Queens´s Counsel Read online

  Queen’s Counsel

  Queen’s Counsel

  © Vivian Stuart, 1957

  © eBook in English: Jentas ehf. 2022

  ISBN: 978-9979-64-473-6

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchase.

  All contracts and agreements regarding the work, editing, and layout are owned by Jentas ehf.

  CHAPTER ONE

  A FINGER ON the doorbell, Charles Blakeney waited, his gaze traveling unseeingly from the worn, brass plates, ranged one above the other on either side of the door, to the misty evening grayness of Harley Street, at once familiar and repellent to him in his present mood.

  He had come here straight from court, and he was tired and consumed with anxiety, the strain under which he was laboring etched in myriad lines around his mouth and eyes. Catching a glimpse of his own reflected image in the window beside the door, he let out his breath in an impatient sigh.

  He saw a tall, lean figure in hat and correct dark suit, whose air of assurance was a mockery and whose calm an illusion, since both, at this moment, belied the chaotic uncertainty of his thoughts. While any casual passerby might have recognized him as the rising young Q.C., whose work at the criminal bar was bringing him rapidly to fame, Charles Blakeney scarcely recognized himself in that hurried, critical glance.

  Why, he wondered bitterly, could they not bestir themselves? He had rung the bell twice. It was late, much later than he had realized, and Linda would be expecting him at the hospital in half an hour.. . .

  The door opened at last, and he gave his name to an elderly maid in prim cap and apron, was shown into the waiting room and invited to sit down. The room was empty, he was thankful to see, and he had scarcely taken his seat when the receptionist came to him.

  “Sir Duncan will see you now, Mr. Blakeney,” she told him. Her manner, in keeping with the austere dignity of her surroundings, was quiet and pleasant, and there was reassurance in her low-pitched voice.

  But Charles, adept at probing the defensive armor of his fellows, detected a hint of pity in the glance she gave him. Her duties, he thought, probably included those of confidential secretary to the distinguished doctor who employed her. She would know why he was here, would be aware of the questions he had come to ask—arid of the answers to them.

  He followed her across the long, high-ceilinged room, his feet making no sound on the thick pile of the carpet, and waited for her to tap tentatively on the door of the consulting room before standing aside to permit him to pass her.

  “Mr. Blakeney, sir,” she announced formally and closed the door behind him.

  “Ah, Mr. Blakeney! Good evening to you.” Sir Duncan Macintyre rose to meet him, a hand extended in courteous welcome. “Sit down, won’t you?” He indicated a chair facing his own and Charles took it, liking the firm handshake and the deep, faintly accented Highland voice.

  Sir Duncan was a tall, gaunt man, prematurely whitehaired, with a pair of shrewd, kindly blue eyes and a brisk, incisive manner that matched his voice. This man, Charles’s trained instinct recognized, would make a good witness. He would tell the truth, frankly and without false sentiment; he would not prevaricate, nor seek to hide behind a smoke screen of professional reticence, as some of his colleagues did.

  “I see,” the doctor remarked, his tone less congratulatory than dry, “that you succeeded in getting Jackson off.” He pointed a bony finger in the direction of a copy of the evening paper that lay opened on his desk, on top of a sheaf of typewritten reports.

  “Yes, he was acquitted.” Following the pointing finger, Charles glimpsed the headlines in heavy black type, and his mouth tightened. Many of his cases made headlines now, but he no longer needed or welcomed publicity of a sensational nature, and the Jackson case had been both sensational and unsavory. On this account it had been widely reported, and pictures of himself, arriving at or leaving the central criminal court—known to Londoners as the Old Bailey—had appeared in several of the national dailies. Tonight’s headlines, blazoning the news of Martin Jackson’s acquittal, also acclaimed his own part in securing it.

  He found himself hoping that they would continue to keep the papers from Linda; this would make painful reading for her, poor child.

  He looked up to find Sir Duncan’s eyes on his face.

  “I’m sorry, Sir Duncan—” the older man had spoken, but Charles hadn’t heard more than the last two words “—I’m afraid I didn’t quite catch—”

  “I said,” the surgeon repeated equably, “that you have made a remarkable career at the bar, Mr. Blakeney. There cannot be very many men who have become Queen’s Counsel at your age—or who can equal your record as defending counsel.”

  “I only became Queen’s Counsel last year.” Charles made a great effort to contain his impatience. “But if you will forgive me, I came here in order to discuss the reports on Linda Haynes, and to ask for your professional advice—your opinion on her case.”

  “I am fully aware of that, Mr. Blakeney.” There was reproof in the quiet rejoinder. “But I am not in court, may I remind you—I am in my own consulting room and I like to take my time. I have the reports you mentioned, of course. I have them all here.” He motioned to the bulky folder that lay in front of him. “Before I can discuss them with you, I should like to know how you stand in relation to this girl. What, exactly, is your interest in her?”

  “I am her guardian,” Charles answered stiffly.

  “Ah, yes, so I understood from your letter—and from Linda herself. But there is more to it than that, surely? Linda has been strangely reticent on the subject of her background. Her reticence isn’t natural in a girl of eighteen, Mr. Blakeney. If I am to offer you advice of any value, I must know a little more than I do of her history. It’s Scarcely necessary to assure you that I should treat anything you told me as confidential.”

  “I realize that, sir, naturally. But . . . .”

  “Well?” The bushy white browns lifted questioningly,

  “I will tell you anything you wish to know, Sir Duncan.”

  “Good. You are not, I take it, a blood relation?”

  Charles shook his head. “No,” he admitted, “I’m not.”

  “Has she any relatives living?”

  “She has a father, yes. He—” Charles hesitated, reluctant to go into details, even to Sir Duncan Macintyre. For the four years during which Linda had been his ward, he had gone to fantastic lengths to conceal the truth—sending her to school, first in Scotland, then in Paris, changing her surname, keeping her from all contact with former associates, even from friends of her own age. It had become second nature to him to protect her. He said at last, slowly, “Her father is in prison. I defended him when he was brought to trial four years ago. Unfortunately, I was less successful in his case than I was in Martin Jackson’s—he got seven years, for embezzlement.”

  “He was guilty of embezzlement, I suppose?”

  The lawyer sighed. “The law draws no distinction between technical and moral guilt Sir Duncan. Technically, he was guilty of the charges against him. He pleaded guilty and refused to appeal against his sentence.”

  “I see.” The surgeon regarded him pensively. “And what is your opinion of his moral guilt, Mr. Blakeney? I take it he was a friend of yours?”

  “Yes,” Charles confessed, “he was my greatest friend. We served together in the Arctic Convoy Escort Gro
up, during the war. He was my commanding officer and I admired him more than any man living.” He smiled regretfully, remembering those years and the man whose courage and resourcefulness had enabled him to survive them, and then went on, his voice flat and devoid of feeling. “lf .it has any bearing on Linda’s case history, I consider that his moral guilt was infinitesimal. But, somewhat naturally, my opinion isn’t shared by those small investors whose savings he is held to have misappropriated. He was a seaman, and his lifelong ambition was to own a fleet of fishing trawlers, which he would build himself, to his own specifications, and run on a profit-sharing basis with the men who sailed in them—men who, like myself, served under him during the war.” He paused.

  “Well?” Sir Duncan prompted. “And did he realize this ambition?”

  “Yes, he realized it after the war—only to find it wouldn’t work. He understood the sea. but knew nothing of the complexities of high finance. In attempting to prevent his company from being forced into liquidation and bankruptcy, he listened to the advice of a scoundrel and stepped outside the law. There was nothing I could do to save him from the consequences, nothing he would allow me to do. At his request, Linda became my ward. The case attracted a great deal of unpleasant notoriety at the time, and is still remembered with bitterness in Fleetwood, where they lived. So I thought it best, for her sake, to take Linda away, to break completely with the past. Her name was changed to Haynes, which was her mother’s surname, when I became her guardian. Since then she has been at school. She was in her last term at finishing school in Paris when she was taken ill.”

  “She knows about her father?”

  “Yes.” Anger flickered momentarily in Charles Blakeney’s gray eyes. “It was impossible to keep it from her. The case was prominently featured in all the papers, and a mob of hooligans broke in one night and stoned the house, terrifying Linda almost out of her wits, poor child.”

  “Hm. A most unhappy story.” Sir Duncan referred to his notes. “I understand that Linda was actually taken ill in Switzerland, at St. Moritz—that she collapsed while skiing?” He looked guestioningly at Charles.

  “The school had gone there for winter sports,” Charles supplied wearily, “The local doctor saw her and I was sent for. She was suffering severe headaches and attacks of giddiness, with impairment of her sight, which, her headmistress told me, they had at first imagined to be a form of snow blindness. Or possibly migraine, brought on by the bright sunlight. When she failed to respond to treatment, it was suggested that I should bring her back to England, so that her own doctor might examine her.

  “I wasn’t unduly concerned, I didn’t imagine that there could be anything seriously wrong, but—” he spread his hands in a helpless, resigned gesture “—there is, isn’t there? Linda would not have been referred to you otherwise. Her own doctor, Dr. Lentaigne, warned me that her condition might be very serious, and that an operation might be necessary.”

  “Her condition is very serious, Mr. Blakeney,” Sir Duncan confirmed gravely. His hands were busy with the reports in front of him, sorting, discarding, studying. Finally he selected two of the typewritten sheets and placed them, with careful deliberation, beside some X-ray plates that were clipped together. He said, without looking up, “I am sorry to have to tell you that Linda has a cerebral tumor. She is very ill indeed. In fact—”

  “But—” despite all his efforts to control it, Charles Blakeney’s voice wasn’t steady “—you’ll be able to operate, won’t you? You’ll be able to cure her?”

  The doctor’s gaze met his squarely then, very slowly, he shook his head.

  “I cannot, of course, predict the outcome with absolute certainty until the actual operative exploration is made, but medical science has advanced to a point where one almost can, in a case like this. I am more sorry than I can begin to tell you that, in my opinion, excision of the tumor will not be possible. You see, that might be instantly fatal . . . .” He talked on, and Charles stared at him, icy fingers of fear clutching at his heart.

  For a moment he was too stunned by the implications of what he had been told to be able to utter a word. That this should happen to Lindy, of all people. . . . He couldn’t believe it. It was too hideously tragic to be true. Lindy was only a child, such a charming, pretty child . . . . He felt as if he were experiencing a nightmare and, clutching at the frail hope this possibility offered him, he prayed that he might waken from it.

  But, after a while, his hope died. This was no nightmare; he was fully awake, and he knew it. He also knew, now, why Sir Duncan Macintyre had asked so many questions, why— belying the impression of brisk incisiveness he had initially created—he had taken so long to come to the point. Because the point was this—there could be no escaping it—Linda wasn’t going to get well. . . .

  He said, his own voice sounding strange to him as he ground out the words, “But why? In God’s name, why?”

  “I will try to make her condition clear to you,” Sir Duncan answered quietly. “You understand, do you not, that these findings aren’t mine alone? I have had Professor Rodwell and Mr. Martin Shand in consultation with me—Professor Rodwell is a radiologist at St. Michael’s Hospital, and Mr. Shand I think you know.” He rose to his feet, picked up the X-ray plates and motioned Charles to follow him. “I’d like you to look at these X rays, Mr. Blakeney, and I will explain them as briefly as I can.”

  His explanation was concise and simplified but, even so, it took him the better part of half an hour to give it. From somewhere at the back of the room, a clock ticked away the minutes, the sound so irritating in its impersonal relentlessness that Charles found it all but unendurable.

  He had acquired, by reason of his profession, a working knowledge of medical matters and a slightly more than superficial acquaintance with the complex jargon. He heard, his brain recorded, what Sir Duncan was trying to tell him; he understood, when this was demonstrated to him, the significance of the electroencephalographic chart, with the aid of which the site of the lesion had been localized, but he listened in a sort of frozen horror, unable even now to accept this as the final and irrevocable judgment. Because the judgment was on Linda.

  Yet, when the consultant asked him if he wished for another opinion, he could only shake his head. Sir Duncan Macintyre was the ultimate authority on such cases as Linda’s—he had already called in Martin Shand to confirm his findings, and the clinical investigation had been thorough and far reaching. There obviously remained no doubt. Charles could not question the diagnosis, no matter how bitterly his mind might rebel against it.

  Slowly, the cold, hard facts he had been told began to penetrate his consciousness, to become comprehensible.

  There would have to be an operation, tomorrow morning, but it was likely to be palliative only. This would, Sir Duncan hoped, relieve the symptoms, free Linda from the blinding headaches she had been enduring with so much desperate courage. It was unlikely that she would have much more pain—God, in His mercy, had granted her that, at least.

  And she would not have to remain in the hospital. As soon as she had recovered from the immediate effects of the operation—in, perhaps, six to seven weeks’ time—she could be discharged and he could take her home . . . . What had Sir Duncan said?

  Charles drew in his breath sharply. Home—to his bachelor apartment in the Temple? No, that was impossible. She had stayed there occasionally, it was true, but only for a weekend, at the beginning or end of her school holidays. Usually he had sent her abroad with a governess, engaged temporarily to look after her, and he had joined them whenever he could get away. No such arrangement would be possible now, of course. Lindy would be an invalid, she . . . . He looked at Sir Duncan.

  “Isn’t there—” in spite of everything, he had to ask the question “—isn’t there any hope at all? Isn’t there even a chance that she may get well?’’

  Sir Duncan returned the last report to its folder. His voice was very ti
red as he answered. “The only chance, Blakeney, is of radical operation but, as I have told you, this case will, in my opinion, prove inoperable—I have attempted to demonstrate to you why. If, tomorrow morning, 1 find the slightest chance of being able to excise radically, I shall take it, I give you my word. But I do not expect to be able to do more than perform a palliative decompression.”

  “Yes,” Charles managed, “I understand that. But—

  Sir Duncan’s brow furrowed. He said sympathetically, “This has, I know, come as the most appalling shock to you and you are finding it hard to take in. Believe me, I wish with all my heart that I could hold out some hope to you. You are, of course, at liberty to seek another opinion, but I doubt if it would differ from mine and Mr. Shand’s.”

  Charles sighed, passing a hand wearily across his forehead, feeling it damp. “I accept your opinion, sir.”

  “There is a man in Paris,” Sir Duncan put in thoughtfully. “His name is Graber, Professor Franz Graber; he used to be at the Keller Institute in Vienna. He is an exceptional surgeon, and he has reported some amazing successes in desperate cases like this one. I will most willingly get in touch with him for you, if you would like to seek his opinion, Mr. Blakeney. At the moment he is in America, I believe, but perhaps you could take Linda to Paris when he returns—although, to be honest with you, I do not think that even he would agree to operate on her at this stage.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Charles braced himself. His voice had steadied as he went on. “You said just now that Linda won’t have to stay in the hospital. I don’t understand that, I’m afraid. I mean, if she is so desperately ill, then surely—”

  “The hospital,” Sir Duncan said pityingly, when Charles broke off, “will have done all that is possible for her when she is discharged. It would be needlessly cruel to keep her there once that stage is reached, don’t you agree? When she will have perhaps a year of almost normal life left to her?”