Chapter Eighteen

THE RESOURCES OF the human soul are as formidable as they are pitiful. The despair that closed about me when I learned that Consuela had been condemned to death was all-encompassing. Yet it was also short-lived. By the following day, I had carved from it something approximating to hope. Just as I had been unable to believe they would find her guilty, so, now they had, I refused to accept that they really meant to hang her. Her conviction would be quashed on appeal. Failing that, the sentence would be commuted. Somehow, by one means or another, her life would be spared.

God knows, there was little rational basis for such hope. The press echoed the judge’s depiction of Consuela as a cold-hearted murderess. There was no barrage of letters to the editor demanding mercy or denouncing capital punishment, no petitions, no marches, no questions in the House. The universal silence that greeted the sentence could only logically be interpreted as general approval of it. Yet I succeeded in resisting such an interpretation. Nor was I alone in doing so. Sir Henry Curtis-Bennett was confident that three appeal judges would see reason where twelve impressionable jurors had not. And Consuela, so he assured me, shared his optimism.

What Consuela really thought was, of course, unknown to me. Secretly, I suspected Imry was right when he said that she had expected to be found guilty, that she had begun her preparations for this ordeal from the moment of her arrest and was therefore better equipped to endure it than those of us who had preferred to believe she would never have to. Partly because I feared she might force me to face the truth in this regard, I was actually grateful now for her refusal to see me. Not to have to look her in the eyes, not to have to speak to her across a prison cell, made it easier to sustain the pretence to which I had succumbed: the pretence, that is, that she would not hang.

Imry, by contrast, entertained no such illusions. He had experienced the trial at first hand. He had felt the weight of legal process bearing down upon her. He had sensed what the outcome would be. And now, helpless to intervene, he could only await the slow and hideous pleasure of the law.

The effect of Consuela’s conviction on Imry was, in some ways, more profound than on me. It revived in him the depression and disgust with which he had returned from the war. And my confession of the part I had played in Rodrigo’s death seemed only to exacerbate the condition. I have never known him so bitter as in the days immediately following the end of the trial. Normally, at difficult times, it was he who had tried to lift my spirits. Now it was the other way round – and I had none of his aptitude for the task. In the circumstances, it should have been no surprise when he was struck down by bronchitis. His doctor blamed two weeks coming and going in the chills and smogs of a London winter. But whether this or his dejected state of mind was the cause hardly mattered: I was responsible either way. All I could do to salve my conscience was assist his housekeeper with the fetching and carrying while he was laid up at Sunnylea, using his health as an excuse for saying as little to him as possible about Consuela.

Not that there was, in all honesty, much I could have said even if I had wanted to. Consuela’s appeal was due to be heard on 7 February. Until then, a deliberate suspension of thought formed the only viable basis for day-to-day existence. Hope is a fragile commodity. It cannot bear too much analysis.

Silence was also the only way I could hold at bay the guilt I felt about Rodrigo. According to Windrush, news of his death had distressed Consuela far more than the possibility of her own. She could not understand why he should have broken into Clouds Frome. Nor could she believe the explanation given by Victor at the inquest a week later. What she deduced from police evidence that Rodrigo had spent two nights at the Green Man, Fownhope, with an unidentified companion I did not dare to ask. The coroner expressed bafflement both about this and Rodrigo’s intentions, but Victor’s evidence he seemed happy to accept.

Victor’s version of events was that he had been woken in the small hours by the sound of an intruder. He had roused Miss Roebuck and asked her to telephone the police whilst he went to investigate, taking the shot-gun with him for his own protection. He had found the intruder in a dressing-room and had fired in self-defence when the man lunged at him with a knife. He had only recognized him when he lay dead on the floor. Miss Roebuck explained that she had reached the scene of the shooting just in time to see it take place and the circumstances were exactly as Victor had described them: he had had no choice but to fire.

The police were not disposed to quibble with any of this. The knife they had found on Rodrigo’s body had been used to kill Victor’s guard-dog. There were traces of canine blood still on its blade. A man capable of despatching a mastiff in such fashion was, they implied, also capable of attacking its owner. He had entered the house through an unfastened first-floor window, reaching it with the use of a ladder stolen from a nearby farm. His motive, as far as they were concerned, was a total mystery. (Clearly the safe had been locked and hidden behind the mirror by the time of their arrival, though, even if it had not been, I doubt they would have been any the wiser.)

The only direct reference made to Consuela at the inquest was when the coroner conjectured that Rodrigo might have been seeking some misguided form of revenge on her behalf. He did not press the point, however, because of the inconvenient fact that the break-in had occurred before her conviction. In the end, he contented himself with the observation that Rodrigo’s intentions had died with him and could never now be known. He then offered Victor his sympathy ‘for this additional unpleasantness at an already trying time’ and urged the jury to return a verdict of justifiable homicide, which they did in short and obliging order. Victor’s exoneration was complete.

From Hermione I heard not a word. She too, it seemed, had taken refuge in silence, the better to bear our mutual helplessness. How Jacinta had reacted to events I could therefore only guess. I hoped she would pin her faith in my assurances that, somehow, we would save her mother. I, after all, was only doing the same. The worthlessness of those assurances I thrust into the deepest recesses of my thoughts, where they could be, if not forgotten, at least ignored. The future had become a black and unimaginable pit. As the brink drew ever nearer, I could only look away the more.

It was, I recall, the day after the newspapers carried reports of the inquest in Hereford that I was telephoned by Clive Thornton and invited to have lunch with him. His tone of voice suggested that we were old chums who had not seen each other for far too long. It was, of course, clear to me that Angela’s divorce action was what he wanted to discuss. If the subject had seemed more important to me than it did – which was not at all – I would probably have refused. As it was, it seemed easier to agree.

We met at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand. Even before Clive had come to the point – halfway through the soup – I had remembered every one of the reasons why I loathed him. Money, good looks and war-time heroics had transformed his stupidity into supreme confidence, his oafishness into braying arrogance. To listen to him was to wonder once more why some working-class private of socialist leanings had not put a bullet through his brain one day in France.

‘Divorce can be a messy business for all concerned. That’s why I thought we should have a word. To the wise, so to speak.’

‘I can’t see how it involves you.’

‘Angie’s peace of mind, old man. Always at the top of my agenda. You know that.’

‘She asked you to speak to me, did she?’

‘Good God, no. Strictly my idea. Mine and Pater’s, anyway. Fact is, we think you may not be seeing this thing quite straight.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, I gather you told Angie – hinted, that is – that you might drag poor old Turnbull’s name into the case.’

‘What if I did? It would be all she and he deserved.’

‘Look, old man. I know my big sister’s no angel. She never has been. Marriage to her can’t have been a bed of roses. Faults on both sides, I dare say. That’s taken as read.’

‘Not by the courts.’

‘Exactly. You’ve hit the nail on the head. Not by the courts. Cruelty’s the problem, don’t you think? Tricky word altogether. Leaves a nasty taste in the mouth. So, why put it there in the first place, eh?’

‘What precisely do you mean?’

Removal of the soup bowls imposed a brief silence. Then he resumed, in a more confidential tone. ‘Cards on the table, old man. None of us wants a contested action, do we? A whole lot of dirty linen flapping in the breeze. Not on. Simply not on. So, what I suggest is this. Give Angie her divorce – but discreetly. Undefended, on grounds of your adultery, if you’ll pardon the expression. You know what I mean, I’m sure. A pre-arranged weekend in Eastbourne. Your solicitor ought to be able to find a suitable girl. It’s much the most painless method. Over and done with before you know it. Then plain sailing for one and all.’ He beamed encouragingly.

‘You want me to take the blame?’

‘Only in the technical sense. Everyone will know it’s an amicable split. Happens all the time. Whereas, if cruelty’s cited … and accusations start flying thick and fast …’

The roast wagon hove to at that moment and Clive broke off to supervise the carving of his beef. When his plate had been piled high and I had been served with far more duck than I wanted, he speared a Yorkshire pudding with his fork, nibbled at it speculatively, then said:

‘What do you think, old man?’

‘I think I’d like to know what I have to gain from such an arrangement.’

‘That’s easy. Just look at what you’d lose by taking the other route. Reputation and money. Most of one and a great deal of the other.’

‘How does money come into it?’

‘Simple. If you … co-operated … Angie wouldn’t ask for any maintenance.’

‘I see. And she’s prepared to be this generous just in order to avoid the scandal of a contested case?’

‘Exactly.’ The Yorkshire pudding having been devoured, a gravy-soaked roast potato took its place on the prongs of Clive’s fork. ‘Fairer all round, don’t you agree?’

‘It might seem so – if I thought my defence wasn’t adequate.’

Clive paused in mid-chew and stared at me. ‘You’ll lose for certain. And be pauperized into the bargain.’ He grinned. ‘So, can I tell the dear girl you’ll play ball?’

I stared back at him, wondering if he could be made to understand that I no longer cared either way. What did reputation and money matter to me now? How would they enable me to save Consuela where every other device had failed? All I wanted of the Thorntons was to be left alone. For that reason and for no other, I was bound to accept their offer. ‘I suppose you can,’ I said at last.

‘Excellent, excellent. Felt sure you’d see reason. It’ll be a load off Angie’s mind.’

‘And how is Ang—How is my wife?’

‘Been distinctly mopish lately, don’t mind admitting.’ The first slice of horse-radish-smeared beef slipped onto Clive’s tongue. ‘Matter of fact, Celia and I thought we’d take her with us when we go away next week. Jolly her up a bit, don’t you know?’

‘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.’

‘He’s on the trail of one now,’ said Windrush. ‘Dan Irving, the Labour member for Burnley, died recently. Henderson’s up there trying to make sure he wins the by-election. It’s to be held on the twenty-eighth of this month. Until then he won’t want to rock any boats. Of that you can be certain.’

‘And I know his Under-Secretary of old,’ said Sir Henry. ‘Sir John Anderson is a strict and inflexible man. He won’t even think of recommending clemency.’

‘Then … what you’re saying is …’

‘They’ve fixed a date, Staddon,’ said Windrush.

‘When?’

‘Thursday the twenty-first. One week before the Burnley by-election. Thirteen days from now. At nine o’clock that morning, the sentence of the court will be carried out.’

I stared at him dumbly for a moment, then looked at Sir Henry. ‘She … Consuela knows?’

‘The prison governor informed her last night.’

‘How … Have you seen her since?’

‘I was present at the time, Staddon. So was Windrush. She took it with the composure she has displayed throughout this sorry affair. She is … a remarkable woman.’

‘But … What can we do?’

‘Very little. We shall plead the case for clemency with all the eloquence at our command. And Mrs Caswell’s friends should be urged to write to the Home Secretary supporting our plea. Beyond that, I have nothing to suggest.’

‘Nothing?’

‘The press are against her,’ put in Windrush. ‘Foreign, Catholic and guilty – as they see it. It’s no good hoping for a campaign in that quarter.’

‘Even if every editor in Fleet Street were on our side,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I doubt they could achieve anything. Sir John does not like to be pushed. It merely hardens his heart. And his legal advisers have made it clear to me that they see no grounds for clemency.’

I looked from one to the other of them. ‘You believe this hanging will take place, don’t you?’ In the silence that followed, their answer was delivered.

Suddenly, Sir Henry cleared his throat and rose from his chair. ‘I must have a word with my clerk before he goes home. Excuse me, gentlemen.’ With that, he bustled from the room, leaving Windrush and me staring at each other across a carpeted waste of shadows.

‘She’s quite resigned to it,’ Windrush said after a moment. ‘I believe she has been ever since she was charged. Unlike we cynical Englishmen’ – he smiled faintly – ‘she never expected to be spared on account of her innocence.’

I said nothing. There seemed then as little to say as there was to do. Beyond the exhaustion of our last resource lay only a wilderness of despair.

‘She asked me to tell you of the arrangements she has made for Jacinta. Her daughter’s future has been her principal concern of late. She has been anxious to ensure that the girl does not remain with her father. Some weeks ago, I submitted a request to Caswell’s solicitor on her behalf. To my surprise, it’s been granted. Caswell has agreed to let Jacinta be adopted by her maternal uncle, Senhor Francisco Manchaca de Pombalho, a coffee merchant in Rio de Janeiro. The fellow’s quite wealthy, I believe – though not as wealthy as Caswell. Be that as it may, a new life in a distant country seems altogether the kindest provision to make for the girl. She’s young enough to put this … horror … behind her, don’t you think?’ He waited for me to respond. Then, when I did not, he continued: ‘We’ve had a cable from Brazil. Jacinta’s uncle is on his way. He’s bringing his wife with him. They’ll take Jacinta into their custody as soon as they arrive. Three return passages to Brazil have been booked aboard a steamer due to leave Liverpool on the twenty-second, the day after …’

We have no words, I thought as he broke off – no trite and conventional phrases – to cater for situations such as this. Whether Windrush understood why Consuela wanted me to know what was to become of Jacinta – whether I understood myself – seemed now a matter of no significance whatever. ‘I’d like to see her,’ I said, as expressionlessly as I could contrive.

Windrush raised his hand and began massaging his brow with the tips of two fingers, as if to relieve a headache. ‘I’d hoped to avoid telling you this, Staddon. The fact is that she’s quite emphatic about refusing to see you. She’s asked me to make that abundantly clear.’

So, the embargo was to remain in force. The gulf I had opened between us thirteen years before was not be closed even in death.

‘I’m sorry, Staddon.’

‘So am I. But sorrow doesn’t help, does it?’

‘No.’

‘I wish …’ But wishes, like hopes and prayers and every unavailing effort, were useless now, worn out and wasted on ears that would not listen and minds that would not bend. Darkness, beyond the window, between our words, within our minds, was rushing and rising around our future. Darkness. And the worst – that could never be prepared for. I rose, my wish unspoken, and left, stumbling in silent confusion out into the night.