Armistice (29 page)

“Start packing,” he ordered. “You take only what you can carry.”

“If I disappear, people are going to think the allegations are true!” Anthony called after his father.

He heard the door to his apartment slam shut.

In the night Philomena dreamed that Jonathan and she had cornered Judge Dore, Anthony Dore, and Major James in a
busy restaurant, where they were eating. She looked on while Jonathan sat down uninvited at their table and started to shuffle the pack of cards. Judge Dore told everyone to remain calm. Priest had dug his own grave earlier that day and now he was about to bury himself. Jonathan invited Anthony to declare in public that there was no card game, no betting, no IOUs, and that he hadn't killed Dan. Anthony didn't respond.

With the room watching Jonathan said he'd crack Anthony's defense. First; the proposition that there was no card game. Jonathan dealt two hands of three-card brag blind, one to himself and the other to Anthony, telling the latter that if he won, his version was the truth. Anthony didn't move. Jonathan asked him if he'd forgotten how to play, and turned the cards. He won. He dealt another two hands, saying to Anthony, if you win this one there was no bet. Again Anthony didn't move, apart from his mouth when he said that he was sorry for Priest—his mind had been broken on the wheel of war. Jonathan ignored Anthony and won the hand, saying the cards never lie. Anthony said, loud enough for the room to hear, that he was prepared to help Jonathan by getting him the best medical help, reminding him that they were comrades once, however briefly. It was beginning to look like Jonathan was unable to shake Anthony.

Philomena stepped up to the table and greeted Anthony and presented him with a covered platter. When she had everyone's attention, like a conjuror she whisked off the lid to reveal the two IOUs; Dan's to Anthony and Anthony's to Dan. Anthony turned ghostly pale and there were gasps from
all around and Jonathan said yes, very quietly, and Philomena felt exalted. Avenged! But while Jonathan looked into her eyes Anthony Dore snatched up a steak knife from the table and plunged it into Jonathan's body, not once but several times, punching it in, then embraced Jonathan, pulling his heart onto the serrated steel.

Jonathan was acutely aware that Philomena was sleeping in the spare bedroom, next door, just the other side of one thin wall. After he eventually dropped off he imagined that in the night she was hunched on the edge of his bed, rocking, sobbing: “Don't die, please don't die, please don't die.”

Waking from her nightmare she'd stumbled into Jonathan's room and indeed begged him not to die. Having delivered this entreaty she'd returned to her own bed and fallen into an exhausted sleep. When she opened her eyes it was barely dawn. Jonathan was hissing her short name through her door.

“Phil! Phil!”

“Hang on!” she called. She got up off the bed and threw on the outer layers of her clothing and opened the door. Jonathan was white-faced.

“He's here, you must go!”

He turned. She watched him walk the landing, enter the kitchen.

Who was there? Who would Jonathan refer to only as “he”? Anthony! Anthony was here? In the kitchen with Jonathan?! Jonathan was warning her, telling her to get out, save herself?
She craned to hear what was happening down there, fearing the sounds of an argument, or even violence. Had Anthony brought his lawyers or was he alone? Philomena slid along the wall of the corridor, stopping just short of the kitchen. The door was open. She edged closer, ready to peer around the jamb. Jonathan's wild face appeared, expecting to see her much further away. They both jumped.

“I said go!” he hissed.

“I'm not leaving you on your own with him—is he alone?”

“Yes.”

“What does he want?”

“To talk to me.”

“I dreamed he killed you!”

A figure emerged behind Jonathan, much larger than she was expecting. It wasn't Anthony Dore; it was his father. For a moment he looked startled but recovered quickly. “Oh,” he said, glowering. “The other one. Good.” Judge Dore stepped back into the kitchen.

“I thought it was Anthony,” mouthed Philomena.

“No,” mouthed Jonathan.

“Shall we talk?” called the judge.

Jonathan nodded fatalistically to Philomena. They entered the kitchen, a condemned pair. Philomena instinctively folded her arms protectively across her heart. Judge Dore was standing one side of the table, they the other.

“I wanted us to have a chance to sort this out, man to man—and man to woman,” nodding to include her. “There have been some serious allegations, wild allegations some might
say, made. One of you has accused my son of murder, the other of possessing a letter of hers.”

The judge looked at her and something detonated in Philomena's brain. While the judge paused, as if giving them room to accept his invitation to withdraw their accusations, she searched for it.

“Needless to say my son denies both charges. Neither of you have any proof. Not a shred. Have you? My son, on his part, has accused you, Mr. Priest, of being mentally unstable. Now I would rather not believe that, but your behavior yesterday could be taken as an indication that you are that way, given that there is no evidence to back your allegation. So.”

Judge Dore paused. Philomena looked to Jonathan. She could see he was waiting, as she was, for the judge to reveal his precise purpose, or for it to become detectable. She became conscious of her rapid heartbeat. The image of Dore's huge house, a home for giants, returned to her, and the weight of the Old Bailey, where the judge was an insider and they were definitely not. She made herself look at the judge and try to see beyond his title, office, to see him as a man, a father, but his power inundated the room, threatening to suffocate her. But what had been that look in his eye when he'd mentioned her letter?

“Learning of the conflict between you and my son,” Judge Dore directed to Jonathan, “has led me to understand, to reinterpret your abrupt departure from chambers and your subsequent behavior toward me when I've offered you the hand of friendship.”

Jonathan nodded, affirming that the judge's interpretation of his behavior was the correct one. The judge made a show of sitting down, inviting them to parley. Jonathan joined him. Philomena remained on her feet. The judge almost issued an order for her to sit, but decided it probably wasn't worth the effort. A tussle over that would distract.

“I'm prepared to negotiate a truce between you all,” he continued, “with no admissions or further action on any side, without prejudice, and I am offering to take steps to ensure that no consequences flow from your actions in my court last afternoon. I know that your head of chambers has summoned you, but with your agreement that this affair is over—that you will never again make any threat or accusation or insinuation against my son, I will intervene on your behalf. And my actions here must not be construed as anything other than those of a man who desires an end to conflict, conflict between my son and a young man I hold in some esteem. And you, miss, you are also impressive, for your doggedness and determination, misguided though you be.”

Jonathan pursed his lips. Philomena looked away, reviewing Judge Dore's presentation. Disbelieving that he could be entirely genuine, she made herself look at him again—an act of will, requiring courage consciously summoned. She felt a sudden surge of confidence when, on meeting the judge's gaze she saw his eyes flicker, and his hands, flat and calm on Jonathan's kitchen table, twitched.

“We stop making accusations against your son and you
won't ruin us,” said Jonathan. “Are you scared of him suing me, sir, because in that event I could cross examine him?”

“It would be far better for you if this was settled privately,” replied Judge Dore.

“I could cross examine him and the public would be able to decide for themselves what the truth of the allegations is,” said Jonathan, trying to sound game.

“You'd be financially ruined and forfeit your career and still not have proved your case. It might even be that you would find yourself facing a criminal action—slander, libel; jail.”

“Or perhaps it would mean justice,” said Jonathan unconvincingly, his head dropping under the judge's searching gaze.

“Can you be sure that you haven't misplaced your letter?” Judge Dore suddenly asked Philomena, who saw that his fingers twitched again.

She shrugged, unable to claim that she was completely sure. Jonathan looked to her, hopelessness in his eyes. There was silence for a few moments then she had a moment of inspiration regarding what that earlier look of the judge's told her. She breathed in sharply and both men glanced at her. She caught Jonathan's eye and indicated with her head and walked out of the kitchen expecting him to follow. She heard Judge Dore exclaim: “What?” and Jonathan apologize: “Excuse me.” He was hot on her heels to the end of the hall, where in hushed tones he demanded: “What are you doing? He's offered to let us off and you walk out like that?”

Philomena searched his face. “You want to give up?”

“Give up my folly, yes.”

“But he's scared,” she said.

“He's scared you say, but what can he be scared of beyond a scandal that we shall be ruined by? We should take whatever is on offer,” argued Jonathan.

“Perhaps we're more powerful than we know,” she said. “Perhaps our position is stronger than we know.”

“If that's true,” he said, “I wish you'd tell me how.”

“I think he thinks we're right,” she said.

Jonathan shook his head in disbelief. “You mean he thinks my allegation is true? You're saying you believe it's possible that he thinks his son's the kind of murderer I've described? You think a father would believe that about a son?”

“We are more powerful than we know,” she repeated. “We must be, or why make any offer at all?”

In the kitchen down the hall Judge Dore cleared his throat and she watched Jonathan glance over his shoulder as if the noise was a prompt, or command. She knew it was an immense effort for Jonathan to negotiate on equal terms with the judge. She, on the other hand, felt quite reckless, liberated by the heady events of the last few days.

“What was it,” demanded Jonathan, “that made you leave the damned kitchen like that?”

“I can't tell you.”

“What?”

Jonathan pulled back his head and looked into her eyes. She nodded rapidly.

“When we go back in, I'm going to try something,” she said.

“Try what?”

“An idea.”

“What idea?”

“I can't tell you,” she said.

“Because?” demanded Jonathan. And then from the way she looked at him he knew why. She considered him a liability.

Philomena saw the thought hurt him and moved her head closer: “Only I can word it,” she comforted. “You weren't there when I was asking for my letter. It's about that. I know I've much less to lose than you, but at this moment going back in that kitchen and defeating Judge Dore is something within our grasp if only we take the risk. You've fought so hard, do you really want to give up now? We're on the cusp, Jonathan. I'm not sure what of, but we're desperately close to something.”

“Might it mean he'll withdraw his offer?”

“That's not important.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to argue but her passion, the way she looked at him, convinced him that he should defer to her; just. If she'd been arguing the opposite he could have followed her that way, too. He smiled but it was terribly forced.

“Go ahead. I'm bereft of ideas. Yes, yes. You, you, you can do it,” he stuttered. “Let's not give up. Try it, whatever it is.”

There was only so much more he could endure. He bent close. She could feel the heat of his head, his breath. He whispered in her ear: “Thank you.”

She pulled her head back just far enough so she could look into the depths of his eyes: “Thank you for what?”

“For having an idea.”

Tears filled his eyes.

“Come on,” she said, and led him back to the kitchen. Judge Dore was still seated at the table where they'd left him. Philomena took a seat opposite him while Jonathan remained on his feet, leaned on a chair, fidgeted. The judge looked to Jonathan, then to Philomena because she seemed to be in charge.

“We're inclined to accept,” she said, making herself sound confident.

“I hear a but …” said Judge Dore.

“We're inclined to accept your offer, mostly on his behalf,” she nodded toward Jonathan, “because I haven't anything much at stake, nothing material—you couldn't ruin me. You can imprison me, but not ruin me. But there's one thing I'd still really, really like, if it's at all possible, and that's the return of my letter, my letter from Dan.”

Judge Dore remained looking at her and didn't say anything. This was crucial—the fact that he said nothing was evidence.

“I know you have to play your cards close to your chest,” she continued, “but that's what I'd like: the return of my letter from Dan.”

She started a silence and let it run. It was up to Anthony Dore's father to end it with the right words.

She turned her head so that she was watching Judge Dore out of the corner of one eye while also letting Jonathan know
she'd set the trap. The silence grew. The focus tightened on Judge Dore. Philomena had hoped he'd miss something, and it appeared that he had. Now she was scrutinizing him for any signs that revealed he'd caught on. His fingers twitched. That was good. He scratched his top lip, also good. He was looking from one of them to the other to see why they were not speaking. He was waiting for one of them to speak but it was he who should have been speaking. Then his whole body tightened, his hands pressed flat on the table and his eyes widened a fraction—he'd spotted the trap? He'd recognized that he'd walked into Philomena's trap. And it was too late to back out!