James Davenall and Constance’s late brother, Roland Sumner, had been contemporaries at Oxford. James commenced paying suit to Constance shortly after coming down, and their engagement was announced in the autumn of 1870. Canon Sumner viewed this imminent connection with a titled family as a social triumph – which it was – and arranged for his daughter’s wedding to take place in Salisbury Cathedral. Barely a week before the ceremony was due, in June 1871, Davenall vanished utterly, the only clue to his intentions being a note left at his family’s country residence near Bath, which seemed to allow no room for doubt that he meant to take his life. His movements were traced to London, where a cabby recalled dropping him near the riverside in Wapping. There, it was assumed, he had drowned himself, the Thames bearing his corpse out to sea. No reason for such an act was ever adduced, its total inexplicability serving only to deepen the tragedy.
When Trenchard first met Constance, she was still bowed down by the numb grief of Davenall’s disappearance, followed as it was within five months by her brother Roland’s death in a riding accident. Trenchard never wished to see her again as she was then: habituated to mourning with a pellucid, frozen beauty that only the long absence of happiness could have bred. Theirs had been a difficult but ultimately rewarding road from that day to this, and he had no intention of turning back. The thought stiffened his nerve as the cab passed down Park Lane. If he had his way, nothing from that time – least of all James Davenall – should ever reappear.
What, he wondered, had Sir Hugo Davenall made of Norton? He had inherited the baronetcy in the spring of 1881 – Trenchard remembered reading of it in the newspaper – and could not have welcomed this sudden threat to his position. But was it any real threat at all? No, Trenchard told himself. It was just a cool-nerved attempt at bare-faced fraud, doomed to failure from the outset. If so, his dash to Chester Square might seem to smack of panic. But that could not be helped.
The cab pulled up with a jolt. They were there, before the railed-off balconied frontage of a tall Regency house. Trenchard climbed out, paid off the driver and looked about him. Dusk was settling on the square, pigeons cooing on their nocturnal perches among the pediments and pillars. The cab clopped away and left him, feeling slightly foolish, at a lordly stranger’s door.
IV
At Bladeney House, a stern-faced servant showed me into a tile-flagged hall. I remember light flooding down a curving staircase, silhouetting a figure in evening dress who was slowly descending to meet me. A tall, loose-limbed young man with dark tousled hair, and bloodshot, almost bruised eyes. He was smoking a cigar and did not remove it from his wide, full-lipped mouth as he said to his servant: ‘Visitor, Greenwood?’
‘A Mr Trenchard, sir. I have not yet established—’
‘Sir Hugo?’ I interrupted.
‘The very same.’ He paused on the bottom stair, removed the cigar and essayed a satirical, stiff-shouldered bow.
‘Good evening, sir. I’m married to your late brother’s former fiancée, Miss Constance Sumner as was. We’ve met a Mr Norton—’
‘Norton?’ He jerked his head upright at the word, scattering cigar ash on the stair-carpet. ‘You’ve seen the blighter, too?’
‘Yes. He claims—’
‘I know what he damn well claims.’ His lip quivered visibly. ‘Man’s a charlatan.’
‘I realize that.’
‘Mmm?’ He looked at me. ‘Yes, of course. You would.’ A moment’s thought, a puff on the cigar, then: ‘Come through, Trenchard. I can’t stop long, but long enough, eh?’ He clapped me on the shoulder and ushered me towards a door, tossing back a dismissal to his servant as we went. ‘We’ll be in the music room, Greenwood.’
We passed through a richly furnished anteroom that looked out on to the square, then turned towards open double doors where, beyond, I could see french windows giving on to a garden. Somebody was playing an irreverent ballad on a finely tuned piano.
‘Could have done without this nonsense,’ Sir Hugo lisped on his cigar. ‘Just a bloody nuisance as far as I’m concerned.’
We entered the music room. A young sandy-haired man turned from the piano and beamed in our direction. He, too, was in evening dress. The other occupant of the room, a middle-aged man seated in an armchair by the french windows, was not; he laid aside a newspaper and rose to meet us, smiling amiably.
‘The appalling pianist is a friend of mine, Trenchard,’ said Sir Hugo. ‘Freddy Cleveland. If you follow the turf at all, you’ll probably have lost money on one of his nags.’
For all his boyish good looks, Cleveland was not as young as I had at first thought; there were creases about his eyes when he smiled. I took him for the affected, dim-witted type a youthful baronet might be expected to befriend and felt, all at once, out of my depth amidst their West End quips.
‘Mr Trenchard don’t look the race-goin’ type, Hugo,’ Cleveland said as he shook my hand.
‘Indeed I’m not.’
‘But he is here,’ Sir Hugo put in, ‘about the damned maverick that’s cantered into our paddock.’ He turned to the third man. ‘My cousin, Richard Davenall, also my legal adviser.’
Richard Davenall was grey-haired and bearded, his face lined with the cares of his profession, sombrely suited and dejectedly slope-shouldered, a wearily tolerant look in his watery sea-blue eyes. He shook my hand with none of the gusto of the other two but with rather more conviction.
‘Trenchard?’ he said quizzically. ‘Didn’t you marry Constance Sumner?’
‘I had that honour, sir, yes.’
‘I was glad to hear she’d settled down … after what happened. Do I take it you’ve heard from Norton?’
‘Yes. That’s why I’m here.’
‘How did your wife react?’
‘She was horrified by his claim. When he said he’d already been to see his family, the real James’s family that is—’
‘You thought you’d better check the lie of the land,’ said Sir Hugo. ‘Don’t blame you. Want a drink?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Fetch me a Scotch and soda, Freddy, there’s a good fellow. Sure you won’t have one, Trenchard?’
‘Quite, thank you.’
While Cleveland pattered off to the drinks-trolley, Sir Hugo slumped into an armchair and gestured for me to do the same. Richard Davenall resumed his place by the french windows. Cleveland returned with a large glass for Sir Hugo and one for himself, then went back to the piano stool, from where he surveyed us with a child-like grin.
‘Freddy finds the situation amusing,’ said Sir Hugo. ‘I suppose I would myself in his shoes.’
‘It does have a comical element,’ said Cleveland. ‘The man’s a capital actor. He’s got Jimmy’s dress sense, and that soft voice of his, off to a T.’
Sir Hugo took a swig from his glass. ‘An actor who’s learned his lines. That’s all.’
‘You can’t be sure, though, can you?’ Cleveland continued. ‘That’s the beauty of it. Do you know, last winter, I bumped into old Cazabon on the Brighton train – or thought I did. Looked like Cazabon, talked like Cazabon, but denied it to my face. Said he was a dentist from Haywards Heath. Got off there, too, just to prove the point. Like peas in a pod, they were. Just goes to show, you see. Of course, Cazabon did owe me money, so maybe it was him after all.’ He laughed hoarsely – and alone.
I decided to come to the point. ‘Sir Hugo, I never met your brother, but my wife assures me there is no possibility that he and Norton could be one and the same. Is that the view of you and your family also?’
Sir Hugo was still gazing with restrained wrath at Cleveland. ‘Of course it is.’
Then Richard Davenall came to my rescue. ‘Perhaps I might elucidate the situation for you, Trenchard. This man Norton presented himself five days ago at Cleave Court in Somerset, where Hugo’s mother lives, claiming to be her dead son James. Lady Davenall saw through the imposture at once and sent him away. On Friday, he called on me at my offices in Holborn. Yesterday�
��’
‘He turned up here,’ said Sir Hugo with a scowl. ‘I had the blighter thrown out.’
‘And none of us,’ his cousin continued, ‘entertained his claim for a moment. With his visit to you, I imagine he has run the gamut of those he hoped to deceive.’
‘I thought his old nanny took him in her arms,’ Cleveland put in, ‘and called him Jamie?’
A snort from Sir Hugo. ‘The woman’s senile.’
‘It is true,’ said Richard Davenall, ‘that Nanny Pursglove acknowledged Norton as her former charge. She lives in a cottage on the estate, Trenchard, you understand, and Norton looked her up. But it is also true that she is over eighty, with poor eyesight and a touching wish to believe that James is still alive. Against James’s own mother, and brother, not to mention his former fiancée, such support will count for nothing.’
‘In that case, gentlemen,’ I said, ‘can we safely discount Mr Norton? My only concern is that he should cease to distress my wife.’
‘I think so,’ said Richard Davenall. ‘As long as he lacks a single advocate within James’s intimate circle, he can scarcely hope to be of more than nuisance value. Thanks to the amount of circumstantial information he has diligently amassed, however, that nuisance could be quite considerable.’
‘I’ll not buy him off,’ said Sir Hugo with sudden violence. ‘He’ll not have a penny from me.’
‘Then, he may go to the sensation-seeking end of the national press,’ said his cousin, ‘and plaster his claims over their front pages. Would it not be preferable—’
‘No!’ Sir Hugo slammed his glass down on a side-table to emphasize his point. ‘Show him nothing but silent contempt – and he’ll slink back to the crevice he came from.’
‘As you please.’
‘Yes, Richard, it is as I please. I’m head of this family now, as you’d do well to remember.’ A silence fell, during which Cleveland continued to grin inanely while Sir Hugo appeared to realize that he might have gone too far. He resumed in a more conciliatory tone. ‘Have you found out who this Norton really is yet?’
‘These are early days, Hugo. If there’s a real James Norton to be traced, we will trace him. But I imagine he’s covered his tracks well.’
‘Talking of tracks,’ said Cleveland, ‘shouldn’t we be making ’em, Hugo? Gussie will be disappointed if we’re not there by nine.’
I took the opportunity to make my excuses and depart. Superficially, they had reassured me, but I dared not stay to see the fragility of their conviction grow ever more apparent. The Davenalls, of whom I had been so long in awe, seemed, on this showing, no better or worse than any family, no more proof than my own against a well-armed intruder.
As I made to leave, Richard Davenall volunteered to go out with me. We left Sir Hugo contemplating ruefully the dimples of his whisky-glass while Cleveland checked his bow-tie in a mirror above the piano. Greenwood was waiting in the hall to hand us our hats and gloves.
‘Where do you live, Trenchard?’ Davenall asked as we descended the front steps.
‘St John’s Wood.’
‘I’m for Highgate. Shall we travel some of the way together? We can pick up a cab at the corner.’
I agreed readily; sensed, indeed, that he wanted an opportunity to share his thoughts with me away from his cousin’s bellicose indignation. We walked slowly in the direction of Grosvenor Place, our footsteps echoing back from the tall and silent house-fronts of the square, where night had fallen with cool, aloof indifference.
‘I must apologize for Sir Hugo,’ Davenall said. ‘Sometimes he seems younger even than his years.’
‘It is not long since he inherited the baronetcy, I believe.’
‘‘Indeed not. Barely eighteen months. Yes, the boy’s had a good deal to cope with. Sir Gervase’s final illness was a lengthy one – and then there was the business of having James legally pronounced dead.’
‘Was that only done recently?’
‘It could have been done as soon as seven years had elapsed, especially in view of the clear indications of suicide, but Sir Gervase would never hear of it.’
‘Did he not believe his son was dead?’
‘He claimed to doubt it, which was odd. He was not a man to entertain sentimental notions in any other connection. At all events, the necessary legal moves were not put in hand until Sir Gervase was non compos mentis, so that Hugo’s title did not become clear until somewhat late in the day. What with that and taking on the running of the estate – Sir Gervase had rather let things slip, I’m afraid – Hugo can claim some excuse for displaying signs of strain. Nevertheless …’
‘It’s of no account, Mr Davenall. I’m glad to have had my mind put at rest.’
Of course, it was not truly at rest – as, I think, Richard Davenall perceived. After we had procured a cab and started north together, he volunteered some more of his family’s troubles. For a solicitor, he was strangely forthcoming, as if finding in me the audience he sought for his own misgivings.
‘It has, in all conscience, been a difficult year for my family, Trenchard. Hugo’s grandmother was killed in February by intruders in her house. She was extremely old, and had lived, out of touch, in Ireland for many years, but her death cast a distressing shadow of needless violence. Hugo inherits an estate in County Mayo through her. She was an eligible heiress when Hugo’s grandfather, my uncle Lemuel, married her, oh, nearly seventy years ago, but she never took to life in England and went back to Ireland as soon as her son came of age. Sir Gervase – well, all of us – rather neglected her, I fear. I suppose a rambling old house, poorly staffed and containing what few signs of wealth are to be detected in that Godforsaken wilderness, must have attracted the wrong kind of attention.’
I thought I detected his drift. ‘Not from these appalling Fenians?’
‘I don’t think so: Mary never ill-treated her tenants. I believe robbery was the intention and that Mary simply got in the way: she was a spirited old soul. Not that Hugo agrees with me. Since the Phoenix Park murders, he sees Fenians behind every lamp-post. He won’t hear of going over there.’
‘I can’t say I blame him.’
‘Nor I. But now Norton crawls out of the woodwork to make London uncomfortable for him as well. We seem not so much unlucky as … ill-fated.’
Fate. He had said the word which had swirled like November fog round my journey to and from Bladeney House. So now I had to ask him. ‘Mr Davenall, there’s a question I must put to you. I know what you said in Sir Hugo’s presence, but this man Norton …’
‘Could he be James?’
‘Yes. That is what I cannot help wondering.’
‘It is why you called tonight. Had your wife been absolutely certain, you would not have required a second opinion.’
‘It is true. I cannot deny the man has me rattled. Constance and I would never have married, would never have met—’
‘Had James lived – or not disappeared. Well, his own mother disowned him and his brother likewise. What more do you want?’
‘Your unequivocal judgement, I suppose – as a man of the law.’
The cab lurched to a halt. We were at Gloucester Gate, where I had asked to be dropped. Davenall leaned out through the window and told the driver to do a circuit of the park. Clearly, whatever else his judgement was, it was not unequivocal. He eased himself back into the seat with a slight but audible sigh.
‘You seem to hesitate, sir. As did my wife when I asked her the same.’
‘And for the same reason, Trenchard. Hugo was only fifteen when James disappeared and, besides, must see Norton as a threat both to his title and to his wealth, all of which would revert to his brother if he were alive. So Hugo cannot be looked to for a rational judgement. His mother certainly appears to be in no doubt that the man is an impostor. I have not spoken to Catherine myself, but I gather she is quite adamant on the point. I, of course, had the advantage – which she did not – of being forewarned. When Norton presented himself at my offices, I kne
w what to expect.’
‘A fraudster?’
‘Yes. That is what I expected. And that is what I still believe him to be. For what else, after all, could he be? It is inconceivable that James should have staged his disappearance and then, having done so, return eleven years later. Unaccountable though his suicide was, it cannot be gainsaid by a mere fortune-hunter, however accomplished.’
‘If he claims to be James, he must have an explanation for his conduct.’
‘He says he has one. But I refused to hear it. When – or if – it comes to that, I want witnesses, Trenchard, I want us to hear his story together, so that it cannot be twisted or tailored to suit our individual susceptibilities. I want there to be no room for doubt.’
‘Is there, then … room for doubt?’
‘I would have to admit that there is. To say Norton is not the James Davenall we knew is easy enough. But we knew a carefree young man. He was twenty-three when he vanished, about to be married, seemingly with everything to live for. Yet we know that was not the truth, that something – never to this day explained – was tragically wrong with his life. So, eleven years later, how would we expect him to be? Catherine’s letter to Hugo prepared me for a blustering impostor trading on a vague physical resemblance and a good memory for the facts he had unearthed. But that is not how he was. Sad, lonely, refined, baffled but unsurprised by our denial of him. And, yes, I have to say it: a little like James might have been.’
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