Anthony leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes to the beams of light darting across his face. The calm before the storm. Over recent weeks Edith would sit with him in the quiet, taking sketches from different angles – sitting in counsel's seats, or the Jury benches, or from Mrs Hughes's desk.
"Good morning Your Honour. Take your feet off the Bench, it deserves your respect."
He scoffed, "It's my Bench."
"It belongs to no Judge. It was here before you arrived and it'll be here long after you've gone."
He rolled his eyes, but complied with Mrs Hughes's demands, she was right, as ever.
"You know I think there's a real chance that I might finish the summing up today." He wanted, desperately, to do so, to spend a work free weekend curled up in bed with Edith. The Jury might be out for two, maybe even three weeks deliberating. There would be a few blissful weeks together in the sun at Snaresbrook. Then he would let her go. But before that he wanted a little longer. Just a little bit longer.
"Promises, promises."
"Any word from Edith?"
"No. She's probably stuck on the tube, you know what it's like." She thrust a small selection of papers under his nose, "you need to robe."
He eyed the bundle, "why?"
"Emergency bail application."
"No! Mrs Hughes, absolutely not!"
"You aren't in the High Court yet Your Honour, you still have to do the little bail aps."
"Get Charlie to do it." He sounded petulant, even to his own ears.
"He can't."
Anthony snorted, "you're playing favorites." He stood up with a flourish, "I don't stand a chance against the handsome judicial prince who won your heart." He put his head in his hand, feigning sobs and then turned back to her with a smile.
She pushed the papers into his chest, blushing, "oh, go on, you silly, silly man!"
He called back to her from the office door, "send Edith straight in when she arrives!"
The clock ticked over to ten o'clock and there was still no sign of her, no texts, no phone calls. The Transport For London website announced a good service on all lines. A coil of concern settled in Anthony's stomach.
As he entered the courtroom, his eyes flicked to the press benches. It was a habit at this point. When Edith was in a room he sought her out, craving a small smile and bright brown eyes. The seats were empty.
The young barrister acting for the Crown resisted bail as though he was making submissions in front of the Supreme Court itself. Anthony's eyes meandered to the defence counsel, a young woman sitting straight-backed and cross-armed, arching a sardonic eyebrow at her inexperienced prosecutor.
She looked familiar. He shuffled his papers around and located his list.
R v Bryan, Defence: Ms Mary Crawley.
He darted his head back up. They'd met before, but long ago. The flicker of recognition suddenly made sense.
The sisterly resemblance was there, but only just. Where Edith's features were warm, Mary's were cold. The dart of Edith's chin and the point of her nose invited you in, Mary's were threatening blades. Both Crawley girls had that translucent pale skin. The complexion of the classic English rose. Edith's skin glowed, begged to be touched. In contrast, Mary's was brittle, like fine china warning away curious fingers. From the moment he'd seen Edith he'd wanted to know her, needed to. He couldn't imagine ever feeling that way about the creature sitting before him.
Suddenly a flush of awareness crept under his skin and jagged through his belly. Dinner with Mary. Edith had to cancel on her the evening they'd played Scrabble. She'd suggested re-scheduling. Mary knew Maud.
He took slow, deliberate breaths. The bail application swum about in front of him. Black-type careening into thick bullet points, bouncing up and down, the words swirling into a nonsensical oblivion. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing his vision to right itself. Willing the world to right itself. He looked to the empty press benches again. She was just late. Stuck on a train someplace, or called into work by a petulant phone call from Daisy. There was a rational explanation.
He raised his hand and silenced the prosecutor, "thank you Mr –" He searched for the name but couldn't see it, "thank you. Ms Crawley –" She stood, poised to launch into her speech, "your lay client can have bail as long as he'll consent to a tagged curfew. I need to see you in my Chambers please."
Frantically he checked his phone. No message. No call. Anthony was not a man inclined to panic. When you've defended men facing life in prison and had the shape of complex cases change at the drop of a hat mid-way through cross-examination you quickly learn to marshal your anxiety. He was overcome now. The few minutes it took Mrs Hughes to clear the courtroom and lead Mary Crawley behind the Bench and through the door into his office stretched out into hours. He paced, fisting his hands together, telling himself: there is a rational explanation.
"Ms Crawley, Your Honour."
"Thank you Mrs Hughes."
She scanned her surroundings and pulled her black robe back onto her left shoulder. It had slipped down in the commute. Women didn't have the shape for them, sexism built into the very outfits barristers were expected to wear. Edith had commented on it once, he hadn't noticed before that, the way the panel in the back anticipated the broad-straight shoulders of a typical man's frame.
"What can I do for you, Your Honour?"
He'd been silent, wondering how to broach his enquiry. Is it possible you've ruined my life in the last twenty-four hours?
"Did you see Edith yesterday?"
"Edith? How do you know –" Her eyes darted upwards and back to him, "ah - you're the Judge she's painting! I'd forgotten you were a St John's man. Congratulations Your Honour."
He waved away her compliments, that wasn't the point of this. He felt a bubble of frustration swell at the back of his throat. He wanted to snap at her - just answer the question, "did you see her yesterday?"
Mary's eyes narrowed perceptively, he could tell she wanted to ask questions, to tip into a cross-examination. She tempered it; ambitious barristers didn't bark questions at Circuit Judges, even less so those who were to become High Court Judges.
"Well, we were meant to go to dinner, but she scurried out of Chambers after we'd only been together about twenty minutes."
Horror bloomed, slowly, inch by inch, like blood on a white sheet, saturating each fibre, a gradual ruin. He tried to keep his voice even, "Chambers?"
"Yes. I had to take some files back and telephone an Instructing Solicitor."
"You're still at Bedford Row?"
"Yes."
Maud's Chambers. This had to be it. He prayed to God he was wrong, but he knew, in his gut, he already knew.
"Did you see anyone?"
"At Chambers? No."
"Did you talk about me?"
Mary took off her wig and fiddled with the frayed horsehair at the edge, "As a matter of fact we did. She asked about Maud."
He clamped his eyes shut and braced himself on the desk. The grain of the wood was coarse underneath his fingers. Mary looked at him, obviously perplexed by his behaviour and utterly oblivious to the sledgehammer she had taken to the centre of his fragile existence. How ironic that it should be Mary, who Edith hated most of all, to be the one to reveal him. It completed the horror, posed the body.
"What did you tell her?"
"What do you mean? She asked who Maud was, I told her, she didn't realise Maud worked under her maiden name. I'm sorry Your Honour, it was two minutes of conversation, if that. We didn't really talk much about you, if that's what you're annoyed about. She just asked and I was so relieved to have a topic of conversation. My sister can be terribly difficult to talk to. You know how it is? People who aren't lawyers, they have such small lives and Edith's an art –"
Her sanctimonious babbling faded as he stormed out of his office. Mrs Hughes was standing in the small judicial kitchen stirring two cups of tea. He had torn off his bands and was already halfway out of his robes.
"Oh - Your Honour, would you like –" She eyed his state of undress, "what are you doing?"
"I have to leave."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I have to go Mrs Hughes."
She smiled and laughed, "don't be silly! You've got a full day of summing up" The robes were off. He balled them up and put them on the kitchen counter. She looked at them and shook her head vigorously, "you're not serious. You can't go! When will you be back? You cannot go."
He took her by the shoulders. It was odd, she was the closest thing to a mother he had left, but they never touched. Worry lines framed her face. She was concerned for him. He could spill the whole sorry story out to her and ask for a comforting hug. Maybe he would, one day, but just now he had to get to Edith.
"I'm sorry. I have to. I would never do this, I would never ask it if I didn't need to go, have to go. I need you to get Charlie to send my Jury home, make my excuses."
"He has a morning list and a trial as well!"
"He'll do it if you ask him to."
He dropped his hands and she folded her arms across her chest, "this is important?" She waved her hand, "ach, don't answer that. I know it is. Go then. Go! Before I change my mind."
He brushed a kiss on her forehead and bolted.
A three-figure taxi journey later, he was banging on the door of the factory.
"It's the Judge. Hello." Thomas was pulling a jacket on, "Come in then."
Anthony assumed he didn't know, otherwise he suspected he'd have found himself flat on his back with a sore jaw or a black eye, perhaps both. He was under no illusions over what Thomas would do to protect Edith, or punish the man who'd messed her around.
"Is Edith here?"
"No. I thought she was at court with you?"
"No."
He shrugged, "well, I'm out of ideas." He levered a backpack into position and tilted his head at Anthony, "I'm off for a weekend in Liverpool. I can text Edith and let her know you came round or –" He trailed off.
"Do you mind if I wait here for her?"
"Knock yourself out."
He took himself up to Edith's front door and knocked, just in case. There was silence from the other side.
Sliding down the wall and to the floor, he put his forehead onto his knees. He'd been so fixated on crossing London, on getting to Edith, he only realised now that he had no idea what he was going to say. It was unforgiveable. Monstrous. There was no clever point to argue, no submissions of mitigation to offer. He'd put himself in the dock and he deserved what was coming to him. He, of all people, should know: from crime came punishment.
There were footsteps on the bridge and he looked up to find Edith turning the corner into her small hallway. She jarred to a halt on seeing him. Her hands held full bags of shopping.
She shook her head, lips pressed tightly together. The artificial light reflected off the tears in her eyes. She looked at him like he was a stranger. Her blank expression was agony, so much worse than he'd anticipated.
"Oh God, Edith, please let me explain."