Next of Kin Read online

  * * *

  IN THE LORD CHANCELLOR’S luxurious suite in Westminster, Lord Hailsham resolved to call a meeting of the advisory committee for early in the week, when a final decision would have to be made. The country could no longer take the pressure of scandal and gossip and the prime minister was pressing him urgently for an answer. He hoped that the Bentley case would be resolved in time but regardless of that, it was time to bring the matter to a close.

  * * *

  LORD KEATON SLEPT VERY well and dreamed of that very suite in Westminster, and of the future that lay before him, the birthright of his ancestors which had been stolen from him, a birthright that was only days away from being his. And a stable country, untroubled by a foolish monarch.

  * * *

  IN BUCKINGHAM PALACE, KING Edward VIII slept alone but lay awake now, his mind torn by the twin tortures of duty and love. He didn’t know why he wasn’t simply allowed to do as he pleased—no one had ever denied him anything before—and he thought of his late father’s prophetic words that after he was gone, his heir would destroy himself within a twelvemonth. But he knew what he wanted and he knew who he could not live without. And if that meant giving up the throne, his own birthright, then so be it. But he would wait no longer to be married. They had plagued him for so many years to take a wife and now that he had chosen one, they claimed that she was unacceptable. The whole thing was a ridiculous irony.

  * * *

  STELLA MONTIGNAC DREAMED OF America and the luxurious liners that would take her there. She thought of the fact that she was not yet thirty, and wealthy, intelligent and beautiful. She missed Raymond Davis desperately, she knew she always would, but she was damned if she was going to waste her life mourning him. There were other lives to live, other men to meet. Perhaps she could fall in love again. She hadn’t loved Raymond, of course, but she had liked him well enough. Her hand reached to her face; the sting of the slap had faded now. It had been a rare intimacy between her and her cousin.

  * * *

  RODERICK AND JANE BENTLEY lay in bed but separate from each other, neither one speaking, breathing quietly so as not to encourage conversation, lost in the trauma of their lives. He hadn’t told Jane yet but he was almost sure that he would have no choice. He could not change his vote. His entire life had been built around his integrity and belief in the judicial system and he simply could not walk away from that now; his son must take responsibility for his actions and he himself would live with the consequences. He would inform Keaton at the next meeting. On her side of the bed, Jane lay with her eyes open, her mind blank, completely lost.

  * * *

  ALONE IN HIS CELL, Gareth Bentley felt relatively calm. He could only testify as to what he remembered. He could only apologize for what he had done. He could only live—or die—with whatever verdict and sentence was reached. There was nothing for him in life any more than this.

  * * *

  AND OWEN MONTIGNAC, THE rightful heir of Leyville, climbed into bed and wondered what the next few days would hold. He had made up his mind that there was something he could perhaps do still, something that might relieve what remained of his conscience. He would never feel guilty for Raymond; no, not for that. But Gareth was a different matter. Or would it be simpler to let him take the fall and close the business once and for all? Once Keaton was satisfied, once the king was prepared to go, then what did it matter any more? As long as the money came his way and his debts were clear. He should never have hit Stella, he knew that now. But she had said something to him on the rooftop that had stayed in his mind: no one can stop us any more.

  Was there still a chance for them? he wondered as he tried, and failed, to sleep.

  SEVEN

  1

  HE SAT ON A small bench at quite some distance from the courtroom doors but watched as the people streamed in—interested busybodies, newspapermen, legal representatives, a desperately unhappy-looking couple who had the look of Raymond Davis about them, Alexander Keys, the once beautiful Lady Jane Bentley, who now appeared exhausted and terrified, with the man he took to be her husband, Roderick—until the bailiff closed the doors to the court and he was left almost alone in the echoing silence of the stone corridor. There was a staircase at the end and a young lady in high-heeled shoes ascended them noisily, the points of her shoes making clacking sounds on the stone floor that reverberated around him. He felt an urge to run as far away as possible from the ordeal ahead but steeled himself, knowing that the most crucial moments of the matter lay ahead.

  He heard a loud cry from inside the courtroom and then the doors swung open and the bailiff stepped outside it and repeated in a deep voice:

  ‘Call Owen Montignac.’

  He stood up and walked towards the doors, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

  The room was packed, there were even a few solicitors and bewigged barristers watching proceedings on their feet from the back, but he made his way purposefully through the crowd, looking directly ahead at all times, and walked towards the steps of the witness box, climbed up and looked out at the courtroom, holding on to the bar in front of him as he did so.

  A young man approached him with a Bible and he took the oath, and then Mr Justice Harkman rose for the prosecution.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said in an amicable voice. ‘Can you tell us your name and address please.’

  ‘Owen Henry Montignac,’ he said, speaking in a clear voice that carried nicely through the marble acoustics of the room, and he gave his Bedford Place address.

  ‘And can you tell us your occupation, Mr Montignac?’

  ‘I run an art gallery on Cork Street, the Threadbare Gallery.’

  ‘I see,’ said Harkman. ‘The Threadbare … and that specializes in the sale of contemporary paintings, is that correct?’

  ‘It’s mostly paintings, yes,’ said Montignac. ‘But we handle a lot of sculpture too. We only sell art that has been produced in the twentieth century, however, that’s what makes us different.’

  The judge leaned over towards Montignac. ‘I wasn’t aware that there had been any art produced in the twentieth century,’ he said, coming over all curmudgeonly and avuncular, a favourite pastime of judges, and one which made the courtroom erupt in sycophantic laughter.

  ‘Well, you might be surprised, Your Honour,’ said Montignac with a smile in order to be amiable. ‘There are some very fine young artists at work today, I believe.’

  Just none of them on display at the Threadbare, he thought to himself.

  ‘And can you tell us how long you’ve been employed there?’ asked Harkman.

  ‘Just over four years.’

  ‘You’re the manager?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘And the gallery is owned by a Mrs…’ He strolled casually over to his seat and consulted a file. ‘A Mrs Rachel Conliffe, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Conliffe is the owner but she has very little involvement in the day-to-day running of the gallery.’

  ‘She leaves that up to you?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘She must have a great deal of trust in you, Mr Montignac.’

  ‘I believe she does, yes. We have a very cordial relationship.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Harkman, pleased that the formalities were over with. ‘Now can you tell us whether you are familiar with the defendant?’

  For the first time since stepping into the courtroom, Montignac’s eyes drifted in the direction of the dock, a surprisingly small cage-like area where, seated alone with a policeman standing on either side of him, was Gareth Bentley. Montignac stared at him and was momentarily taken aback. Although he had hardly been overweight before, he appeared to be severely undernourished now. His face had grown gaunt and his eyes appeared to have sunk further into his skull. The expensive suit he wore seemed entirely ill-fitting, as if it was designed for a much larger man. He gave Montignac the impression of a drunkard in a cheap tavern, unshaven and semi-conscious, who nonetheless wears a twee
d suit and tie every day of his life.

  ‘Yes,’ said Montignac. ‘Yes, I know Mr Bentley.’

  ‘Can you tell us how you first met him?’

  Montignac nodded. ‘It was earlier this year,’ he said. ‘Sometime in July, I believe. I was visiting an acquaintance at a club that he owns and while there I met a friend of mine who was part of a small birthday gathering in Gareth’s … in Mr Bentley’s honour. We were introduced.’

  ‘I see,’ said Harkman. ‘And you talked a lot that evening?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Montignac. ‘There were a few of us there and we chatted about a few things. Gareth mentioned some of the things that were frustrating him in his life but I couldn’t stay too long as I had an early start in the morning and so I left before the others.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Harkman, picking up the strand that Montignac had deliberately left hanging for him. ‘You say that Mr Bentley expressed some frustrations?’

  ‘Well,’ said Montignac with a gentle laugh, as if this was the most natural thing he could imagine. ‘Nothing that any young man of twenty-four doesn’t feel, I suppose. I didn’t think too much of it.’

  ‘Can you be more explicit? What exactly did he mention?’

  Montignac breathed in heavily as he considered it, acting for all the world as if he hadn’t thought about this for a long time. ‘Let me see,’ he mentioned. ‘I remember him saying that he was under a certain amount of pressure at home to find suitable employment. I believe he had graduated some time earlier with a law degree but had chosen not to pursue this—’

  ‘Objection, Your Honour,’ said Sir Quentin Lawrence, rising to his feet. ‘We’ve already established Mr Bentley’s educational history and his prospects in July of this year.’

  ‘Yes,’ said the judge, turning to Montignac. ‘If you can just stick to what the defendant actually told you as opposed to what you understood to be the case.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Montignac with a nod. ‘Apologies.’

  ‘You say you left the club before anyone else that evening,’ continued Harkman.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And did you travel home alone?’

  ‘No,’ said Montignac. ‘No, I was waiting on the street for a taxicab when Gareth came out and continued to talk to me.’

  ‘He left his own party?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘I see. And what did you talk about?’

  ‘Well it was something of a continuation of the conversation we were having inside,’ said Montignac. ‘About how he wanted to do something exciting with his life, something adventurous. He wanted to make his own money and not be beholden to his family.’

  ‘And how did you react to that?’

  ‘I found him very refreshing,’ said Montignac. ‘I’ve always made my own way in the world and suspected that I had found a kindred soul. I could see his enthusiasm and I gave him my card when we arrived at my flat.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘I thought it might be interesting to talk to him again.’

  ‘And did you expect him to contact you?’

  ‘I didn’t think about it one way or the other,’ said Montignac. ‘I thought it was just one of those pleasant chats one has with the friend of a mutual acquaintance and that we might run into each other from time to time, but other than that…’ He drifted off and shrugged his shoulders to imply that he hadn’t given the matter any further thought.

  ‘Very good, Mr Montignac,’ said Harkman, who was pacing back and forth and remaining steady and methodical in his questioning. ‘Now the next time you saw Mr Bentley was when he came to visit you at your gallery, is that right?’

  ‘That’s correct, yes. He came one evening, just after we’d closed.’

  ‘He arrived when the streets were dark and the shop was deserted?’ asked Harkman.

  ‘Objection, Your Honour!’ cried Sir Quentin. ‘Prosecution counsel seems to be equating my client with a villain directly from the pages of Mr Dickens.’

  ‘Quite so, Sir Lawrence,’ said the judge. ‘Please, Mr Harkman, there’s no need to be quite so melodramatic.’

  ‘I’m extremely grateful to Your Honour for his advice,’ said Harkman obsequiously, bowing his head. ‘Mr Montignac, can you tell us why the defendant came to visit you that night?’

  Montignac scrunched up his face as if trying to recall. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He mentioned that I had said there was the possibility of employment with the gallery and whether I had been serious about it.’

  ‘And had you?’

  ‘Well, sort of,’ said Montignac. ‘It’s the kind of thing one says without expecting to be taken up on it. It’s rather like inviting someone to your house for Christmas; you don’t actually expect that they’ll say yes but you feel rather good about yourself for extending the invitation in the first place.’

  Some of the jury members laughed at that and even the judge and Sir Quentin allowed themselves a smile.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Harkman, who was pleased with how his witness was carrying himself. He could see that the jury liked him very much. His stance, his youthful handsomeness, that startling crop of white hair, only endeared him to them while little jokes like this made them trust him.

  ‘But you did in fact offer him a position?’ continued Harkman.

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘And what was that position?’

  ‘Well it was a sort of jack-of-all-trades job,’ said Montignac. ‘He didn’t know much about art but I have an assistant who … well it’s difficult to say to be honest.’

  ‘I’ll have to press you, Mr Montignac.’

  ‘Well my assistant isn’t always as reliable as I would wish him to be. Timekeeping, professionalism, that sort of thing. I rather thought that in time I might replace him with the defendant, teach him the ropes and so on. I had a notion at the back of my mind about speaking to Mrs Conliffe regarding the possibility of opening a second gallery for more traditional fare and thought that Gareth could help me in that.’

  ‘You offered him a lot of opportunities, didn’t you, Mr Montignac?’

  ‘I suppose I did, yes.’

  ‘Now if I may turn to the night of August the eighteenth. You and the defendant went to the Bullirag pub in Piccadilly Circus for dinner after work, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Montignac.

  ‘And the defendant drank an awful lot that night.’

  Montignac did his best to look uncomfortable in the witness box and threw an apologetic glance towards the dock.

  ‘Mr Montignac,’ repeated Harkman. ‘If you can just let us know what happened on the evening in question.’

  ‘I was rather hungry,’ said Montignac who needed no more prompting, ‘but Gareth seemed more interested in drinking. He was getting through quite a lot but to be honest I didn’t think much of it. I’m not a heavy drinker myself but I have friends who enjoy such things and it doesn’t seem to have much effect on them so I assumed Mr Bentley would be fine too.’

  ‘Quite so, but the effect it had on him…?’

  ‘Was extreme. He started to slur his words, to shout quite loudly, he became quite aggressive in fact.’

  ‘Aggressive?’

  ‘Well the barman asked me to quieten him down and when I asked him to, Gareth seemed to get quite angry.’

  Without meaning to, his eyes glanced in the direction of the dock where Gareth sat with an expression of confusion mingled with regret at his lack of memories of the night.

  ‘And how did this anger manifest itself?’

  ‘In words, at first. And then he said that if I wanted him to quieten down why didn’t I come over there and make him.’

  ‘I see. He threatened you, in other words?’

  ‘I think that might be overstating the case a little,’ said Montignac with a smile.

  ‘But you felt intimidated by him?’

  He considered this. ‘I felt that it was best for our future relationship if I put a stop
to the evening’s festivities. However, knowing the difficulties he was facing at home I thought it would be best if I let him sleep it off at my flat. It’s the kind of thing one does for one’s friends, you know.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So I called a taxicab and put him into it, despite his protests, and then I contacted some friends and went to see them for the evening. My intention was to return home later and sleep on the sofa but, to my eternal regret, I stayed over at my friends’ house.’

  ‘And, Your Honour, we have provided you with affidavits to confirm Mr Montignac’s residence that night,’ said Harkman, referring to the documents that Lord Keaton had purchased.

  ‘Very good,’ said the judge.

  ‘And the next thing you knew about the defendant?’ asked Harkman.

  ‘Was when the police came to see me at the gallery the following afternoon and told me what had happened.’

  ‘I see. Thank you, Mr Montignac. No more questions for now, Your Honour.’

  Montignac nodded at him and took a sip of water, bracing himself for what was to come, Sir Quentin’s cross-examination.

  2

  SIR QUENTIN LAWRENCE ROSE to his feet and looked across at Montignac with a vague expression of surprise on his face, as if his evidence so far had been so irrelevant that he had barely noticed him standing in the witness box until now.

  ‘You say that you’ve always made your own way in the world, Mr Montignac?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he replied.