Mr Lachaise rang Lucy and suggested they meet for lunch in Gray’s Inn Gardens at half past one. He did not propose to attend the end of the Summing-Up. Neither did Lucy at least not all of it. The slow treading-over of the evidence was an unbearable form of waiting.
The gardens lay off Theobald’s Road, neatly circumscribed by mansions of the law, elegant screens of pale magenta brick with regular white-framed windows like rows of pictures. Lucy strolled along a narrow passage into Field Court, a tight enclosure adjacent to an ornate pair of wrought-iron gates, resting between two pillars. Surmounting each was a fabulous beast with the head and wings of an eagle. She paused to study the strange, seated guardians. They threatened to suddenly move, relinquishing stone; to slink, warm-breathed, off their pedestals and wreak wrath and mercy upon High Holborn. What did they protect? Nothing. Whom did they save? No one. When would the day of reckoning come? Never. What were they other than dismal protestations at the absence of angels?
Lucy passed between them into the gardens. A lane of polished gravel unrolled between short trees, plump courtiers on afternoon parade. Benches, set well apart, secured leisure with privacy. Upon one of them sat Mr Lachaise, talking earnestly to Max Nightingale.
They did not hear her approach. Lucy sidled to the edge of the path, in line with the bench, reducing the chance of being seen. She harboured a not altogether irrational suspicion that Mr Lachaise had met Max first on purpose. As she drew near, she heard his distinctive, appealing voice say:
‘Regardless of what you have said, do as I ask. Do nothing. Rest assured, there is no need.’
Then, unfortunately she was seen. However, the conversation ran on in an entirely innocent fashion, which rather disappointed Lucy. She had liked the idea of consecutive meetings, up-turned collars and secret conversations. Mr Lachaise continued talking as he beckoned Lucy with his hand:
‘You might think your paintings are not especially good, but I’m confident my colleagues will come to another conclusion. As I have said, leave it all to me. The University will issue the invitation; after that it’s all very simple. Ah, Lucy do join us.
Lucy shook Max’s hand. Seeing him outside the courtroom lit his absence from the trial as a sort of failure, as though he’d left her and Mr Lachaise on the front line. How peculiar, she reflected. He’s from the other side.
‘I’ve brought along some very Jewish provisions, said Mr Lachaise, opening a large plastic bag. ‘It’s always bitter or sweet… I’ll explain as we go along.’
They ate sitting in a line, passing curious things from one to the other.
‘It’s rather like Waiting for Godot,’ said Lucy.
‘Except this time,’ announced Mr Lachaise, ‘he might come after all, just when he’s not expected.’