Silence followed, but for the clop of the horse’s hoofs and the creak of swaying leather, silence in the still and gentle night, enough for us each to contemplate the strange, dark, gaping possibility: Norton might be James Davenall after all. Somewhere, across the city, alone in his hotel room, he might be staring at the blank wall that was his family’s reception of an unwelcome prodigal, leaving the Davenalls and me united in one unworthy wish: that he should stay dead. I wanted no ghost of my wife’s lost love to cross our lives, far less proclaim himself no ghost at all. Though never expressed in words, I knew she had accepted me as second-best to a dead man, and that was good enough, good enough just so long as he was truly dead.
‘I think I’ll get out here,’ I said. ‘I think I’d like to walk the rest of the way home.’
Davenall leaned out and gave the order to the driver, then held the door open for me. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t give you what you asked for, Trenchard.’
‘Unequivocal judgement, you mean?’ I said, looking back as I climbed out. ‘Perhaps I asked for too much.’
‘I am a lawyer,’ he replied. ‘My profession deals in opinion. What you seek is for judge and jury to decide.’
‘Will it come to that?’
‘If Norton continues to make no headway, or if Sir Hugo heeds my advice to buy him off – I don’t think so. But if Norton thinks he can win, or, of course, if he is genuine, then it may do. It may very well do. Here’s my card.’ I took it from his extended hand. ‘Keep in touch. We may need to talk again.’ He slapped the side of the cab and was borne away.
V
Avenue Road was but a twenty-minute walk from where Trenchard left the cab, yet it took him nearly twice that time to cover the distance, walking slowly, head bowed, stirring with his feet the leaves that lay about the pavement, listening to the faint rustle of others falling, dislodged in the tender nocturnal breeze. An owl hooted in the woodland of the park, a distant hansom jingled its fare towards Marylebone. And Trenchard’s mind voyaged backwards, to another mellow autumn ten years before, to Canon Sumner’s drawing-room in Salisbury, where shafts of sunlight split the gloom of Constance Sumner’s mournful vigil. If Davenall had come back then, he would have found her waiting.
‘They tell me,’ she had said, ‘that he is dead. Yet to believe that would seem a kind of betrayal.’
‘Your refusal to believe it does you credit,’ Trenchard had said. ‘Yet surely he would not have wanted you to turn away from life simply because, for some reason, he has chosen to.’
At first, she had resisted. When, later, she had yielded to his healing charm, Canon Sumner had pronounced it a truly Christian act and Trenchard had basked in his gratitude. Now, already, Norton had forced him to reappraise that fine and patient courtship. It had always been more calculating than he would have cared to admit, for there had been a vulnerability in her bereavement and he had played upon it. Worse, there had been the pleasure, the secret satisfaction, of winning her from another, a hint of the adulterous in what had been so transparently correct. Without his insidious conquest of her affections, she might have remained loyal to a memory, might have gone on believing the incredible long enough to see it come true.
He turned into Avenue Road, still absorbed in the resentful flow of his unwelcome memories. He approached The Limes slowly, preparing in his mind the assurances he would give Constance, rehearsing the means by which he would conceal his doubts from her. It was not easy, as is so little that is not honest, and in its difficulty we may find the means to explain a greater error.
In the shadow cast by the last tree before the entrance to The Limes – a pool of inky black amidst the encircling moonlit grey – stood James Norton, watching Trenchard as he approached. He had taken shelter beneath the tree at sight of the other drawing near but might well have assumed, even so, that he could not escape being noticed. As it was, Trenchard walked straight and steadily by, looking neither to right nor to left, and turned up the drive to his home.
Norton remained motionless for several minutes, until he heard the distant click of a front door closing and the rattle of a bolt being slipped. Then he seemed to smile, or it may just have been that a shard of moonlight caught his mouth as he moved for the first time. Reaching into his coat pocket, he drew out a silver cigarette-case, on which – who knew? – had it been light enough, a tell-tale monogram might have been visible. A moment later came the brief yellow flare of a match, a faint sigh of pleasure at the first inhalation, then the sound of his footsteps as he moved away, a mobile shadow in the stationary night, leaving only a drift of smoke and an acrid scent among the moon-blanched leaves.
Chapter Two
I
CONSTANCE TRENCHARD SLEPT poorly that night. Having waited up for her husband to return from Bladeney House, she had found him first reassuring and then, upon being questioned, uncharacteristically testy. They had, at length, retired to bed in a mutually shocked silence born of dismay at how easily and swiftly an interloper could disturb their equilibrium.
Not that, Constance was ashamed to admit to herself over a solitary breakfast on the morrow, it was William’s evident distress that had occupied her during so many sleepless hours. His was not the face she had seen whenever she had closed her eyes, his were not the words she had struggled, despite herself, to retrieve from the distant season of a last, remembered meeting. She watched the sunlight from the window wreath itself in the plumes of steam rising from her coffee, felt her mind drift to a Somerset meadow sown with rank grass and the casual splendour of a summer afternoon. Poppies splashed and scattered amid the yellow carpet of flowers, intentions suspended in the airless oven of sudden crisis. June 1871. So near and yet so very, very far. His face, carved like cool ivory as he looked at her, in his eyes a veiled and questioning sorrow that could have been contempt. He drew his hand away from her. ‘This is how it begins,’ he had said haltingly. ‘And this is how it ends.’
‘Second post, ma’am.’ It was Hillier, with her dumpling grin, and a silver salver bearing a clutch of newly arrived letters.
Constance looked at them. All for William, save one. Addressed to her in a sloping, correct, reminiscent hand. The similarity was sufficient to make her wrench it open without reaching for the letter-knife.
Great Western Royal Hotel
Praed Street
LONDON W.
1st October 1882
Dear Constance,
I hope my handwriting has not also changed beyond recognition. Of course, I was never much of a letter-writer, was I? Now it seems the only way I can communicate with you to any purpose.
I am sorry to have shocked you by arriving unannounced this afternoon. Yet how could it not have been a shock? I can only say that I left eleven years ago for the best of reasons and have returned now for the same. I would wish to explain all that lies behind this statement, but I feel it must await an occasion when we can talk freely, face to face. Will you grant me that one favour – for old times’ sake? You will find me here waiting, should you feel able to call. Naturally, I shall not call at The Limes again until I know it is with your approval.
Neither of us can forget, can we, what happened in that meadow? Perhaps I should have explained then. I would like to do so now, more than I can properly tell. Concede, I beg you, the possibility that I may warrant your forgiveness – and your recognition.
Ever yours,
James
Constance replaced the letter in its jaggedly torn envelope and rose unsteadily from the table. She reminded herself that she was no longer the slip of a girl who might have swooned at the prospect of her fiancé’s return. She asserted her mature level-headed womanhood by the calm precision with which she slid her chair beneath the table, then turned and walked slowly to the door.
In the hallway, Hillier was dusting energetically, humming in rhythm to her work. She looked up at her mistress and smiled.
‘Lovely morning, ma’am.’
‘Yes, Hillier. Indeed it is. You may
clear breakfast whenever you wish. Where is Patience?’
‘In the nursery, ma’am, learning ’er alphabet.’
Constance nodded. ‘Did Mr Trenchard intimate whether he would be returning here for luncheon?’
‘’E thought not, ma’am.’
‘I see. Thank you. I will be in the drawing-room if you need me.’
‘Very good, ma’am.’
The girl went back to her work with a will, but, just in case she should be watching, Constance moved down the hall with measured, restrained treads. She turned into the drawing-room and closed the door behind her.
Against the wall facing the window stood a modest walnut bureau. Constance stood in front of it and lowered the lid, which was never locked, then reached into one of the pigeon-holes for the key to the small drawer which she was in the habit of securing. It opened at one turn.
This drawer housed Constance’s few preserved personal letters; its sanctity was respected by William, who stored his papers and correspondence in a more substantial escritoire in the study. The bundle, fastened with pink legal tape rather than with any obviously feminine ribbon, was a slender one: Constance was no sentimental hoarder. But she had retained, long unread, one letter of James Davenall’s and it was to this that she wished now to refer.
She slid it out without untying the tape and laid it beside Norton’s letter on the blotter, scrutinizing and comparing the handwriting of each. One was in blue ink, the other in black. She could not say, with hand on heart, that they had been written by the same man, nor yet by different men. They were eleven years and who knew what experiences apart, and Constance was well aware that James’s letter had been scribed with much less deliberation and in far greater haste than Norton’s. She opened it to remind herself of the contents. It was as she recalled, a scrawled urgent message on the headed notepaper of his London club.
16th June 1871
Dearest Connie,
I must hurry if I am to catch the post and so ensure that this reaches you tomorrow morning. I will, by then, be heading in the same direction.
The reason for my abrupt visit to London and the reason why I do not wish to return directly to Cleave Court are the same. Please – if you love me – be at the aqueduct at noon tomorrow. I will walk down from Bathampton and meet you there.
All my love,
James
Staying at Cleave Court for a few days prior to the wedding, Constance had become irritated by how little time she and James were able to spend together that was not shared by assorted members of the Davenall household. There had ensued James’s sudden departure for London and this strange summons to a noon rendezvous just one week short of the day itself. She had not forgotten and nor, it seemed, had Norton.
She returned the letter to its envelope, then slid it and Norton’s communication into the bundle, dropped it back into the drawer and turned the key. Ordinarily, the key belonged in one of the pigeon-holes, but this time she slipped it into the small felt pouch that hung from the belt at her waist. Then she took out some notepaper and a pen, opened the inkstand and began to write a letter of her own.
Its composition was neither easy nor swift. Indeed, the clock showed nearly eleven when she sealed the envelope, affixed the stamp and pressed the address to the blotter. She took a deep breath, rose and left the room.
It was not Constance’s custom – nor that of any lady – to post her own letters, but she decided that the fineness of the morning would seem an adequate excuse for doing so on this occasion. It was probable, indeed, that Hillier would not even know she had gone. Accordingly, donning only a boater to shade her eyes, she stepped out of the front door and walked smartly in the direction of the pillar box which lay but a hundred yards distant. She was surprised by how hot she felt and was grateful for the breeze that fanned her flushed cheeks.
On reaching the box, she glanced once more at the letter in her hand. It was odd, she thought, to have waited so long to address a letter thus. She pushed it into the box and heard it fall with the rest.
II
I was in the office above the Orchard Street branch on the Thursday following my visit to Bladeney House when I heard of Norton’s next move. I had been standing by the window, listening inattentively to Parfitt, the manager, whilst he explained at length the aesthetic and commercial advantages of a new marbled mosaic design for the cold meats department and had ceased to wonder why the poor man could not see that it was my father, not me, who would have to be persuaded of the case for such expenditure. Instead, I had gazed into the street and watched the traffic’s ceaseless bustle, had heard the rattle and rumble of the carts and the cry of a newspaper-vendor rising behind Parfitt’s monotone and had asked myself, as I had lately found myself asking in any idle moment: Where is he now? What is he doing?
An answer, of a kind, came sooner than I might have expected. A familiar figure turned aside from the throng of Oxford Street and crossed the road, bound, it seemed, for our door. He looked up as he did so and, catching my eye, touched his hat in salutation. It was Richard Davenall.
Poor Parfitt was at once cut short and asked to ensure that my imminent guest was shown up promptly. Within a few minutes, Davenall was seated opposite me, breathing heavily and apologizing for having given no warning of his visit.
‘I would have written, but I thought you might value some discussion of the point.’
‘Have you heard from Norton again, then?’
‘Mr Norton has engaged a solicitor to prosecute his claim. Warburton, of Warburton, Makepeace and Thrower. A respected man, though more so for his results than for his methods. The firm is noted for its occasional unorthodoxy and might therefore seem the natural choice. Yet, in my eyes, it weakens Norton’s case.’
‘In what way?’
‘It is hard to believe that James, were he alive, would resort to such a man. And, besides, Warburton does not come cheap. Perhaps you have asked yourself where Norton’s money comes from. He deigns to stay in a railway hotel, it is true, but he appears to contemplate expensive litigation. How is he funding all this?’
‘Have you any ideas?’
‘None. Mr Norton remains a blank. But we are shortly to be given the opportunity to determine just how blank, which is the subject of my visit. Warburton has proposed a formal examination of Norton’s claim, a meeting between him and the interested parties, before witnesses. I had thought you might wish to attend.’
‘Very much. Does this mean that Norton will have to substantiate his claim by providing satisfactory answers to detailed questions, or, failing that, admit the whole thing is a hoax?’
‘Exactly so. Warburton’s offices next Wednesday, the eleventh. I have suggested to Sir Hugo that those attending should meet at Bladeney House the previous evening to agree how matters should be handled. The examination could prove fraught, but, if it succeeds in crushing this imposture at the outset, it will certainly be worth while.’
‘It seems too good to be true.’
Richard smiled. ‘I fear you may be right, Trenchard. Sir Hugo thinks it will cook Norton’s goose, but my impression is that he would not have agreed to this if he did not think he could emerge unscathed.’
I rose from my desk and returned to the window. I needed its distractions to lessen the sense in which I felt that Constance and I were undermining the Davenalls’ case. ‘It might reflect the confidence of one who knows he is right.’
Davenall swivelled in his chair and looked towards me. ‘There is that, too. Yet it has to be faced, sooner or later.’
‘Perhaps you should know, then, that my wife is not to be looked to for a categorical refutation of Norton’s claim.’
Only a twitch of one eyebrow betrayed his reaction. ‘I see.’ A pause, then: ‘I imagine that places you in a difficult, not to say delicate, position.’
I walked back across the room and settled my elbow on the mantelpiece beneath the oil painting of Ephraim Leavis. ‘Yes. It does. However, I hope the difficulty will soon b
e resolved. Constance has written to Lady Davenall, suggesting that they should meet to discuss what has happened. And Lady Davenall has been kind enough to invite us to visit her at Cleave Court on Saturday to do just that. I am confident that she will convince Constance where I have so far failed. Indeed, I thought you might have heard of the invitation and guessed its purpose.’
For the first time, Davenall’s legal calm seemed ruffled. ‘Catherine retains her own solicitor in Bath, who will doubtless represent her at the examination. She is not in the habit of communicating with me. Generally, I only hear from her through Sir Hugo.’
‘Forgive me. I did not mean to intrude.’
The smile reasserted itself. ‘There is nothing to forgive. What you propose is most desirable. Catherine and your wife were once very close, I believe. They will be able to reassure each other. It is timely, most timely.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I do, without doubt.’ He rose from his chair, with something of an effort: there was a touch of fatigue in his words and movements. ‘But I must be on my way. Time and tide, et cetera. We will meet at Bladeney House next Tuesday – at eight o’clock?’
‘I’ll be there.’
‘Good, good. Until then.’ We shook hands and, as we did so, he must have sensed my downcast mood. ‘Does something worry you about this visit to Cleave Court, Trenchard?’
I looked straight at him. ‘What should there be to worry me?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Nor do I. And perhaps that is it. Perhaps what worries me is the thought that I might not know my wife as well as I should.’
He grasped my forearm sympathetically. ‘Steady, man. The probability is that, a week from now, it will all be over. Then you will be able to smile at such thoughts. Trust me: Mr Norton is just a nine days’ wonder.’
III
James Norton had, as a matter of fact, already exceeded Richard Davenall’s estimate of his span by three days when, on Saturday, 7th October 1882, William and Constance Trenchard entrained at Paddington station for their visit to Cleave Court. They arrived late, studiously eschewing mention of the possibility that Norton might, even then, be breakfasting at his ease in the adjoining hotel, and settled themselves hastily in a first-class compartment. After indulging in some peripheral conversation concerning the arrangements made for Patience’s entertainment during their absence and commenting briefly on the kindness of the weather as the sun emerged over the tree-dotted valley of the River Brent, each subsided into the safety of reading, in William’s case that morning’s issue of The Times, in Constance’s a collection of sonnets by Charles Tennyson Turner.
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