Painting The Darkness (29 page)

In other circumstances, I would have bridled at his insinuations. But I felt weary from the effort of recent weeks. What did I care for Trenchard & Leavis? All my energies had been devoted to the search for Quinn. I had scoured the servants’ quarters of half London’s private houses, had interrogated the proprietors of every domestic staffing agency, had haunted the old soldiers’ drinking clubs, had flourished his crumpled photograph beneath the noses of countless unhelpful publicans. It had all been for nothing – yet it had been all I could do
.

‘
Moreover,’ Ernest continued, ‘Parfitt tells me you are often the worse for drink
.’
He reached across the desk and pushed some papers clear of a tumbler in which a residue of whisky was visible
.

‘
What do you want?’ I said, too drained to protest
.

‘
I’ve discussed the situation with Father. He agrees that it cannot continue. Accordingly, I have asked Parfitt to take on your duties – and he has agreed
.’

‘
I dare say he has
.’

‘
We suggest you take indefinite leave of absence
.’

‘
Indefinite?
’

‘
Don’t think I’m unsympathetic to your predicament, William.’ I had always doubted my brother’s capacity for sympathy, but his gift for hypocrisy I had never questioned. ‘Constance’s behaviour
has
been inexcusable. Nevertheless, the welfare of the business must be my prime concern. It is clear to me that, until you have put your personal affairs in order, you will not be able to play a useful part here
.’

‘
I’m sure you’re right
.’

His narrow face assumed the pinched and puzzled frown with which he always greeted irony. ‘Candidly, William, I cannot think why you’ve not taken firmer steps to
—’

‘
Is that all?’ I interrupted
.

‘
H’m. I see you’re not to be reasoned with. Very well. I’ll leave you to … clear your desk
.’

‘
Thank you
.’

As he moved to the door, I noticed the office copy of
The Times
lying open amidst the litter of disordered papers. Ernest had obviously been reading it whilst waiting for me. It was folded back on the legal page and there, in the corner, was the article I had read before leaving home, starkly headed
N
ORTON VERSUS
D
AVENALL
.

‘
Incidentally,’ said Ernest, pausing on the threshold, ‘Winifred wonders if you would care to come to church with us tomorrow – and dine afterwards
.’

‘
I don’t think so,’ I replied. ‘I’ll be rather busy
.’

‘
If there’s anything we can do
—’

‘
There’s nothing
.’

Nor was there. The announcement in
The Times
had told me what I already knew: time was fast running out
.

IV

Sir Hardinge Stanley Giffard, Queen’s Counsel, Member of Parliament for Launceston and Solicitor-General in the previous Conservative administration, had about him, both actually and metaphorically, many of the attributes of the bull-terrier. Short and stoutly built, with a pugnacious air that age and a succession of legal triumphs had matured into a menacing certainty of manner, he was, in court, wig, gown and meticulous mastery of a complex brief, an
awesome
spectacle. In his chambers early on a Saturday morning, having consented to name his fee for accepting Sir Hugo Davenall’s case, he presented a different image, but one that was no less intimidating.

‘You’ve turned up nothing on who Norton really is, Davenall?’ he said to Richard with a disparaging twitch of one eyebrow.

‘Nothing.’

‘That’ – he paused ominously – ‘is a pity. Of course’ – another pause – ‘we don’t need to prove who he is, only who he
isn’t
.’

‘I’d have thought it open and shut,’ Hugo put in, a touch too forcibly. ‘The family are in no doubt.’

Sir Hardinge fixed him with a stern gaze. ‘It would be unwise,’ he said slowly, ‘to become complacent. To have the better of these proceedings. Norton has only to establish that he has the basis of a case. His counsel will be seeking to win time, hence his task is somewhat easier than mine. It is my belief that his claim will gain strength if it survives the hearing. I therefore intend to ensure that it does not survive. I intend to harry him, gentlemen, to press him, to pursue him, and, in the end, to break him.’

Hugo took heart. ‘That’s the ticket.’

‘This dossier on your brother’s life, Sir Hugo …’ He nodded to the file beside him. ‘I am concerned at the lack of corroboration for many of the particulars.’

‘You will appreciate,’ said Richard, ‘that much of the information relates to events a very long time ago.’

Sir Hardinge’s expression did not suggest that he regarded this as a valid excuse. Nevertheless, he let it pass. ‘It will have to be improved if the case goes to trial. Let us hope that eventuality does not arise. Your own testimony, Sir Hugo—’

‘I’m happy to tell anybody who cares to listen that the man’s an impostor.’

‘Precisely. A touch more humility would not go amiss. Norton’s counsel, Russell, needs watching. It is easy to be caught out by him. He has what is called
flair
. Therefore,
do
not be too anxious to denounce his client. Confine yourself to the facts. Do not lose your temper.’

‘He’ll not rattle me.’

‘That remains to be seen. Of course, if Norton is routed when he enters the witness-box, the other witnesses will count for nothing. I trust you therefore appreciate the tactics, gentlemen. An all-out frontal assault on his credibility. Frankly, I doubt his capacity to withstand it. Should he do so, however, we will rely on the testimony of close relatives. Your mother, Sir Hugo—’

‘Ready to say her piece.’

‘Lady Davenall,’ Richard said, ‘is a match for any barrister.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. If she is confronted with the doctor’s diagnosis of syphilis in her husband?’

‘She is prepared for it.’

‘Not
too
prepared, I hope. If Russell uses that evidence, he runs the risk of alienating the judge. Some tears from Lady Davenall would aid the process. All in all, I suspect it would be to our advantage.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘Well, gentlemen, I believe we have the measure of our man. I will see you both on Monday morning.’

He rose, shook their hands and showed them to the door. Farewells were exchanged. Sir Hardinge’s smile exuded confidence. Hugo, too, was smiling. All seemed set fair.

‘A word before you go, Davenall,’ Sir Hardinge said quietly to Richard as he paused on the threshold.

‘I’ll go ahead,’ said Hugo, vanishing down the stairs.

Richard stepped back into the room. Sir Hardinge eased the door to behind him. ‘An interesting case,’ he said, genially enough.

‘I’m glad you find it so.’

‘I do – what I know of it.’

‘I’m not sure I follow.’

‘I have the impression there may be more to it than meets the eye.’

‘I assure you—’

‘Don’t. I merely give you fair notice, Davenall. I’m no gimcrack barrister to be fed half a story. It may be that you’ve placed all the facts at my disposal. It may be that you haven’t. If the latter obtains, that young man’ – he pointed to the door – ‘will be the loser, not I.’

‘I realize that, Sir Hardinge.’

‘Very well. So long as you do. Good day, Davenall.’

After Richard had gone, Sir Hardinge returned to his desk and leafed through the file again. Thin, he could not help but feel, decidedly thin. Not for the first time, he regretted taking the case. Russell would be thirsting for vengeance after being worsted by him in
Belt versus Lawes
. Perhaps this was his comeuppance.

Yet how could he have refused? Ten years before, he had been junior counsel to Serjeant Ballantine for the so-called Tichborne claimant, fighting then – and losing – on the opposite side of an exactly comparable case. He had extricated himself before the plaintiff’s case had collapsed about his ears, it was true, but the experience had hurt him more than he had ever admitted. Now Davenall had brought him a chance to balance the books, he could not let it pass. What had Ballantine once told him about the Tichborne fiasco? That it should have been crushed at the Chancery hearing, lanced before it grew to the monstrous carbuncle of a hundred-day trial. As ever, the old charlatan had given good advice. The time had come to prove his point.

V

The past three weeks had been trying ones for Emily Sumner. As the unmarried and, in her own mind, unmarriageable daughter of a cathedral prebendary, she had learned to lead her emotional life on a vicarious plane. Hence she did not merely sympathize with Constance in her dilemma. She experienced its every pang.

Lately, she had even begun to suspect that her sufferings
were
worse than her sister’s. After all, Constance had Patience to console her. And Constance had not been required to sit impassively on that bench in the watermeadows and watch the finest man she had ever been privileged to know walk bravely away to his fate. And Constance … But such thoughts were unjust, she knew, born of pride, envy and possibly even covetousness: they simply would not do. Constance was subdued to the point of apparent indifference not because she was insensitive but because a prolonged agony of doubt had paralysed her feelings.

A crisis, however, as they both knew, was now at hand. Their father, after breakfast and a perusal of
The Times
, had departed, in pensive vein, to the cathedral. Since he had no business to discharge there, and since his habit was to shun matters ecclesiastical on the day before the sabbath, Emily could only conclude that he had gone there to pray. And Canon Sumner, for all his vulnerability, was not a prayerful man.

He had left
The Times
folded open by his place at the breakfast-table. Emily, being as tidy-minded a daughter as any forgetful father could wish for, dabbed off the spot of marmalade he had left before sorting its crumpled pages into order. That was when she saw the article he had been reading and, with a little cry, bore it upstairs to her sister.

She found Constance in her bay-windowed bedroom at the front of the house, gazing wistfully at the cathedral green. ‘There’s an article in
The Times
about the hearing,’ she announced, flapping the paper in her hand.

‘It was only to be expected.’

‘What if people remember you were engaged to James?’

‘Then, they may seek my opinion.’

‘What will you tell them?’

Constance shook her head dolefully. ‘I don’t know. I simply don’t know.’

With a rush of sisterly feeling, Emily sat down beside
her
on the window-seat and hugged her tightly. ‘You must decide soon,’ she said.

‘I know. It isn’t fair on you or Father, or William, or James, to let it go on like this. But what should I do?’

‘Attend the hearing?’

‘I cannot. If I went, I could not trust myself to remain silent. Yet, if I speak for James, William will feel I have betrayed him.’

‘He should not have forced this choice on you. I shall not forgive him for that.’

‘Do not be too hard on him. It is difficult not to be jealous of the one you love. I think he knows that he should not have tried to deceive me. Perhaps, by leaving me alone here, he is seeking to make amends.’

‘It’s more likely he believes this hearing will settle everything.’

‘If only it could.’ Constance grew thoughtful. ‘Emily …’

‘Yes?’

‘Will you attend the hearing for me?’

‘Will
I
attend?’

‘Yes. I cannot go, but you can. You would be my eyes and ears. You could tell me all that James says and does. Then, together, we could decide where our duty lies.’

‘But … that may be too late.’

‘Too late for whom?’

‘Why, James, of course.’

Constance shook her head. ‘No, Emily.’ She looked back at the window, at the familiar view that must have attended her every thought on her way to this decision. ‘You see, if James wins the day, I think I can give him up. But if he loses …’

There was no need for her to finish the sentence. Emily saw at last, with perfect clarity, the resolve to which these past weeks had led her sister. Yes, of course. That was the only way. She embraced it – and Constance – with exultant relief. ‘I will go,’ she said, struggling to suppress a sob. ‘I will be proud to go.’

VI

Richard was secretly relieved when Hugo did not elect to accompany him back to his office after their interview with Sir Hardinge Giffard. He felt the need of solitude in which to contemplate the eminent barrister’s parting remarks and ascended the stairs of Davenall & Partners that morning weighed down by the thoughts those remarks had inspired.

He found Benson alone in the outer office, opening the morning mail. ‘Good morning, sir,’ the clerk said. ‘A satisfactory consultation?’

Richard’s answer was a non-committal grunt, followed by a change of subject. ‘Anything interesting in?’

‘A reply from that fellow Kennedy.’

‘Oh?’ Richard had almost forgotten writing to the Carntrassna agent, requesting further details of his aunt’s death, but he was grateful for what scant distraction a reply would offer. ‘I’ll take it through.’

He closed the door of his office behind him and settled at his desk with Kennedy’s letter. It ran to several pages. Really, the man was intolerably wordy. Still he had better see what he had to say.

Carntrassna House,

Carntrassna,

County Mayo.

30th October 1882

Dear Mr Davenall,

I am infinitely obliged to you for your letter of the 17th inst. We who labour here on Sir Hugo’s behalf are reassured to know that we are not wholly forgotten. For my own part, my sole thought in moving from the tied house at Murrismoyle was to ensure an efficient management of estate affairs in the absence of a resident landlord. It goes without
saying
, therefore, that nothing could give me greater pleasure than …