Free A Certain Justice by P. D. James Page B
Authors: P. D. James
countryside. They don’t care about animals. What they hate is seeing people enjoy themselves. Malice and envy, that’s what it’s about.” He added, with a tone of surprised triumph, as if the words were inspired: “They don’t love foxes, they hate humans.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that argument before, Mr. Cartwright.”
He seemed now to be pressing himself against her. She could almost smell the disagreeable warmth of his body through the tweed. “The rest of the hunt won’t be too pleased with the verdict. Some of them want me out. They wouldn’t have minded seeing that saboteur win. They didn’t exactly leap into the box as witnesses for the defence, did they? Well, if they want to hunt across my land they’d better get used to seeing me in a pink coat.”
How predictable he was, she thought, the stereotype of the hard-riding, hard-drinking, womanizing, would-be country gentleman. Wasn’t it Henry James who had said, “Never believe that you know the last thing about any human heart”? But he was a novelist. It was his job to find complexities, anomalies, unsuspected subtleties in all human nature. To Venetia, as she grew into middle age, it seemed that the men and women she defended, the colleagues she worked with became more, not less, predictable. Only rarely now was she surprised by an action totally out of character. It was as if the instrument, the key, the melody were settled in the early years of life, and however ingenious and varied the subsequent cadenzas, the theme remained unalterably the same.
Yet Brian Cartwright had his virtues. He was a successful manufacturer of parts for agricultural machinery. You didn’t build up a business from nothing if you were a fool. He provided jobs. He was said to be a generous, open-handed employer. What hidden talents and enthusiasms, she wondered, might lie under that carefully tailored tweed jacket? He had at least had the sense to dress soberly for his appearance in the witness box; she had feared that he might appear in over-bold checks and breeches. Had he perhaps a passion for lieder? For growing orchids? For baroque architecture? Unlikely. And what in God’s name did the lady wife see in him? Was it significant that she hadn’t been in court?
Venetia had reached the door of the lady barristers’ robing-room. At last she would be free of him. Turning, she risked once more the vise-like grip of his hand, then watched him go. She hoped never to see him again, but that was what she felt about the defendant in every successful case.
A court attendant had come up. He said: “There’s quite a crowd of anti-hunt saboteurs outside. They’re not happy with the verdict. It might be wise to leave by the other door.”
“Are the police there?”
“There’s a couple of officers. I think they’re more noisy than violent — the crowd, I mean.”
“Thank you, Barraclough. I’ll leave as I usually leave.”
It was then, passing along the concourse to the main staircase, that she saw them. Octavia and Ashe. They were standing together beside the statue of Charles II, looking fixedly down the wide hall towards her. Even from this distance she could see that they were together, that this was no chance meeting but a deliberate encounter, a time and place they had chosen. There was a stillness about them, unusual in her daughter but known and recognized in Ashe. For a second, no more, her steps faltered, and then she walked steadily towards them. As she came within speaking distance she saw Octavia move her hand towards Ashe’s and then, as he made no response, as quietly withdraw it, but her daughter’s eyes did not fall.
Ashe was wearing a white shirt which looked newly starched, blue jeans and a denim jacket. Venetia could see that the jacket had not been cheap; somehow he had got hold of money. Beside his stylish self-confidence, Octavia looked very young and rather pathetic. The long cotton shift which she habitually wore over a T-shirt was
“Yes, I’ve heard that argument before, Mr. Cartwright.”
He seemed now to be pressing himself against her. She could almost smell the disagreeable warmth of his body through the tweed. “The rest of the hunt won’t be too pleased with the verdict. Some of them want me out. They wouldn’t have minded seeing that saboteur win. They didn’t exactly leap into the box as witnesses for the defence, did they? Well, if they want to hunt across my land they’d better get used to seeing me in a pink coat.”
How predictable he was, she thought, the stereotype of the hard-riding, hard-drinking, womanizing, would-be country gentleman. Wasn’t it Henry James who had said, “Never believe that you know the last thing about any human heart”? But he was a novelist. It was his job to find complexities, anomalies, unsuspected subtleties in all human nature. To Venetia, as she grew into middle age, it seemed that the men and women she defended, the colleagues she worked with became more, not less, predictable. Only rarely now was she surprised by an action totally out of character. It was as if the instrument, the key, the melody were settled in the early years of life, and however ingenious and varied the subsequent cadenzas, the theme remained unalterably the same.
Yet Brian Cartwright had his virtues. He was a successful manufacturer of parts for agricultural machinery. You didn’t build up a business from nothing if you were a fool. He provided jobs. He was said to be a generous, open-handed employer. What hidden talents and enthusiasms, she wondered, might lie under that carefully tailored tweed jacket? He had at least had the sense to dress soberly for his appearance in the witness box; she had feared that he might appear in over-bold checks and breeches. Had he perhaps a passion for lieder? For growing orchids? For baroque architecture? Unlikely. And what in God’s name did the lady wife see in him? Was it significant that she hadn’t been in court?
Venetia had reached the door of the lady barristers’ robing-room. At last she would be free of him. Turning, she risked once more the vise-like grip of his hand, then watched him go. She hoped never to see him again, but that was what she felt about the defendant in every successful case.
A court attendant had come up. He said: “There’s quite a crowd of anti-hunt saboteurs outside. They’re not happy with the verdict. It might be wise to leave by the other door.”
“Are the police there?”
“There’s a couple of officers. I think they’re more noisy than violent — the crowd, I mean.”
“Thank you, Barraclough. I’ll leave as I usually leave.”
It was then, passing along the concourse to the main staircase, that she saw them. Octavia and Ashe. They were standing together beside the statue of Charles II, looking fixedly down the wide hall towards her. Even from this distance she could see that they were together, that this was no chance meeting but a deliberate encounter, a time and place they had chosen. There was a stillness about them, unusual in her daughter but known and recognized in Ashe. For a second, no more, her steps faltered, and then she walked steadily towards them. As she came within speaking distance she saw Octavia move her hand towards Ashe’s and then, as he made no response, as quietly withdraw it, but her daughter’s eyes did not fall.
Ashe was wearing a white shirt which looked newly starched, blue jeans and a denim jacket. Venetia could see that the jacket had not been cheap; somehow he had got hold of money. Beside his stylish self-confidence, Octavia looked very young and rather pathetic. The long cotton shift which she habitually wore over a T-shirt was