

‘And, as a result, they have a lock on chess at the highest level?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Is there any chance of a western player competing with the Russians, perhaps being a realistic contender for the world championship?'

Wood shrugged. ‘There are those who think Bobby Fischer has the ability. But the question is whether he will get enough support to overcome the Soviet machine.'

He took a long drink of his coffee.

‘But you haven't come to Birmingham to listen to me going on and on about the Soviet domination of chess.'

He paused.

‘I am sorry about this business with James,' he said. ‘How is he holding up?'

‘Quite well, in the circumstances,' Ben replied.

‘Good. I have been following it in the papers, of course,' Wood said. ‘From what I have read, he seems to be quite insistent about suing Hollander.'

‘He is,' Ben replied. ‘It's a very serious libel. He can't let it pass unchallenged.'

‘No, of course.' Wood looked away, across the lobby to the main entrance, and back again. ‘Don't answer this if you don't think you should, for any reason, but does he have a strong case, would you say?'

‘Very strong, as far as we can see,' Ben replied. ‘So far, Hollander has not produced a shred of evidence to support his claim that James was working for the Soviets and, as far as we know, James has never been under suspicion.' He smiled. ‘I hope you are not about to disillusion me.'

Wood laughed. ‘No, I don't think so. I certainly hope not.'

He reached down by his side and picked up a worn brown leather briefcase, from which he took four sheets of paper with handwritten notes, and a black hard-backed book. He scanned the notes.

‘When we spoke on the phone, you mentioned three names to me, including James,' he said. ‘First, Professor Francis Hollander. I'm afraid I know very little about him. You probably know more than I do, certainly about his academic record. As a chess player, there is very little to say, really. He is a reasonably strong player as an amateur, but nowhere near the standard of the American élite, Bobby Fischer, Sammy Reshevsky, Reuben Fine, Arnold Denker, and the rest. I understand he speaks fluent Russian; in any case, he accompanies their teams and players to certain events to act as interpreter and generally lend a hand with arrangements on the ground. That's about all I can say.'

Ben nodded. ‘What about Viktor Stepanov?'

Wood handed Ben the hard-backed book.

‘You will find a short biographical note in here, together with one or two of his games,' he said. ‘You are welcome to keep it. I have several copies lying around the office, and if I ever want more, all I have to do is ask. This is an excellent example of chess as propaganda, as you will find if you delve into it.'

‘Thank you,' Ben replied. He looked at the cover. ‘
A Survey of Soviet Chess
.'

Wood laughed. ‘Yes. Foreign Languages Publishing House, Moscow, which in itself tells you what to expect. It is actually quite an informative book, and it does provide access to quite a number of published games which you might not find very easily anywhere else. But it really is the most shameless piece of propaganda. The biographical note on Stepanov is not terribly detailed, and this was published in 1955, several years before his death, but you may find something of interest in it.'

Wood drained his coffee cup.

‘My impression of Stepanov is about the same as the impression you are likely to get from the book,' he continued. ‘Moderate strength grandmaster, very useful player, capable of beating anyone on his day, but not destined to scale the heights of the world championship. His main claim to fame is that he represented the human face of Soviet chess.'

‘Meaning …?'

‘The Soviets tend to think that because they dominate the game in terms of playing strength, they can throw their weight around and order people about when it comes to organising international tournaments and laying down the ground rules for the world championship. Needless, to say, that attitude tends to alienate everyone else. Eventually, they seemed to realise that a little cooperation would go a long way, and they brought in Stepanov as a kind of diplomat. He spoke excellent English, and two or three other languages, and for a Russian he was very charming. He reminded me of Andrei Gromyko, their ambassador in London, in that respect. Stepanov poured oil on troubled waters, and he was very good at it. I met him a number of times, and I have to say he was very impressive.'

Ben nodded. ‘Is it likely that he had connections with the KGB?'

Wood laughed loudly. ‘That's a bit like asking whether Cardinal Angelini has connections with the Vatican,' he replied.

Ben joined in the laughter. ‘I'm sure it is a very naïve question,' he admitted.

‘The real question,' Wood said, ‘is what you mean by “connections”. No Soviet chess player would be given permission to leave the country to play in a chess tournament without convincing the authorities that he is a loyal member of the Party. If there is one thing the Soviets fear even more than losing the world championship to Bobby Fischer, it is the spectre of grandmasters defecting to the West. That would really put a dent in the image of Soviet chess. So you have to conform, or at least appear to conform. There are some, like Botvinnik, who are genuine Party men through and through. But most of them are not too interested in politics. They just want to play chess. And some, especially the grandmasters from the Baltic Republics, like Paul Keres, have no reason to feel any affection for Moscow. For them, any loyalty to the Party is no more than skin deep. Be that as it may, the KGB is a part of their lives. Every Soviet team or group of players going abroad for a tournament has a complement of minders, who keep them on a tight leash.'

He looked up at the ceiling, then down again.

‘I am quite sure that there are those the KGB can call on for particular purposes,' he added, ‘and I think Stepanov would have been ideally qualified for the job, with his diplomatic skills and his gift for languages. But whether he actually had that kind of connection with the KGB is anyone's guess.'

He paused.

‘The third name you gave me was Sir James Digby.'

* * *

‘I've known James for a very long time, of course,' Wood said. ‘We have crossed swords many times over the years, most recently just last year. I won a tournament at Whitby and I beat James in the second round. He was off form. He seemed rather preoccupied with other things, and didn't place very high.'

‘What can you tell me about him generally?' Ben asked.

Wood reflected on the question for some time.

‘That's a hard question to answer,' he replied. ‘I would not say we are close, exactly. You don't get close to people you play against in chess tournaments. You tend to be too focused on chess. But I did spend a couple of weeks in his company once, years ago.'

‘Oh?'

‘We were both members of the British team at the 1939 Chess Olympiad in Buenos Aires, with Hugh Alexander, Harry Golombek and Stuart Milner-Barry. The tournament was cut short on the outbreak of War. The Government ordered us back immediately. They wanted some of us – Hugh mostly – for secret work, code-breaking and the like.'

Ben nodded. ‘James was involved in interrogating suspected spies,' he said.