My Learned Friend

I was eventually able to function and called Dr. Purvess. He arrived quickly and examined her, then he picked up the small packet of the drug she had taken. There was no doubt that Chrissie had committed suicide but I did not want that to be official. "Dr. Purvess, is there any way we can avoid suspicion of suicide?"

He thought for a moment. "If you agree I can write a death certificate with heart failure as the cause. To be honest, Mr. Marston I wanted to find a way. Christine has suffered enough without our legal system adding suicide as an epitaph to her name. These pills," he held up the packet, "have been taken from the surgery's drugs cupboard. They are Diamorphine by the way. The number she has taken would have affected her very quickly. If there were an inquest, I would have to answer questions of how Mrs. Marston obtained these pills, and I could well be censured for sloppy management."

"I shall remember your kindness, Dr. Purvess." He wrote a death certificate of heart failure; thus avoiding the need for an inquest; in which all the details of her rape would be resurrected, her years of depression discussed followed by a verdict of suicide that would be unavoidable. The next few days were a blur. I may not have come through this but for the help of Melvin Askwith. He had retired but kept in touch and I was very thankful for his taking over and organizing everything. Chrissie and I had decided years ago that we wouldn't take up land space by being buried. So in accordance with her wishes she was cremated. When it was all done I came back to my empty house and Chrissie's small casket was placed where I would see it every day. When my time came, I would ask for my ashes to be mixed with Chrissie's and then scattered.

Working was something of a catharsis. I could step back from my emotions and deal sympathetically but unemotionally with the problems of others. I grabbed any brief I could and spent so much time in court that Mr. Justice Chandler was moved to comment one day. "It's so good to see you again Mr. Marston, again and again. Are there any other barristers in your chambers?"

Several months later Samira asked if she could have a talk at some time. We were working on a brief and I looked up. "We can take a break if you wish."

"No, Clem. It's a personal matter and I wouldn't wish to be interrupted."

I was somewhat surprised as she called me Clem, something she had never done. "Come in this evening, say six o' clock. Most of the others will be in the pub then." Barristers are called to the Bar, the legal bar, but many forget what bar that is. Drinking and the law seem to go together. Samira as a Muslim would never go to any place where alcohol was served.

I was packing up the papers of this latest brief when she came in. "Is now convenient, Clem?"

"Yes, Samira. Sit down." I said without looking up. When I did, I was shocked. Samira due to her Muslim tradition always wore voluminous black neck to foot clothes that did not reveal anything of her body shape. She also wore a scarf, the hijab around her neck and covering her head except for her face. The voluminous garment had gone although she still wore the hijab. She was dressed in a simple long turquoise smock, which conformed, to her body, proving that she was quite slim and very shapely. I did not remark on this revelation. "I won't be long, Samira."

She waited until I had tidied all the papers. She then took a big breath. "Clem, I was so sorry when I heard that Chrissie had died. From the things that others said you two were a perfect match."

"I thought so too, Samira. I still miss her painfully. Thank you for your sympathy."

"Clem, I know it is too soon but you will need a wife. I would ask you to consider me as wife to you. When you are ready of course."

I was flabbergasted. In fact, I thought I must have misheard. "Sorry, Samira. Did you just say that you would want to be my wife?"

"Yes, Clem. I will not find a husband amongst my people. At thirty-three, I am too old now. Muslim men want younger girls, besides I am too outspoken to be a Muslim wife; I know my own character and I could not marry any man I am unable to respect. You, Clem I do respect and I would be a good wife to you in every way and I know I would grow to love you."

I sat back in my chair thunderstruck. I was nearly sixty and this lovely younger woman was offering marriage to me. I knew I would refuse, but just for a moment, I had pleasurable thoughts. "Samira, your offer is a great compliment. However as much as I would like to say yes, I cannot. Chrissie and I made vows when we married, to love and keep each other in sickness and in health for life. The actual words are 'as long as ye both shall live'. That did not mean for the duration of her life it means to me for the duration of my life also. Even though Chrissie is dead, my promise remains. I will be faithful to Chrissie until I die. Then I know I shall be reunited with her and she will know that I remained faithful to her."

"Do I not please you, Clem?" She asked plaintively.

I knew she was referring her change of dress. "You are very lovely young woman, Samira. I would be less than a man if I didn't find you pleasing. In addition, you do me honour by your dressing as you have. As I said, I made a promise to Chrissie and myself. What is the worth of that promise if it can be discarded for convenience?"

Samira didn't show disappointment just a flicker of upset for my rejection. "Clem, I respect your fidelity, and would wish that some man would care for me as you care for Chrissie. If I remain unmarried, which I suspect will be the case and you feel differently as time goes on, please remember, my offer will stand."

She got up to leave. "I hope you don't think less of me now." She pleaded.

"Samira, I could never do that. You have proved yourself a loyal colleague and a friend. I look forward to working with you frequently."

She shrugged her shoulders. "I do too, Clem. Now, it's back to the tent." She laughed. A most musical of sounds.

I realised the point of her last remark when I was leaving. Samira was back in the black voluminous dress she habitually wore.

"Goodnight, Samira."

"Goodnight, Clem." She looked around checking to see if we were alone. She stretched up and kissed me on the cheek. She was smiling as she said. "Now if my father saw that he would make certain that we married. If not he would have to kill me."

There were times in the next few weeks that I regretted my decision about Samira. It wasn't the lack of closeness that bothered me, although I have to admit that becoming intimate with Samira would be nothing less than wonderful. The reason was simple. I was useless at domestic tasks. Chrissie had always made sure that I had clean and ironed linen, that my suits were cleaned on a regular basis and were always pressed with creases where they should be and no creases where they shouldn't. I was also a complete ignoramus in the kitchen. My diet now was mainly take-away meals, and that was not good for me. My problems were solved with an unexpected visit from my cousin Jean Herring. It was a Sunday and I was contemplating a steak which I seemed to have massacred, or was it intended to repair the sole of a shoe? The doorbell rang and throwing the offending piece of leather into the bin, I went to answer the door. It was my cousin Jean Herring.

Jean marched in determinedly. "I'll make us a cup of tea then we'll talk about why I am here." She made for the kitchen as if she was a guided missile. She looked around at the utensils I had out and deduced that I was allegedly cooking my meal. Unerringly she found her way to the bin and picked up the sorry-looking steak. She sighed and looked at me, shrugging her shoulders. "Go sit down. I'll do the tea."

I did as I was bid and shortly Jean came in with the tea on a tray. She looked at me and her stern face softened. "I was devastated about Christine." She started. "I noticed that your father wasn't at the funeral and asked your mum. She told me all about it, and she is angry. It appears that your dad hasn't had a hot meal since the trial, nor a shirt ironed. She is sleeping in your old room now. Her thoughts are that he won't get a crumb of comfort until he apologises to you. You know your dad, Clem. Hell will freeze over first."

"Oh yes, Jean. I know my dad. However, it means little to me. I lost Chrissie and she meant more to me than anyone else. Losing her was like losing everything."

"That's how it should be, Clem. I know it surprised everyone when I got married, I mean look at me? I make the back of a bus look good. I shouldn't have been surprised when he ran off with that woman who was slightly less ugly than me."

"Jean..." I started.

"Don't go there, Clem. I know what comments are made about me. After all these years I can ignore them easily. You never did make those comments. You were the one who studied and made something of yourself. You were the one who found the beautiful wife. You were the one who lived the good life happily with Christine. Now the fates have decided to pay you back, and it is so bloody unfair." She paused for a moment, perhaps summoning sufficient courage to go on."Clem, you need someone to look after you. I need somewhere to live that isn't riddled with mice and spiders. It's all I can afford after that bastard ran off and left me destitute. I am a good housekeeper, Clem. You'll have good healthy meals on time, the house will be spotless and your laundry will be clean and pressed. You have that little room over the garage. I'll move in there. I will not be a substitute wife, Clem. There will be no sex. I don't want to be paid I have a little income from capital my mother left to me. A roof over my head, meals and a purpose in life is all I want. What do you say?"

"With you in this mood I dare not say anything but yes, Jean."

"Good that's settled. Now is there a supermarket around here? I need to get some proper food to cook you a meal. That steak would have been inedible. I also need to get some cleaning and polishing cloths, this house is filthy."

Over time, I learned more of what was happening at my parent's house. Jean visited my mother quite often. "Auntie Mag (my mother was christened Margreta which she disliked) will cook for herself and sit down at the kitchen table to eat. Your dad caught her one day and wanted to know where his meal was and why was she eating in the kitchen. They always ate in the dining room. Auntie Mag told him that when he decided that they were a proper family again and invited Clement to come, she would cook a family meal to be enjoyed as a family in the dining room. Until then he would have to shift for himself. Your dad stormed off." Jean had a smile on her face telling me this snippet.

"Dad won't change. He is as stubborn as a mule."

"Even if he tears the family apart?"

"Even then. Although I see Ramsay as the one who tore the family apart."

"That he is still alive I count as the tragedy." Jean replied bitterly.

From comments she made I realised that Jean knew far more about Chrissie than I would have thought. I tackled her one day about her knowledge. Her explanation was simple. "I thought you knew. I was a patient of Dr. Purvess and saw Chrissie often at the surgery. We got on well and would occasionally meet for coffee. She was devastated when she found out she couldn't have children. She kept going on about it saying that she had let you down. She told me what you had said to her and I thought that was the most wonderful thing for any man to say to his wife. I am sure she never let you see it, but she was inconsolable about that."

Jean and I got on well. I suppose knowing her from an early age helped in that. There was no sexual tension between us as usually happened between a man and a woman. It was nothing to do with her looks, which were as she said herself plain. She never exuded that aura of sensuality, unlike Samira who visited one evening. She had brought parts of a brief we were working on and we needed to discuss our tactics. Samira was wearing western clothes! She explained.

"We are chaperoned by your cousin, and if you will not allow me to be your wife, I have decided that you could be viewed as an elder brother. As such, it is not required that I wear Hijab. Besides if you see me this way you may review your decision." She smiled sweetly at me.

"Samira, you could persuade a monk to forget his vows."

"Thank you, Clem. I am finding out the pleasure that western women feel when they receive compliments. Is there any chance I could change your mind?"

"I am sorry. But Chrissie still has her grip on my heart."

"She must have been an extraordinary woman." Samira offered.

"She was." The reply came from Jean who had just walked in with tea and some dainty cakes. "I have never known anyone like her. She could light up a room the moment she entered. She was silly at times, particularly when she fell for my idiot cousin here." She held out her hand. "I am Jean, Clem's cousin."

"Samira al Bazzeer. I am Clements junior and unofficial pupil. He is a good man to follow."

"Yes. He is the only one in our family who has made anything of himself."

I cleared my throat. "Samira! We have work to do."

She cast down her eyes saying. "Yes, Master." Her smile betrayed the humility of her words.

A few weeks later, I received a strange call on my private line in chambers. It was Brian Hathaway who wanted a chat. "It's not about your professional services, Mr. Marston. However there is something I would like to discuss which may be of service to you."

To say that I was intrigued would be an understatement. As the topic wasn't legal, I asked him to call on me at home. "I'll give you the address..."

"It's alright, Mr. Marston. I know where you live."

I mentioned to Jean that I had a visitor that evening. She asked if we would want drinks. I thought about it and decided it would not be a good idea. I was not much of a drinker and I didn't want, whatever the topic, to inflame emotions with alcohol. Brian Hathaway arrived at seven forty-five. When we first met all those years ago, he behaved a little like Jack-the-lad. I must have appeared to him as a nervous, unsure fledging barrister. We had both changed. He dressed as a wealthy businessman and drove a Rover car. It was not just any Rover but the P5B 3.5 litre coupe. The model was discontinued in 1973, but Brian's car looked as if it had come off the assembly line just last week. I nodded as he came to the door and he saw my interest in his car. "Best model Rover ever made. Makes you feel good to drive it."

"I agree." I replied as I walked to the garage door. I turned the handle and the door lifted to reveal my car. A Rover P5B saloon, which also looked as if it had come off the assembly line last week. "Snap." I exclaimed.

Brian laughed. "Well I should have guessed. You don't drive that every day I can tell."

"No." I agreed. "Dents and dings are very expensive to repair these days. I keep it because my wife loved it and made me promise never to sell."

A sombre look came to his face. "I heard about your wife. You have my most sincere condolences."

"Thank you."

"In many ways your wife is connected with what I wanted to talk about."

"Let's go indoors." I led the way and guided him to the sitting room. Jean was there and asked if he would prefer tea or coffee.

"Tea, please."

I introduced Jean. "This is my cousin Jean."

Brian extended his hand to shake. "Brian Hathaway."

We settle down. "Mr. Hathaway I am intrigued by your interest in me and what happened to my wife. Perhaps you would like to explain."

"First of all, it's Brian and may I call you Clem?" I nodded and he continued. "I was at the Law Courts when your brother was tried. I knew what had happened, but until that moment didn't understand that your brother was the rapist. Is there another word that would describe disgust? If there is that is how I felt."

"The Judge described it as heinous. I have used many words like despicable, contemptible, vile and loathsome. Nothing does justice to my feelings."

He nodded. "I can understand that. Eight years for what he did seems to me to be inadequate. If there was some way to punish him further, would you feel that justice had been served?"

During our conversation his voice had changed from the nasal singsong tones of the Birmingham accent to that of a cultured man. I remarked upon this. He smiled. "Having a local accent is useful if and when I have to go to court. Juries are drawn from ordinary people who can't find a way of getting out of the service. They see me as one of the own and let's say they lean towards me a little."

"So where did your cultured tones come from?"

"I have an Arts degree from Manchester. I now deal in antiques and antique dealers are supposed to be posh. You see it's all about presentation."

"A bit of a chameleon then?"

"Yes. You could describe me as that."

I switched the conversation back to justice. "Are you suggesting that justice could be served in another way?"

"It's possible."

"I don't know if I want to hear this, but go on anyway."

I had mixed feelings. My whole life had been dedicated to justice, defending the weak and prosecuting the offender, yet my personal pain asked me another question. Had Ram been punished enough? He took my wife without consent and as a consequence she could not live with the shame. In effect he murdered her and as we don't execute murderers he should be spending the rest of his life in prison. Brian was speaking and I only partly heard his words. "Sorry Brian, my mind was elsewhere, could you repeat that?

"Accidents happen in prison. An accident could happen to your brother."

"Hypothetically, what sort of accident?"

"Oh, he could slip in the showers, or fall down the stairs. Something sufficient to break something but not life threatening."

"I see. If I hypothetically agreed to this, would there be an exchange of cash?"

"Not for me, Clem. You have done well for me so I consider I owe you. However, possibly a little present for another prisoner's wife, just to help her out you understand, would have her husband in prison feeling indebted to you. All hypothetically of course."

"So hypothetically what would be sufficient to have that prisoner feeling indebted to me?"

"I suppose in fiction something like five hundred would do."

"I of course would never know who this prisoner is, or his wife."

Brian waved his hands in the universal sign language of negative. "As we are talking hypothetically they don't have names at all."

I had much to think about. However many people may view this, as far as the law is concerned this was conspiracy to cause grievous bodily harm. Another thought crossed my mind, how did an antique dealer have contacts that could arrange this. I asked the question. "Brian, you seem to have contacts that even I with my years of dealing with criminals could not arrange"

Brian had a wry look at he replied. "Well Clem, my antique dealing is more about relieving people of artefacts that I can move on at a profit."

"Say no more, Brian. What intrigues me is your being arrested for the arson attack and then the murder of Tom Mercer who was the victim in the first case."

"Shall we say the police were manipulated into arresting me. Having done so the police did not make further enquiries which allowed the real culprit to find a smoke screen."

"You were taking a risk."

"No, Clem. I had you defending me. I was told that you were a devil for the details. My solicitor reckoned that you would find all the holes in the charge. You did just what the solicitor said you would do." He paused and then went on. "You know that Mercer was a child molester?"

"I had heard rumours. It wasn't germane to your defence, and if it was offered as a defence it would create problems for you."