William Brodrick - The Gardens of the Dead

‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Nick. ‘But I found the papers among my mother’s personal things. She kept them for nearly ten years. I wondered if you might be able to tell me why’

Mr Wyecliffe’s eyes enlarged like ink on blotting paper. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He picked up a glass ball containing a log cabin, two fir trees and three reindeer yoked to a sleigh. He shook it and a blizzard swirled against a cobalt sky It was the only movement in the room. ‘Was there anything with the brief?’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry. Silly question. That’s why I keep out of court.’ He watched the flakes of snow sinking. ‘Maybe I should begin before the trial… You don’t mind if I put the odd question do you?’ His eyebrows seemed to nod.

‘Not at all.’

‘That’s fine.’ As if startled by a recollection, he went to a side room. A cupboard door clipped open and then shut. He came back with some envelopes and threw them into a large plastic bin the size of a laundry basket. ‘My out-tray,’ he explained. ‘Where was I? Ah, yes… It’s probably best to start after your mother took silk. You’ll appreciate, I wasn’t in the criminal field that often, so what I know was picked up from here and there.’ Nick saw him at the funeral reception, eyeing the plates, picking at this and that. ‘She’d built a reputation as a prosecutor and was always booked up. But defendants wanted her as well: word gets round. Villains talk while they’re on remand. They play bridge and discuss the relative merits of counsel. So, you see, it wasn’t surprising to have a client who came in asking for your mother. But with Mr Riley it was slightly different.’

‘Why?’

‘He’d never been in trouble with the police.’

Evening had come and the room was weakly lit by a single central light. A dinted shade hung askew, like a hat on a stand-up comic.

‘You mean that Mr Riley asked for my mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he say why he wanted her?’

‘Not right off the bat.’

‘Did you ask?’

‘Yes.’

Annoyance raised Nick’s voice. ‘Well, what did he say?’

‘That he’d heard she was good; so good that she could win without even opening her mouth.’

‘Who’d said that?’

‘He didn’t say’

‘Did you ask how he’d heard of her?’

‘No.’ Mr Wyecliffe raised his hands, like he was offering a platter. ‘Mr Riley had considered a newspaper article about women at the Bar. He picked your mother because he’d read she could see right inside the guilty. Such an aptitude, he said, would be invaluable for the exposure of his detractors.’

‘What’s that got to do with her not having to open her mouth?’

‘An astute question, if I may say so,’ complimented Mr Wyecliffe, ‘for that telling phrase wasn’t in the article.’

Coldly and with apprehension, Nick considered his interrogator. This mound of hair and cloth had been angling for an understanding of the trial ever since he’d cleaned up the plates at St John’s Wood.

Mr Wyecliffe reached for his glass ball and gave it another shake, stirring up the snow The flakes swirled and began to fall slowly Nick said, ‘Please can we open the window?’

‘Sorry. It’s been painted shut.’

The air was still and warm and quietly beating.

‘Where was I?’ asked Mr Wyecliffe pleasantly ‘Oh yes. I arranged a conference and sent the papers off Your mother rang up the next day to say the case didn’t need a silk and suggested I use Mr Duffy instead. But the client wouldn’t agree. So I booked them both – at your mother’s insistence. Speaking of the monk – well, he wasn’t a monk then – do you know him?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Any idea why she might have selected him?’

‘No. Why?’

‘If I might speak confidentially… He was good if you wanted a trumpet on a sinking ship, but to stay afloat.., there were others. As it happens, I was wrong. He blew the other side out of the water with one question.’

‘Something about calling himself George rather than David.’

‘Yes.’ Mr Wyecliffe twisted the air freshener on its axis. ‘How did you know that?’

‘Mr Duffy told me.’

The solicitor hitched a shoulder and coughed. ‘I trust my nautical metaphor can remain between ourselves.’

‘It can.’

‘Most grateful.’ Mr Wyecliffe scratched his beard. ‘All very peculiar really because the name business came from me – well, I brought it to the attention of instructed counsel – but your mother didn’t like it all.., discouraged it, in fact. I’ve often wondered why because it turned out to be our best point. Are you leaving already?’

Nick said, ‘Perhaps I might buy you a drink?’

A most agreeable proposal.’

Mr Wyecliffe opened a drawer on his desk and pulled out a blue notebook. ‘Funny, really… if you think about it’ – he rattled the drawer shut, toppling the air freshener – ‘given Mr Duffy’s last question, we did win without your mother having to open her mouth. Even Mr Riley was stunned.’

Nick made for the corridor. Dimly, through a grey pane, he could see the lights of Cheapside.

Before coming to London Anselm had suffered a bruising – and inevitable – encounter with the cellarer.

‘Are you familiar with the Inland Revenue and its peculiar habits?’

‘Yes,’ said Anselm humbly He had presented himself after lauds to obtain the required funds for the trip.

‘I thought so.’ Cyril was in his office beneath an arcade – an ordered place without ornament, save for colour-coded box files: blue for apples (on the right), and green for plums (on the left). Each carried a date. His one arm was on the table like a cosh. He was large and square. His nose was red and his eyes were yellow He had a cold. ‘They require accurate records supported by all relevant documentation.’

‘They do.’

‘Can you give me an example?’

A receipt.’

Cyril sneezed, slamming his nose with a huge polka dot handkerchief After rattling a box out of sight, he counted out a precise sum to cover anticipated rail and Underground tickets.

‘God bless you, Cyril.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

When Anselm came to London he usually stayed with the Augustinians in Hoxton. Sometimes, however, as on this occasion, he booked a guest room at Gray’s Inn, his former legal home. The practice kept fresh his associations with the Bar; and it afforded an opportunity to see Roddy his old head of chambers. Having studied the Riley papers on the train, Anselm trudged up the narrow wooden stairs to his former place of work. It was evening.

Roddy had just purchased what he called a long blue smoking jacket. He sat with his legs extended, looking like a waterbed in a sari. After some chat about hypnotism as a means of trouncing addictions, Anselm said, ‘Do you remember the Riley trial?’

‘It was the only case you ever did with Elizabeth.’

‘Yes, how did you know?’

‘She remarked upon it recently’ He reached for a large carved pipe. Austrian,’ he said proudly ‘Made of bone.’

Anselm hesitated, letting his mind whirr and clank. When it stopped he perceived that Roddy already knew of the trial and its significance for Elizabeth. With this in mind, Anselm explained about the key, the red valise and the letter to be read after he’d met Mrs Bradshaw Throughout Roddy packed tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, prodding it occasionally with his thumb or a knife. Gradually creases gathered across his forehead, revealing agitation and surprise, as if he’d missed something he ought to have foreseen. Anselm’s conclusion snapped into place: Elizabeth’s confidence had not been given to Roddy beyond the trial. It was staggering – for Anselm and for Roddy: she’d held something back from the man who’d nursed her career like a father.