First Among Equals

“Maybe, but they will offer it as background to prove the rest of the case.”

“Because you raped someone doesn’t prove you murdered them.”

Raymond and Stephanie Arnold, who was new to chambers, continued discussing their first case together on the way to the Old Bailey, and she left Raymond in no doubt that she was delighted to be led by him. They were to appear together to defend a laborer accused of the rape and murder of his stepdaughter.

“Open and shut case unfortunately,” said Raymond, “but we’re going to make the Crown prove their argument beyond anyone’s doubt.”

When the case stretched into a second week Raymond began to believe that the jury were so gullible they might even get their client off. Stephanie was sure they would.

The day before the judge’s summing up Raymond invited Stephanie to dinner at the House of Commons. That’ll make them turn their heads, he thought to himself. They won’t have seen anything in a white shirt and black stockings that looks like that for some time, certainly not Mr. Speaker.

Stephanie seemed flattered by the invitation and sat through the stodgy meal served in the Strangers’ Dining Room, obviously impressed as former Cabinet ministers flitted in and out, all of them acknowledging him.

“How’s the new flat?” asked Stephanie.

“Worked out well,” replied Raymond. “The Barbican is so convenient for Parliament and the law courts.”

“Does your wife like it?” she asked, lighting a cigarette but not looking at him directly.

“She’s not in town that much nowadays. She spends most of her time in Leeds—doesn’t care much for London.”

The awkward pause that followed was interrupted by a sudden clanging of bells.

“Are we on fire?” said Stephanie, quickly stubbing out her cigarette.

“No,” said Raymond, laughing. “Just the ten o’clock division. I have to leave you and vote. I’ll be back in about

fifteen minutes.”

“Shall I order coffee?”

“No, don’t bother,” said Raymond. “It’s foul. Perhaps … perhaps you’d like to come back to the Barbican? Then you can give a verdict on my flat.”

“Maybe it’s an open and shut case.” She smiled.

Raymond returned the smile before joining his colleagues as they flooded out of the dining room down the corridor toward the Commons Chamber. He didn’t have time to explain to Stephanie that he had only six minutes to get into the right lobby. As Raymond had no idea what they were voting on that night he followed the surge of Labour members into the Noes lobby. The bells stopped and the doors were bolted.

Whenever the vote is called for at the end of the debate the Speaker puts the question and the moment he reaches the words, “I think the Ayes have it,” the roar of “No” from those opposed to the motion ensures a vote at ten o’clock. Bells peal out over the Palace of Westminster, and in some nearby restaurants and members’ homes in the division-bell area.

Members then scurry into the Ayes or Noes division lobby before the cry of “Lock the doors” is heard. Once the doors have been secured each member then files past two clerks seated at a high desk at the far end of the corridor who tick off his name. As Raymond stepped past the clerks he came toward the exit doors which were angled so as to make a funnel through which only one member at a time could pass. The Whip acting as teller shouted out the mounting vote. “Seventy-three,” he called as Raymond passed him. The only particular rule relating to voting was that members could not wear a hat or overcoat while in the lobby. A clerk had once told Raymond that this dated from the days when lazy members sent their driver off in the hansom cab, hats over ears, coat buttoned up to the nose, to march through the corridors and give their masters’ names. Some of them would have been a damn sight better MPs than their employers, Raymond had often thought.

While in the corridor he discovered that they were voting on a clause of the Trade Union Bill concerning the validity of closed shops. He was in no doubt that he supported his party on that subject.

When he returned to the Strangers’ Dining Room after the vote he found Stephanie checking her face in a compact mirror, a small round face with green eyes and brunette hair. She was replacing the trace of lipstick. He suddenly felt conscious of being a little overweight for a man not yet forty.

“Shall we go?” he suggested, after he had signed the bill.

Once they had reached the flat Raymond put on a Charles Aznavour record and retired to the small kitchen to prepare coffee. He was totally oblivious to the fact that women were beginning to find him attractive. A little extra weight and a few gray hairs had not harmed his appearance, if anything giving him an air of authority.

“There’s no doubting this is a bachelor flat,” Stephanie remarked as she took in the one comfortable leather chair, the pipe stand, and the Spy cartoons of turn-of-the-century judges and politicians.

“I suppose that’s because that’s what it is,” he mused, setting down a tray laden with coffee and two brandy balloons generously filled with cognac.

“Don’t you get lonely?” she asked.

“From time to time,” he said, pouring the coffee.

“And between times?”