Take No Farewell - Retail (53 page)

‘Where are you going?’

‘Didn’t I say? Cap Ferrat. Turnbull’s villa. He’s been spying out possible sites for Thornton Hotels and Pater wants me to give them the once-over. There are some exciting possibilities down there, you know.’

How neat, how timely, how very convenient. My agreement to supply the evidence for a divorce meant Angela could pursue her dalliance with Turnbull without fear that I might use it against her. I smiled at the irony of it all, unable to summon even an atom of resentment.

‘Something amusing you, old man?’

‘Your family, Clive, that’s all.’

He frowned. ‘Not sure I take your meaning.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ I drained my wine-glass. ‘None of it matters any more.’

The two weeks between the end of the trial and the hearing of the appeal had seemed, at their outset, unbearably long. As they drew to a close, however, their brevity was suddenly borne in upon me. It had been sufficient, for a while, to look ahead to 7 February with blind optimism. Now, as the date approached, the scales began to fall from my eyes. Why should three old men grown sere and crabbed in the service of the law take mercy on one among the countless many who came before them? And, if they did not, what hope would there be left then to cling to?

Consuela had elected not to attend the appeal. She would, after all, have no occasion to address the court, for no witnesses were to be heard. Sir Henry would merely present her case as cogently as he could, basing his argument on the lack of direct evidence against her. His contention was to be that the judge had misled the jury into believing that they were required to decide who had murdered Rosemary
Caswell
rather than whether Consuela had been proved to have done so and that the doubts raised about the authenticity of the anonymous letters were sufficient to justify his client’s acquittal. Precedents were to be explored, nuances of the judge’s summing-up examined. The law in its purest sense was to be tested.

Windrush’s information was that the Caswell family would absent themselves
en masse
. I was also reluctant to attend, for reasons I did not care to examine closely. What they amounted to, I suppose, was a desire to stave off until the last possible moment my confrontation with Consuela’s destiny. For as long as I was not party to events at the Royal Courts of Justice, I could pretend that they were moving in her favour.

The day dawned bright and absurdly mild. London was in the fawning grip of a false spring, snowdrops bursting out amidst the greenery of Hyde Park. I remember thinking, as I made my way across its north-east corner that morning: can Consuela see any flowers from her cell at Holloway; can she scent spring – or any form of hope – in the air?

At Frederick’s Place Kevin had learned from the
Sketch
that the appeal would be heard that day, but I cut his curiosity short with heavy-handed indifference. Reg and Giles knew better than to mention the subject. Reg did not understand what it meant to me, but had gleaned enough to suspect that it meant something. As for Giles, he was still chastened by the narrowness with which he had escaped dismissal in December. What he had concluded from reports of Rodrigo’s death he was too cautious to let slip.

I had a late morning appointment with a client in Beckenham for which, in many ways, I was grateful, though my distracted state of mind ensured that he subsequently looked elsewhere for an architect. I reached Victoria station again in mid-afternoon and began walking back towards the office, knowing that my route would take me past the Appeal Courts in the Strand, knowing and wondering whether, when it came to the point, I would halt and enter
or
simply keep on walking. I could have hailed a taxi and named my destination there and then, but the need to know and the fear of knowing were perfectly balanced as I passed Buckingham Palace and strode along the Mall. In Trafalgar Square, the fountains were playing, the pigeons being fed: all was intact and normal beneath a perversely benign blue sky.

Then the Strand, straight and pitiless, led me, almost before I was aware of it, to the Portland stone turrets of the Royal Courts of Justice: deathly white in the slanting sun, harsh, precise, vast and intricate. This building was the death of its architect, I recalled – poor old Street, whose work till then I had scorned. He had worn himself into an early grave planning the halls and corridors and staircases concealed behind its grand façade. And now, for the first time, I understood the metaphor he had created. The law, housed there in all its convoluted majesty, was too much for one man to master.

I entered. The Great Hall, which I had seen before only in photographs, was high and echoing, vaulted like the nave of a cathedral. As I traversed it, snatches of speech and glimpses of robed figures reached me through the arched stairs-feet on either side. Practitioners of the law were everywhere about me, around and above, murmurous and out of reach, like mice, it suddenly struck me, scratching and scurrying within the walls of a house.

I moved to the boards set up in the centre of the hall, where the day’s cases were listed court by court, and scanned the sheets in search of Consuela’s name. Never before had I imagined that one day could feature so much litigation, so much argument, so much opposition. And somewhere, lost amidst the welter of suit and counter-suit,
Rex versus Caswell
was approaching its conclusion. I came to the end of the row without having found it and turned to check the other side. As I did so, I glanced towards the stairs at the far end of the hall. And there, in a group of descending figures, I recognized Windrush and Sir Henry.

There were five of them in all, robed and wigged but for Windrush. They were walking fast, conferring as they went. Their faces were grave and intent. If I had not stepped into their path, I do not think they would even have seen me.

‘Sir Henry!’

He pulled up, as did the others. For a second, there was silence. That and their troubled expressions should have told me what to expect.

‘Is the case over?’

Sir Henry nodded. ‘It is, Staddon, yes.’

‘Adjourned, you mean?’

‘No. Their Lordships delivered their verdict just a few minutes ago.’

‘And?’ He was avoiding my gaze now, staring down at his feet, running one hand around his double-chin. Windrush too was looking elsewhere. What I had dreaded but foreseen was there, palpable in their collective embarrassment. ‘The appeal was dismissed, wasn’t it?’

Sir Henry sighed. ‘Out of hand, I fear.’

‘Then … what …’

He roused himself. ‘Windrush and I must proceed at once to Holloway, Staddon. I trust you appreciate the need to inform Mrs Caswell without delay.’ He glanced at one of his companions. ‘Mr Browne, be so good as to furnish Mr Staddon with details of the judgement. We
must
be on our way.’

And so it came about that the Appeal Court’s pronouncement on Consuela’s fate was explained to me by a young man named Browne in a quiet corner of the George public house, on the other side of the Strand, just after it had opened for business that evening. He drank lemonade shandy, I remember, and I drank whisky. He was nervous, though I could not understand why. Perhaps he felt as a junior doctor might when breaking the news of a fatal disease to a relative of his patient. What he had to say was both logical and inevitable, but was tinged with mortality, and he had never had to say it
before.
He will become accustomed to such painful duties as his career proceeds. But his audience never will.

‘I am sorry to say, Mr Staddon, that their Lordships refused to entertain any of Sir Henry’s arguments. They did not merely endorse the judge’s handling of the trial, they applauded it. If anything, their remarks were more severe than Mr Justice Stillingfleet’s.’

‘What about the doubts concerning the authenticity of the letters?’

‘They did not appear to think there were any doubts. They even went so far as to accuse Sir Henry of sophistry. It made him very angry, although of course he did not let them see that it had.’

‘There were no redeeming features?’

‘None. Between you and me—’ He leaned towards me and lowered his voice. ‘Sometimes, the bench likes to take down prominent barristers a peg or two. Those they consider are winning too glowing a reputation. I fear today may have been Sir Henry’s turn. The Lord Chief Justice was in … censorious mood.’

‘Sir Henry’s
turn
? The Lord Chief Justice’s
mood
? Are you saying Con—Are you saying Mrs Caswell’s life depends on such things?’

Browne coloured and took a draught of his shandy. My outrage had disconcerted him. He was, after all, only doing his best to make me understand what had happened. The vagaries of the judicial system were not his responsibility.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said in a more measured tone. ‘Forget what I just asked. Simply tell me this. What’s to be done now?’

Browne looked relieved to be back on uncontroversial ground. ‘Well, to some extent that is up to Mrs Caswell. She may ask Sir Henry to apply to the Attorney-General for leave to appeal to the House of Lords. I am bound to say, however, that such leave is highly unlikely to be granted.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it can only be granted on the grounds that an issue of exceptional public importance is involved.’

‘Isn’t a miscarriage of justice exceptionally important?’

Browne grimaced. ‘I am certain the Attorney-General will not feel there has been one.’

‘Then … what else?’

‘Sir Henry will undoubtedly advise Mrs Caswell to petition the Home Secretary for mercy. That is her only recourse.’

‘By
recourse
you mean
hope
?’

‘Well, yes. Unless the Home Secretary commutes the death sentence passed on Mrs Caswell, it will have to be carried out. Now her appeal has failed, only a political decision can save her.’

‘A
political
decision?’

‘I mean a decision taken by politicians but based on legal advice. The new administration may be less committed to capital punishment than the old. On the other hand, they may be anxious to show that they are not “soft” on crime. Labour are, I must confess, an unknown quantity where law and order are concerned.’ He smiled uneasily. ‘This is something of a test case for them.’

Judges settling scores and politicians making points. Where, I wondered, in this jungle of mean sentiments and doubtful motives, was the delicate flower of mercy likely to bloom? ‘If the Home Secretary chooses not to intervene,’ I said slowly, ‘when … that is, how soon …’

‘There is a fixed formula in such matters. At least three Sundays must elapse between conviction and execution.’

‘Three? Is that all?’

‘The shorter the wait, the easier it is for all parties. At least, so goes the theory. Of course, the lodging of an appeal caused some delay. It is more likely to be four Sundays now than three, perhaps as many as five.’

‘Five? You call five
many
?’

Once more, he seemed surprised by how ghastly his answers could sound to those who received them. ‘I am sorry, Mr Staddon, really I am. I am merely placing the facts before you, as Sir Henry directed me to. If the sentence is carried out, it will probably be before the end of this month.’

‘And will it be carried out?’

‘I do not know. None of us knows at this stage.’

‘But what do you think?’

He deliberated for a moment, raised his glass as if to drink, then put it down again and said: ‘I think you should prepare yourself for the worst.’

The worst. How could I prepare myself to face what I never thought I would have to? Consuela’s death, not by accident or disease, not by a random mischance of nature, but at the hands of the law, was now decreed, fixed, chartered and determined. It was a settled event towards which we were all inexorably moving. Struggle or protest as I pleased, flee or turn away, I was bound to meet it, out there in the future, just a little way off, a dot on a distant horizon that had grown black and vast and become my destination.

After I left the George that evening, I crossed to the church of St Clement Danes on its island in the Strand. Inside, it was as silent and peaceful as a sanctified tomb. I knelt before the altar and, for the first time since Edward’s death, prayed to God for intercession.

A telephone call next morning from Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett’s clerk told me that he and Windrush would be pleased to meet me at his chambers at six o’clock that evening. I pressed the clerk for news, but he claimed to have none. From that I took what comfort I could. The newspapers had reported the outcome of the appeal as a foregone conclusion. They seemed neither triumphant nor regretful, merely content to let the law take its course.

Plowden Buildings was largely deserted when I arrived. Sir Henry received me with sombre politeness, his flustered brusqueness of the day before replaced by a weary despondency. Windrush sat in a shadowy corner and seemed reluctant to leave it. He barely nodded as I entered. Before a word was spoken, it was clear to me that none they meant to speak would give me any comfort.

‘Young Browne apprised you of the situation, I trust,’ began Sir Henry.

‘Yes. He spoke of a possible appeal to the House of Lords.’

Sir Henry shook his head. ‘Alas, the Attorney-General has refused to hear of it.’

‘Then clemency is the only hope?’

‘Indeed. The Home Secretary is a humane and religious man – a devout Wesleyan, I believe. He may not wish to commence his term of office with the execution of a woman.’

‘But there are difficulties,’ put in Windrush.

‘What are they?’

Sir Henry sighed. ‘Firstly, Mrs Caswell’s insistence that she is innocent. We believe her, of course, but we are in the minority. Those who disbelieve her would be better disposed to show her mercy if, in return, she exhibited some degree of remorse.’

‘How can she be expected to show remorse for something she hasn’t done?’

‘That is one of the difficulties,’ said Windrush. ‘Though not the gravest.’

‘Mr Henderson has only been Home Secretary for a couple of weeks,’ explained Sir Henry. ‘He’s not likely to feel sufficiently sure of himself yet to overrule his civil servants. Moreover, as you may have read in the papers, he’s badly in need of a constituency. A Cabinet minister who has no seat in the House of Commons is something of a lame duck.’