room, which neither Aldridge nor his wife found the energy to do anything about, and which Venetia wasn’t allowed to touch.
She walked daily to the local comprehensive school. It was one of the first established in London and was intended as a showcase for the new educational policy. Although the first heady years of doctrinaire optimism had been overtaken by the usual problems of a large urban school, it was one in which a clever industrious child could do well. For Venetia the change from the long-established provincial single-sex high school, with its slightly snobbish conventions and local traditions, was less traumatic than she had expected. It was as easy to be a loner at the new school as it had been at the old. She coped with the few bullies by a tongue which could lash them into silence; there was, after all, more than one way of making oneself feared. She worked hard in school, harder still at home. She knew precisely where she wanted to go. The three top-grade A levels gained her an Oxford place. The first-class degree was followed by an equally brilliant academic success in her Bar examinations. By the time she went up to Oxford she thought she knew all she needed to know about men. The strong could be devils; the weak were moral cowards. There might be men she would sexually desire, even admire, come to like and even want to marry. But never again would she put herself at the mercy of a man.
The door opened, recalling her to the present. She looked at her watch. Nearly two hours. Had it really been so long since the jury went out? Her junior tried to control his excitement.
“They’re back.”
“With a question?”
“Not a question. We’ve got a verdict.”
Chapter 4
S lowly and with a careful avoidance of drama or obvious anxiety the court reassembled, waiting for the jury and the appearance of the judge. It was at this moment that Venetia remembered her pupil-master. He had been a traditionalist to whom the picture of a woman in a wig was an anachronism to be borne with stoicism, provided the face beneath the wig was pretty, the manner sweetly deferential and the brain no challenge to his own. There had been general surprise in Chambers when he had accepted a woman pupil; it could only be in penance for an infraction too grievous to be atoned for by less draconian means. When she remembered him it was with respect rather than affection, but he had given her two pieces of advice for which she was grateful.
“Keep all your blue notebooks after trial. Not just for the specified time, for always. It’s useful to have a record of cases and you can learn from early mistakes.”
The second had been equally useful: “There are moments when it is essential to look at the jury, moments when it is advisable to do so, and moments when you should avoid even a glance. One of the last is when they return with the verdict. Never betray anxiety in court. And if you’ve put up a good fight and they’re going against you, looking at them will only embarrass them.”
The latter advice was difficult to follow in Court One at the Bailey, where the jury box was immediately facing the barristers’ benches. Venetia fixed her eyes on the judge’s seat and didn’t glance across the court when, following the usual preliminaries, the Clerk to the Court asked the foreman of the jury to stand. A middle-aged, scholarly-looking man, more formally dressed than the others, got to his feet. He had, thought Venetia, been a natural choice for foreman.
The Clerk asked: “Have you arrived at your verdict?”
“We have, sir.”
“Do you find the accused, Garry Ashe, guilty or not guilty of the murder of Mrs. Rita O’Keefe?”
“Not guilty.”
“And that is the verdict of you all?”
“It is.”
There was no sound in the body of the court, but she heard from the public gallery a low murmur, somewhere between a groan and a hiss, which could have been surprise, relief or disgust. She didn’t look up. It was
She walked daily to the local comprehensive school. It was one of the first established in London and was intended as a showcase for the new educational policy. Although the first heady years of doctrinaire optimism had been overtaken by the usual problems of a large urban school, it was one in which a clever industrious child could do well. For Venetia the change from the long-established provincial single-sex high school, with its slightly snobbish conventions and local traditions, was less traumatic than she had expected. It was as easy to be a loner at the new school as it had been at the old. She coped with the few bullies by a tongue which could lash them into silence; there was, after all, more than one way of making oneself feared. She worked hard in school, harder still at home. She knew precisely where she wanted to go. The three top-grade A levels gained her an Oxford place. The first-class degree was followed by an equally brilliant academic success in her Bar examinations. By the time she went up to Oxford she thought she knew all she needed to know about men. The strong could be devils; the weak were moral cowards. There might be men she would sexually desire, even admire, come to like and even want to marry. But never again would she put herself at the mercy of a man.
The door opened, recalling her to the present. She looked at her watch. Nearly two hours. Had it really been so long since the jury went out? Her junior tried to control his excitement.
“They’re back.”
“With a question?”
“Not a question. We’ve got a verdict.”
Chapter 4
S lowly and with a careful avoidance of drama or obvious anxiety the court reassembled, waiting for the jury and the appearance of the judge. It was at this moment that Venetia remembered her pupil-master. He had been a traditionalist to whom the picture of a woman in a wig was an anachronism to be borne with stoicism, provided the face beneath the wig was pretty, the manner sweetly deferential and the brain no challenge to his own. There had been general surprise in Chambers when he had accepted a woman pupil; it could only be in penance for an infraction too grievous to be atoned for by less draconian means. When she remembered him it was with respect rather than affection, but he had given her two pieces of advice for which she was grateful.
“Keep all your blue notebooks after trial. Not just for the specified time, for always. It’s useful to have a record of cases and you can learn from early mistakes.”
The second had been equally useful: “There are moments when it is essential to look at the jury, moments when it is advisable to do so, and moments when you should avoid even a glance. One of the last is when they return with the verdict. Never betray anxiety in court. And if you’ve put up a good fight and they’re going against you, looking at them will only embarrass them.”
The latter advice was difficult to follow in Court One at the Bailey, where the jury box was immediately facing the barristers’ benches. Venetia fixed her eyes on the judge’s seat and didn’t glance across the court when, following the usual preliminaries, the Clerk to the Court asked the foreman of the jury to stand. A middle-aged, scholarly-looking man, more formally dressed than the others, got to his feet. He had, thought Venetia, been a natural choice for foreman.
The Clerk asked: “Have you arrived at your verdict?”
“We have, sir.”
“Do you find the accused, Garry Ashe, guilty or not guilty of the murder of Mrs. Rita O’Keefe?”
“Not guilty.”
“And that is the verdict of you all?”
“It is.”
There was no sound in the body of the court, but she heard from the public gallery a low murmur, somewhere between a groan and a hiss, which could have been surprise, relief or disgust. She didn’t look up. It was
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