Prudence

Chapter Three

Whatever game Pendle was playing, he left me to stew after the dinner party. He didn’t ring me for a fortnight. I kidded myself he must be working hard, probably out of London. I tried to forget him, but instead spent a lot of time sobbing in the bath and composing long quotation-loaded letters of renunciation in my head. An added irritation was that Jane was having a riproaring time, going out every night mostly with Rodney.

On the Monday evening, a fortnight later, she was getting ready for yet another date, trying to repair the ravages of a weekend of dissipation in front of the drawing-room mirror, while I sat slumped on the sofa, eating my way through a box of chocolates.

‘You’ll get spots,’ said Jane, squirting blue liquid into bloodshot eyes.

‘Do you know what I’m sitting on?’ I stormed.

‘W-what?’

‘The shelf. I am hurtling towards spinsterhood and middle age without even a whisker of a supertax husband on the horizon. D’you know how long it is since I’ve been out with a man?’

‘What about Mark?’

‘He’s not a man, he’s a stockbroker.’

I got up and wandered into the kitchen next door.

‘I doubt if anyone will ever ask me out again. I must face up to a future looking after cats in an attic. I’ve definitely decided to give Pendle up.’

‘Good,’ said Jane.

‘At least I would, if he’d have the decency to ring me up, so I could tell him so. I’ve got nothing to do. And no one to do nothing with. I think I shall buy a dog.’

I opened the fridge, and found a jar of pickled onions. I ate five.

‘If he asked you out, I bet you’d go,’ said Jane, trying to paint out the purple circles under her eyes.

‘I would not. Not if they stripped me naked and wild horses dragged me four times round the world, through the forests and across the burning deserts.’

I ate another pickled onion noisily. The telephone rang. I must have qualified for the Olympics, hurtling across the room. It was Pendle. He apologized — but not quite enough — for not ringing before, he’d been impossibly busy. Had I eaten? Would I like some dinner?

An hour later, my curls still wet from a hasty washing, I sat in Julie’s bar, lapping up a large glass of wine, and talking out of the corner of my mouth like a gangster, so as not to asphyxiate Pendle with the smell of onion. He looked even rougher than Jane, his face greyish-green with tiredness, his eyes heavy-lidded and red-rimmed. I hoped it was from poring over legal documents not loose-living. When I first saw him I wondered why I’d been eating my heart out for him. Then, as the wine curled down inside me, the old magic started working again.

‘Have you had any exciting cases?’ I asked.

‘Just routine stuff, but I’ve got a big case coming up tomorrow.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Defending a rapist.’

After the way he’d tried to pull me the night we’d met I was tempted to point out that he must have plenty of experience in that field. But it seemed a shame to rot up the evening so early on.

‘Will you get him off?’

‘The odds are against it. My client’s a man called Bobby Canfield. He’s sales manager of a small export-import firm in the City. He’s charged with raping,’ he lowered his voice slightly, ‘Fiona Graham.’

I whistled. ‘Rick Wetherby’s girlfriend? But she’s ravishing.’

‘Ravished you mean,’ said Pendle.

Rick Wetherby was a very successful racing driver, absolutely dripping with charisma and money. His affair with Fiona Graham had been well publicized in the papers.

‘Weren’t they about to get married?’ I said.

Pendle nodded. ‘Bobby Canfield was her boss. She claims he asked her to work late — the day before she was due to give up work actually. Rick Wetherby turned up unexpectedly to collect her from work, and found the door locked. She claims Canfield had raped her.’

‘How exciting! Had he?’

‘Well, they definitely had it off. I’ve got to prove it wasn’t rape. The Wetherby clan are naturally out to hammer Canfield, and they’ve got the money to do it. They’ve hired Jimmy Batten to prosecute. He’s one of the best QCs in the country. Canfield should have got a QC to represent him too. I’m not really a big enough shot, but I handled his sister’s divorce a year back and I suppose he was impressed by that. He says Fiona Graham was absolutely asking for it. But it’s going to be a bugger to prove.’

‘Girls don’t usually “ask for it” when they’re about to marry something as luscious as Ricky Wetherby,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ said Pendle, ‘And Canfield’s got a shocking reputation with women.’

He held up his hardly touched glass of wine in the shaft of light from the table lamp, rocking it in the thick glass so it looked almost black. His eyes were just dark hollows now in a white drawn face.

‘It’s your big break,’ I said, wonderingly. ‘Aren’t you terrified?’

He grinned and filled up my glass. ‘Absolutely shit-scared.’

‘It’ll be packed out,’ I said wistfully. ‘I wish I could come and hear you.’

‘You can if you like,’ Pendle said. ‘If you can get the day off I’ll save you a place in court.’

If the onions hadn’t been making a comeback, I’d have kissed him then and there.

There was a heavy frost that night. Next morning, smothered in Jane’s red fox fur coat, I walked to the tube. Each twig and blade of grass glittered with whiteness. The last yellow leaves covered the parked cars and crunched like frosted cornflakes beneath my feet. Outside the court the crowds shivered and stamped their feet. They were mostly motor racing fans, anxious to catch a glimpse of Ricky Wetherby and his beautiful fiancée. For the sake of procedure her name was supposed to be kept a secret, but everyone knew who she was.

Once inside I was utterly turned on by the theatrical atmosphere of the packed courtroom, the rows of journalists lounging and exchanging gossips, the solemn beefy policemen and the array of wigs and robes. The Judge, in scarlet, was a little mole-like man with bright eyes and a twitching inquisitive nose. He looked capable of ferreting out the truth, and not likely to stand any nonsense.

Opposite, sitting in the vast dock, was Bobby Canfield, raffish, handsome, his face slightly weak about the mouth and chin, his hair thinning and too long at the back. And there was Pendle, even paler than ever, but outwardly calm and looking sensational in a grey wig and gown.

James Batten, QC, a sleek, dark, dapper otter of a man in his early forties, opened for the Prosecution, and for half an hour in magnificently sculptured prose had the privilege of so blackening Canfield’s character that before a word of evidence was heard there seemed no longer any doubt about his guilt.

‘In the dock, ladies and gentlemen of the Jury,’ he said in tones of fastidious horror, ‘is a man charged with a revolting offence, a typing pool Don Juan who took advantage of this inn-o-cent girl, so in love with her handsome fiancé that there was no other thought in her head but her marriage in a few weeks’ time.’

Canfield’s face was expressionless, but there was a muscle going like a sledgehammer in his cheek, and he was twisting his signet ring round and round his little finger. You could see Batten had impressed the Jury. Oh poor Pendle, I thought in anguish, what chance has he got?

‘I shall now call my first witness, Miss Graham,’ said Batten, smoothing his sleek hair with an air of anticipation. The Press and public gallery licked their lips. Fiona Graham did not disappoint them. She came into court wearing a grey wool dress with a white collar, a Hermes scarf attached to her Gucci bag, her shoulder-length blonde hair brushed back from a smooth forehead. With her blue eyes downcast, and a slight flush on her beautiful pink and white complexion, she indeed looked the picture of inn-o-cence. I thought the white puritan collar was overdoing it a bit, but there was no doubt the Jury were impressed. As she took the oath in a whisper, you could feel the waves of approval and sympathy. Even the Judge looked more benevolent.

Batten rose with a reassuring smile.

‘Do you recognize the man in the dock, Miss Graham.’

She bit her lip, looked at Canfield, gave a shudder and said she did. Then in a clear, but occasionally quavering voice, aided by much sympathetic prompting from Batten, she told the court how Canfield had asked her to stay late, as he was going to be out of the office next day, how he waited till the building was deserted, then tried to kiss her. Running to the door she had found it locked, whereupon Canfield had ripped her dress open, forced her back on the desk and proceeded to rape her. Afterwards when she was still sobbing hysterically, there was a hammering on the door. After telling her to straighten her clothes, Canfield had opened the door and found her fiancé and Miss Cartland, the head of the typing pool, outside.

‘My fiancé then insisted I went to the police,’ she whispered. ‘I didn’t want to.’

With a sob in her voice she went on to say how excited she had been about the wedding. She was so beautiful and so touching, you could see the pity on everyone’s face; two of the women jurors were surreptitiously wiping their eyes.

In this emotionally charged atmosphere, Pendle rose to cross-examine.

‘Hasn’t a dog’s chance,’ muttered a fat woman on my right, offering me a glacier mint.

Pendle, too, reassured Fiona Graham with a slight smile. His voice was quiet and gentle in direct contrast to Batten’s histrionics.

‘When this unfortunate event occurred, you were getting married in six weeks’ time?’

She nodded.

‘I think we could all agree your fiancé is a rich man?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘In fact, marriage to him would represent a considerable change in your circumstances?’

It was almost indecent the caress Pendle could get into his voice. Listening to the soft unhurried syllables, Fiona began to relax, her pretty white hands with their colourless nails unclenched on the Gucci handbag.

‘I gather you’ve been working for Mr Canfield for three months, that you came as a temporary and stayed on? Was that because you liked Mr Canfield?’

‘No. Not especially, but he wasn’t in the office much, and I liked the other people who worked there.’

‘As you were marrying such a rich man, with so much to do before the wedding, was it strictly necessary to go on working?’

Fiona Graham’s eyes widened.

‘I wanted to be independent. My fiancé’s given me so much. I’m not married to him yet. My mother’s a widow and she hasn’t got much to pay for the wedding. I wanted to help out as much as I could.’

The Jury nodded sympathetically. Pendle examined his finger nails.

‘If you needed money,’ he said softly, ‘why didn’t you get a job nearer your flat, where the fares would have cost you less, and you could have earned more money? After all temporaries can get up to £80 a week, but I gather you were only getting £45 working for Mr Canfield.’

‘When one’s getting married,’ said Fiona sweetly, ‘there’s so much to think about. It’s a strain adjusting to a new job. I’m not a very good typist. I thought it would be less hassle to stay where I was.’

‘Better the devil you know,’ said Pendle. ‘Did you find Mr Canfield attractive?’

Fiona Graham shuddered.

‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘Anyway I’m not interested in other men. I love my fiancé.’

‘In fact you disliked Mr Canfield?’

‘I didn’t dislike him, I was embarrassed the way he looked at me.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well,’ she blushed, ‘as though he wanted me.’

‘Then why did you work late?’

‘I wanted to do my job properly,’ she said with a sob. ‘I never dreamed he’d abuse my trust.’

She was like Little Nell, little death knell where Pendle was concerned. The Jury were looking at him with loathing. He seemed unmoved.

‘You claim that the evening the so-called assault occurred, Mr Canfield ripped your dress open and a button came off. What happened to the button?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I w-wasn’t in a fit state to…’

There was an agonizing pause; then Pendle said in a voice of ice.

‘Earlier you told my learned friend you were crying hysterically because the defendant had taken advantage of you, and this crying was overheard by Miss Cartland who runs the typing pool, and later by your fiancé?’

‘That is correct.’

‘I suggest,’ hissed Pendle, ‘you were crying because you were caught in a trap. The wedding was only six weeks away, your financial set-up necessitated making a rich marriage, but you suddenly discovered you weren’t in love with your fiancé at all, but infatuated with Mr Canfield.’

Jimmy Batten leapt to his feet.

‘M’Lord, I must protest.’

Fiona Graham burst into tears. ‘It’s not true,’ she sobbed. ‘I love Ricky. I hate and detest Mr Canfield.’

There was so much desolation in her voice I thought Pendle was going to get lynched.

‘Cold-blooded bastard,’ said my fat neighbour. ‘I bet he treats women badly.’

‘He does,’ I said, accepting another glacier mint.

Pendle picked up a piece of paper.

‘Does the name Gerry Seaton mean anything to you?’

Suddenly Fiona was still, like a wary animal, but her tone was flat when she answered, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘It’s a simple question,’ said Pendle politely. ‘Do you or do you not know a man called Gerald Seaton?’

‘I have never heard of him.’

‘You didn’t spend a weekend with him in the Cotswolds on July 30th and 31st this year?’

‘Certainly not.’ She allowed herself a little hauteur now.

Batten was on his feet again. ‘My Lord,’ he said wearily, ‘I hardly see this is relevant.’

‘Get back to the point, Mr Mulholland,’ said the Judge.

‘No more questions,’ said Pendle and sat down.

Fiona Graham was followed by an impressive array of prosecution witnesses, including the office crone, shivering with venom, all hammering another nail into Canfield’s coffin. Pendle battled valiantly with each one, but didn’t make much headway.

Finally, to the excitement of many of the crowd who recognized him, Ricky Wetherby went into the box, and was so handsome, godlike and suntanned, and so distressed in a stiff upper-lipped way that within seconds the whole court was on his side.

‘And that concludes the case for the prosecution,’ said Batten. Ricky Wetherby stepped down. The judge looked at his watch, and we adjourned for lunch.

Pendle stopped for a few words with Canfield and his poor shattered wife, and then joined me outside.

‘You were great,’ I said. ‘I never dreamed you’d be that good.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s going to be rough this afternoon. Come on, we’ve only got an hour.’

It was still bitterly cold, but a weak sun shining through thin clouds like a sullen pearl had melted most of the frost. A few typists were feeding the pigeons as the taxi bowled through Lincoln’s Inn Field. Our destination was a hot steamy little pub with dark-panelled walls, which seemed to be full of lawyers. I was about to say how nice it was when I stiffened, for there at the bar, downing a large whisky, stood Jimmy Batten.

‘Look,’ I hissed.

‘I know,’ said Pendle.

Jimmy Batten turned round and smiled at us.

‘You made it. What can I get you?’

‘A large whisky please,’ said Pendle. ‘You can afford it too, out of the vast fee you’re no doubt getting out of the Wetherbys. You had a bloody good morning.’

‘Might go either way,’ said Jimmy Batten with unconvincing modesty.

‘I must say you do dump your clients with indecent haste,’ said Pendle. ‘You ought to be reported to the Bar Council. You can’t have spent more than ten seconds reassuring the lovely Miss Graham. I thought you might bring her in here for a drink.’

‘Oh she’s far too inn-o-cent for dives like this,’ said Jimmy, winking at me. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce me to this ravishing creature?’

I was gazing at them both open-mouthed.

‘But you’ve been sneering and glaring and hissing at each other all morning,’ I gasped.

‘I know,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s part of the act, shows we’re trying. What can I get you to drink?’

‘A large gin and tonic, and her name’s Prudence,’ said Pendle, giving me a cigarette. ‘You were in rare form, Jimmy; all those references to Tarquin and Lucrece.’

‘Have to give the Jury their pornographic kicks,’ said Batten, ‘only way of keeping them awake.’

‘I suppose you’re going to butcher my client this afternoon?’

‘I’m going to carve him up, my dear. Ice and lemon?’ he added, handing me my drink, ‘And doesn’t he deserve it?’

‘Pru thinks he’s innocent,’ said Pendle. ‘She’s with me, and don’t forget it.’

I’d never known him so friendly. Perhaps it was because Batten was so important.

‘She’s much too pretty to waste herself on a cold fish like you,’ said Jimmy, his merry dark eyes sparkling, and stroking my fur coat as though I were a cat. I found him very attractive; he had all the assurance of the older man, but none of the pomposity.

‘Since you find her so alluring,’ said Pendle, ‘would you mind feeding and caring for her while I nip back to chambers and sign some documents?’

‘Delighted,’ said Jimmy Batten with such alacrity that it took away some of my disappointment at Pendle sloping off. After all, all the women’s magazines encouraged one to get on with his friends.

‘Don’t listen to a word Jimmy says,’ said Pendle, running a finger down my cheek. ‘Lawyers are the most frightful gossips.’

And he was gone. I felt myself go crimson both at the unexpected caress, and the speculative way Jimmy was looking at us.

Jimmy and I ate shepherd’s pie and shared a bottle of wine, crammed thigh to thigh in a panelled alcove. Jimmy was blissfully easy to talk to — particularly as he was just as interested in yapping about Pendle as I was.

‘I never expected him to be that good,’ I said.

‘He’s brilliant. Mind you, he’s a bit too cool to go down well with a jury. He hasn’t got an easy ingratiating personality, and he knows it, but he’s good at asking questions. He doesn’t say anything really offensive, but before the witness knows what’s happening he finds himself tied up in knots.’

‘He did it with my boss the other night. It brought the entire dinner party to a halt.’

Jimmy grinned. I noticed how many laughter lines he had on his face. It was sad Pendle had none. ‘I admire the way he never gives up on a case,’ he said, filling up my glass. ‘I bet he’s up to something now, trying to rootle out a piece of evidence that’ll blow my case sky-high. Not that it’ll do him any good; it’s obvious as hell Canfield’s guilty. Has he been taking you out for long?’

I knew he was pumping me now. I must be careful.

‘Since the summer.’

‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him with a girl.’

‘That’s nice,’ I said.

‘I sometimes wondered if he weren’t a bit the other way,’ said Batten, idly, ‘and he’s working hard to sublimate it.’

‘Queer you mean?’

He shot me a sidelong glance and nodded. ‘He refers to “the lovely Miss Graham”, for example, but he’s totally unmoved by her.’

‘Oh no,’ I insisted in horror. ‘He’s certainly not queer.’

‘You’ve got proof, have you? I must confess if you belonged to me, I couldn’t keep my hands off you. Have an enormous brandy and tell me more. I’m sorry to keep staring at you, not that it’s not a pleasure, but you remind me of someone and I can’t for the life of me think who it is.’

‘Pendle said that the first night we met,’ I said.

I had an uneasy feeling he knew a lot more than he was letting on, and such was the warmth of the room, and the amount I’d drunk and the cosiness in his manner, I was tempted to pour out my anxieties about Pendle. Then I remembered about lawyers being terrible gossips. I wasn’t sure I trusted Mr Batten, so I changed the subject.

After lunch it was the turn of the defence. As Pendle rose to his feet, straightening his gown and the papers in front of him, his hands shook, but he spoke calmly enough.

‘We intend to prove that my client has been the victim of a monstrous calumny. Not only has he been charged with a revolting offence, he has also lost his job, will no doubt have difficulty finding another one, been publicly humiliated, and privately diminished in the eyes of his family and friends — and all this on the testament of one girl. Her word against his. Her fiancé arrived too late and found a locked door. What we have to find out, ladies and gentlemen, was what went on beyond that door. Intercourse,’ he paused. ‘We have no doubt; the police medical report bears this out, but at whose instigation. Miss Graham looks like the innocent flower, but is she perhaps the serpent underneath?’ He paused again for effect and glared at Jimmy Batten who glared back, his lip curling with disdain.

I was hard put not to giggle.

Even as he took the oath, Canfield gave the impression of being a con man, a rep with his shiny shoe in the door. The Jury were looking at him with disgust.

Pendle stared at him thoughtfully.

‘Mr Canfield, was Miss Graham a good secretary?’

‘No,’ said Canfield.

‘Why did you keep her on then?’

Canfield smiled wryly. ‘I suppose I was attracted to her.’

There was a ripple of chattering round the court.

‘I told you so,’ muttered my fat neighbour, handing me a pack of Maltesers.

‘You wanted to sleep with her?’ said Pendle.

‘In a word, yes.’

‘But refrained from doing so?’

‘She was engaged to be married. I do have some principles. Besides, Ricky Wetherby is much bigger than me.’

It was a bad joke which did nothing to endear Canfield to the Jury.

‘And what happened on the day of the so-called assault?’

‘She said she’d lost her notebook; could I possibly dictate the letters I’d given her yesterday again. I said I had to go to a meeting. I came back at 5.30 and told her to come into my office.’

‘What was Miss Graham wearing?’

‘She’d changed into a new dress; it was very becoming.’

‘Can you describe it?’

‘Well it was very low cut, and made more so because she’d lost a button.’

‘What happened then?’

‘I said she looked smashing; was she going to meet her fiancé? She smiled and said not until much later. I said he was a lucky man, and we’d better get on with the letters or we’d both be in trouble. Suddenly she burst into tears, said she felt trapped, that her fiancé was a disaster in bed.’

There was a murmur of protest from the public gallery. The Judge told them to shut up. Fiona’s face was expressionless.

‘We heard a step outside. Fi — I mean Miss Graham said please lock the door, and then she went on crying. I told her she was crazy to marry him feeling like that. I put my arm round her to comfort her.’

‘Did she offer any resistance?’

‘God no, quite the reverse. She said she’d wanted me for weeks. The next minute we were on the floor.’

‘And intercourse occurred?’

‘It certainly did.’

The rustling and coughing always present in court had died away. People were leaning forward not to miss a word.

‘Thank you, Mr Canfield,’ said Pendle, and sat down. He seemed surprisingly elated, particularly since Batten took over next, and absolutely tore Canfield to pieces. Although Canfield stuck to his story, it looked pretty ragged by the end. White and shaken, he sat down.

Next Pendle called one of the pretty typists from the office. She came in giggling and patting her hair, and wearing far too much make-up. Pendle handled her with the utmost gentleness and soon her nerves disappeared.

‘We were both in the Ladies getting ready to go home. It was about 5.15. Fi — I mean Miss Graham was changing into this lovely dress, very low cut. She said she was going to meet her fiancé later. At that moment a button popped off, which made it almost, well, indecent.’

‘You’re sure of this?’

‘Course I’m sure. She said that was the trouble with buying cheap clothes. I offered to lend her a needle. I said once she was married to Ricky she wouldn’t have to buy cheap clothes any more. Besides, it looked more sexy without the button, and we had a giggle about that.’

The tension was beginning to mount in the court. The Jury were sitting up and taking notice.

The next witness was blond, handsome and brash, and said his name was Gerald Seaton. He described himself as a commercial traveller.

‘Have you seen Miss Graham before?’ said Pendle.

‘Yes, we met in the King’s Cross Hotel lounge exactly four months ago.’

‘How did you meet?’

‘She picked me up.’

Suddenly the court went very still.

‘I was working on some figures. She came and sat near me, and smiled at me. I smiled back. She was a very pretty girl; she said she was meeting her aunt off the Leeds train, but it had been delayed. We arranged to meet next evening.’

‘Did she tell you she was engaged?’

‘Oh yes, she made no secret of the fact. She was going to marry this rich bloke. Said he was no good in bed.’

I glanced at Ricky Wetherby. He looked as though he’d been turned to stone.

‘What happened next?’

‘I took her away to the Cotswolds for the weekend. We stayed in a hotel.’

‘How did you pass the time?’

‘We spent it in bed.’

‘Even though she was engaged to be married?’

‘Didn’t worry her; why should it worry me?’

Jimmy Batten, looking rather grim, got up to protest.

‘Surely, My Lord, this is utterly irrelevant. These events happened long before my client met the defendant.’

‘I can assure you it has the utmost relevance on the case,’ said Pendle quickly.

‘Proceed Mr Mulholland,’ said the Judge.

‘What happened after this weekend?’

‘We met once; then she suddenly refused to see me, pretending she’d decided not to cheat on her fiancé any more. Well that didn’t wash with me after her performance in the Cotswolds. So I waited for her outside her office one evening.’

‘Her new office?’ said Pendle.

‘Yes. She must have been working there about a fortnight. We went and had a drink; she got a bit bombed, and then it all came out. She’d got a thing about this bloke at work, said she was mad about him, but he refused to do anything about her.’

‘Do you remember what his name was?’

‘I can. It was the same village near my home. He was called Canfield, Bobby Canfield.’

There was not much Batten could do with Mr Seaton, nor did he have much joy with the hotel manageress in the Cotswolds, who remembered Fiona and Gerry Seaton staying there.

‘They signed in as Mr and Mrs Seaton. I remembered her because she was so pretty. We didn’t think they were married. I mean they stayed in their room all weekend. We just took their meals up.’

The Wetherby Camp looked thunderstruck. Next moment Fiona was on her feet.

‘They’re lying, they’re all lying. It’s a frame-up.’

Jimmy Batten put out a hand to hush her and, rising to retrieve the situation, said smoothly,

‘M’Lord, I should like my client to go back into the witness box to refute these charges.’

The Jury looked shaken and undecided.

Fiona went back into the box. She had regained her sangfroid now. She denied that she had ever been away for the weekend, or even met Mr Seaton. There must be some mistake. She remembered she’d had a bad cold that weekend, her fiancé had been abroad, so she’d stayed in bed without going out for two days.

‘It’s a conspiracy,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears again. ‘I swear I’ve never set eyes on this man in my life.’

The barometer was wavering once again. I felt the Jury were going to believe her.

There was a long pause. Then it was Pendle’s turn.

‘Miss Graham,’ he said in his gentlest drawl, ‘you do realize that people who don’t tell the truth in court can be sent to prison?’

‘Of course,’ she said.

Pendle crossed the court and handed her a piece of paper.

‘Did you write this letter?’

She glanced at it. ‘Yes, it’s a thankyou letter for a wedding present.’

Pendle went back to his place.

‘My Lord, I have here a document in the same writing as this letter. Later I will call a handwriting expert to verify their similarity. Normally I wouldn’t resort to snooping and appropriating private documents, but when my client’s reputation is at stake…’

‘All right, Mr Mulholland,’ said the Judge irritably, ‘get on with it. What have you got to show us?’

Pendle picked up a kingfisher-blue, leather-bound book, which had been hidden in his papers; the lock was hanging from it.

‘I have here a diary belonging to Miss Graham in which she chronicles only too clearly the events of the past few months.’

Suddenly Fiona’s face twisted in horror. ‘No, don’t let him,’ she screamed. ‘He’s got my diary; he’s a thief.’

‘Be quiet, Miss Graham,’ snapped the Judge. ‘Proceed, Mr Mulholland.’

Jimmy Batten’s face never moved an inch, but he must have felt the floor give way beneath him.

‘M’Lord,’ he protested, ‘I must object to my learned friend’s methods.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ said the Judge. ‘Go on, Mr Mulholland.’

‘In a minute the ladies and gentlemen of the Jury can examine the diary themselves,’ said Pendle, ‘but first I’d like to read out one or two passages.’

The lack of expression in his voice made Fiona’s passionate outpouring sound even more dreadful. First there was her description of meeting Gerald Seaton and the weekend in the Cotswolds exactly as he had described them.

‘“It’s marvellous”,’ he read in his flat drawl, ‘“after Ricky, to find someone who knows what he’s doing in bed.” ’

Fiona’s lips were blue now. ‘It’s a forgery,’ she whispered.

Pendle flipped over a few pages: ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘let us turn to her description of her first days of working for Mr Canfield: “My new boss is really sexy, I fancy him rotten.” Here on the 5th is a picture of Mr Canfield cut out of the Investor’s Chronicle.’

‘Nothing unusual in that,’ snapped Jimmy Batten. ‘Any girl would cut out a photograph of her boss.’

As detail followed horrendous detail of her growing obsession for Canfield, I couldn’t bear to look at her, or at Ricky Wetherby, sitting stunned and unbelieving. I was mesmerized by the distaste and cruelty in Pendle’s voice. How he seemed to hate her. I could only think of a cobra striking again and again.

‘And now,’ he said suavely, ‘if you’ll bear with me, I’ll read the entry on September 28th, the day before the alleged rape:

‘“Bobby’s wife came in today. God I loathe her, the old frump. Bet she bores him to death in bed. Tomorrow is my last chance. I shall die if I don’t get him. If only Ricky’d let me go on working after we’re married. I’ll wear my new blue dress, and pretend I’ve lost my shorthand notebook and ask Bobby to give me the letters again after work. If we’re alone in the building, something’s bound to happen. I know he fancies me.” ’

Against my will, my eyes went to Ricky Wetherby, and came away again at once. It was crucifixion.

Pendle paused again, and looked slowly round the court. ‘After this the diary becomes rather anatomical, and moves into the realms of fantasy as to what Miss Graham would like Mr Canfield to do to her in bed. I imagine the ladies and gentlemen of the Jury would find it less embarrassing to read for themselves.’

But the next moment Fiona had jumped down from the witness box and was crossing the well of the court towards Pendle, screaming abuse.

‘Bastard! Bastard! Give it back to me!’

I thought she was going to claw Pendle’s face, but Ricky was too quick for her. He was beside her in a flash, his handsome face stone-grey as a pavement.

‘Leave her alone,’ he shouted at Pendle, putting his arms round Fiona. ‘Say it’s not true, Fiona darling, for Christ’s sake, say you didn’t write it.’

For a minute she glared at him.

‘Yes, I did,’ she hissed. ‘I wrote every word of it. Can’t you understand that I love him? I love him!’ And she collapsed, sobbing hysterically, into the arms of a policewoman.

A great sigh went through the court. For a minute the Jury conferred. Pendle was about to call his next witness. But the Foreman of the Jury forestalled him. If it so pleased His Lordship, they felt they had the evidence required.

‘What witness were you about to call, Mr Mulholland?’

‘A handwriting expert, M’Lord.’

The Foreman consulted with the Jury again.

‘M’Lord we have reached our verdict already. We are unanimous in returning a verdict of Not Guilty.’

‘Always thought she was a fast piece,’ said my neighbour, disconsolately, upending the empty red Malteser packet.

The Judge in his summing up congratulated Pendle on his handling of the case, admiring his tenacity, if not his slightly reprehensible methods of obtaining information. The moment he swept out in his scarlet robe pandemonium broke out. Fiona Graham was led away by the police and the Press made a most indecent dive for the public telephones outside. Across the court Pendle was being congratulated by a stunned Canfield contingent. His hands were shaking as he gathered up the papers. I knew he was dying for a cigarette. Looking up, he caught my eye over the crowd and waved. I made a double thumbs up sign. Then he mouthed that he was a bit tied up, but he’d pick me up at the flat at 8.30.

I took a bus to Sloane Square, and then walked home. I wanted some fresh air and time to think. Women in tweed skirts were raking up leaves in Chelsea gardens. An aeroplane trail was turning pink in the setting sun. Inside the houses, people were switching on lamps and lighting fires. A group of children were throwing sticks into a goldfish pond; a black spaniel ran round them barking with excitement. It all seemed so normal after the dramas in court. I was haunted by Ricky Wetherby’s stricken face. He had been so God-like and self-confident that morning. I kept thinking of Pendle, cruel and as merciless as Torquemada, turning and turning the thumbscrew on Fiona Graham. In a kinky way, though, the whole day had been so erotic. Fiona’s feverish craving for Canfield had been uncomfortably near to my own feelings for Pendle. If he didn’t make a pass at me soon, I should burst. I had been rattled too by Jimmy Batten’s comments. Perhaps Pendle was queer, and if so what was the point of seeing any more of him? But after today, I knew I was in too deep to get out. I felt restless, uneasy and horribly carnal. I’d better have a cold bath before I went out.

In fact we had a heavenly evening; all my fears were lulled. Pendle took me to Parkes and we sat in a secluded corner, guzzling champagne and Mediterranean prawns fried in garlic, and gloating over the evening papers. Canfield had been vindicated at great length, with the most sensational headlines.

‘How on earth did you get that diary?’ I asked, holding out my empty glass absently. Pendle filled it.

‘I spent the last fortnight chatting up Fiona’s flatmate.’

‘Is she pretty?’ I said, bristling.

‘No.’ Pendle flipped my nose teasingly with his finger. ‘She’s a cow and absolutely eaten up with jealousy where Fiona’s concerned. She pretended it wasn’t quite cricket to hand over the diary. Actually she was frightened Fiona’d find out she’d nicked it.’

‘When did she finally give it to you?’

‘Lunchtime today.’

I whistled.

‘I did run it a bit close, I admit. That’s why I had to abandon you to Jimmy’s blandishments. You made a conquest there.’

‘Did I? How lovely.’

‘He rang up when I got back to the office, ostensibly to congratulate me, actually to ask us both to dinner next Friday.’

‘Ooh, can we go?’

Pendle was silent for a minute, fidgeting with his lighter. That was odd; I’d never seen him fidget before. Then he took a deep breath.

‘I’m thinking of going home for a few days next week. I was wondering if you’d like to come too.’

For a few seconds I couldn’t believe my ears. I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t speak.

‘I’d adore to,’ I finally squeaked.

Relief seemed to flood over him.

‘It’s a long way. My family live in the Lakes, but it doesn’t take that long up the Preston Motorway. I’d like to leave on Thursday afternoon, and probably come back on Sunday night. Can you get the time off?’

‘I’ve still got some holiday left,’ I said. ‘And I can always blackmail Rodney by threatening to tell Jane terrible things about him.’

‘Good. We’ll try and make it in time for late dinner then.’

‘It’ll be such heaven getting out of London,’ I said.

He smiled rather ruefully. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy it. They’re all rather formidable, particularly my mother.’

I went whooping into the flat, dying to tell Jane all about it and barged into the drawing-room. In the dim light, I could just distinguish two people locked on the sofa.

‘Get out!’ shrieked Jane. She must have picked up someone at the party she’d been to. How crude, I thought loftily, as I made myself a cup of coffee. How much more sensible Pendle and I were conducting our affair. I’d obviously destroyed their mood, for a few minutes later I heard voices, and the front door bang. Jane came into the kitchen looking ruffled.

‘You look jolly smug,’ she said sourly. ‘Has he asked you to marry him?’

‘Not quite,’ I crowed, clutching my happiness to me like a hot water bottle, ‘but he’s asked me to stay with his family next week.’

For a second her face fell. However much one likes one’s flatmate, one can’t bear their love-life to go too well, but Jane is basically a nice person, and she smiled almost immediately.

‘Pru, that’s marvellous! When? For how long? What on earth did he say? Tell me all. He must be serious, to take you home to meet his mother.’

I muttered something about chickens before they’re hatched. But I found it difficult in the next few days to keep my mounting elation in check, and wrote Prudence Mulholland all over my shorthand notebook.