Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  We entered the park by Cumberland Gate and began a slow progress down one of the damp leaf-strewn paths. After thirty yards or so, Fiveash began to speak again.

  ‘I came to you because neither of us wishes to be involved in this damnable business and because I do not trust the Davenalls. As victims of their manoeuvring, we must stick together. And I have thought much on what you said yesterday.’

  ‘I only—’

  ‘You only asked how anybody could know what I told James Davenall eleven years ago. Well, I have asked myself nothing else since and I called on you this morning because I can now say that there is a way.’

  ‘What way?’

  ‘You spoke of my records. It is true that if anybody were to read the notes I made when James Davenall consulted me they would know the nature of his illness and from that might construe the motive behind his suicide.’

  ‘But you said they were kept under lock and key.’

  ‘So they are. Nobody but my secretary and I have access to them, and Miss Arrow has been with me for eighteen years: her loyalty is beyond question. It was only last night, when I was turning over in my mind the absurd possibility that she might have betrayed me, that I thought of it.

  ‘In January of this year, Miss Arrow broke her leg in a cycling accident. Her bicycle brakes failed whilst descending Bathwick Hill, and she ran out of control. She was fortunate, indeed, not to be more seriously injured. My own plight – that of being deprived of her services for several months – was, typically, uppermost in her mind, and she recommended that I take on in her stead a witness to her accident who had subsequently visited her in hospital: a highly personable young lady named Miss Whitaker, who, as it happened, was waiting to take up a teaching appointment after Easter and was, in consequence, glad to step into the breach. Miss Whitaker proved both charming and efficient, swiftly mastering Miss Arrow’s procedures and learning my ways without difficulty. She even volunteered to reorganize my antiquated system of medical records and worked her way dutifully through the somewhat haphazard files we keep on each patient.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘I mean that, had Miss Whitaker been seeking information on James Davenall’s medical history, she could not have been better placed to find it. I had no reason to suspect any such thing, of course. The acquisition of her services I regarded as fortunate in the extreme. But, in the middle of February, Miss Whitaker vanished. She simply failed to arrive one morning, and when I called at her lodgings I was told she had left unexpectedly, leaving no forwarding address. It was unaccountable.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I dismissed the matter from my mind. After all, I had lost nothing by it. Or so I thought.’

  ‘Until now?’

  ‘Precisely. What if Miss Arrow’s accident were no accident at all? Brakes may be tampered with easily enough, and Miss Whitaker witnessed the incident, remember. Is that all she did? I wonder. It gave her the opportunity to wheedle her way into my employment, where her zeal and enthusiasm made delving into my records seem merely another example of her diligence. Then, once she had obtained what she wanted, she simply disappeared.’

  We had come to the band-stand, deserted and bedraggled in the dull morning air, and, after one circuit, began to retrace our steps. ‘How would you describe Miss Whitaker, Doctor?’

  ‘How? She was young, pretty, vivacious. She brought a breath of spring to my wintry old surgery. Had I been thirty years younger, I might have set my cap at her. She had … winning ways. If I am right, she made a thorough fool of me, but I doubt I was the first she did that to, nor yet the last. For such an easy conversationalist, she said very little about herself. She gave her age as twenty-two, though she could easily have been older – or younger. She was evidently well educated. She said that her family lived abroad, though I cannot recall her saying where. There was the hint of an accent in her voice – something faintly French, I often thought. And that is really all. It isn’t much, is it?’

  Fiveash was wrong. To me it was everything: it was something to cling to. ‘Surely it is enough for our purposes. You can hardly believe it’s a coincidence that Norton should come forward so soon afterwards. How can you explain Miss Whitaker’s behaviour unless she was acting as his spy?’

  ‘I cannot. But to go to such lengths … Miss Arrow might have been killed. It seems incredible—’

  ‘If it enabled Norton to pass himself off as James Davenall, they might have thought it worth while. And think of the devilish cunning of it. They discover that James had syphilis, so make a virtue of necessity by claiming that your diagnosis was faulty. Presumably, Norton really was examined by a specialist. They obtain a copy of Sir Gervase’s death certificate, which confirms what they know and gives them cause to hope that the family will knuckle under rather than have his immorality paraded in court.’

  ‘But what of the rest? How was Norton able to bamboozle Prince Napoleon?’

  ‘I don’t pretend to have all the answers yet, Doctor. For the first time, though, I feel there’s something to work on. For the first time, I feel absolutely certain: he isn’t James Davenall.’

  ‘Then, who? I return to my suspicion that he must already have been familiar with the affairs of the Davenalls before setting out on such a conspiracy. I can only believe that Miss Whitaker was his spy if I also believe that they knew there was something to spy on. It cannot have been mere supposition.’

  But I was not to be deflected by Fiveash’s reservations. He had brought me a gift more precious than any proof: confidence. I could see my enemy now. His name was Norton, his crime imposture, his weakness a woman called Whitaker. ‘We’ll nail him in the end, Doctor. You have my word on it.’

  ‘I hope so, Trenchard. I truly hope so.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Return to Bath. I will inform Baverstock of my suspicions, as I am bound to do. No doubt he will inform Richard Davenall. They must make what they can of it. Since my professional competence has been challenged, I rather think I may take legal advice on my own account. I fear, however, that it will all come to nothing unless a connection between Norton and Miss Whitaker can be established. She must be found – as soon as possible.’

  ‘I think the Davenalls can be relied upon to devote all their resources to that end.’

  ‘Yes. But it may not be enough, even then. I may still be deluding myself.’

  I looked at him quizzically. ‘I don’t understand.’ Indeed I did not. None of the comfort I had taken from his words seemed to have eased his own mind.

  ‘I dined with Emery last night,’ he replied after a pause. ‘The specialist I sent James to eleven years ago. He saw him twice, on the second occasion only two days before his disappearance. Emery dug out his notes for me, and there it was, in his own hand: confirmation of my diagnosis.’

  ‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’

  ‘Yes, but not all that I wanted. I wanted Emery to reassure me, I suppose, to say we could not have been mistaken, to say for that reason alone that Norton could not be James Davenall.’ We went on for a few paces in silence, then he resumed. ‘Instead he reminded me that syphilis is the most deceptive of diseases. It may hide behind other ailments. It may proclaim itself falsely. It is impossible to be certain. Sir Gervase’s illness pre-disposed us to explain his son’s illness in the same way. But we may have been mistaken. Miss Whitaker may have vanished for all manner of reasons. Norton may be telling the truth. If he is, think of the misery to which I needlessly condemned him. For I think of it, Trenchard. I think of it often.’

  VII

  ‘We’re delighted to see you, Mr Baverstock, aren’t we, Lupin? Delighted and no mistake. We’ve had rare society these past few weeks, when normally we’re left so very much to ourselves. ’Tis either feast or famine: that’s my experience. And Lupin’s, too.

  ‘The tea should have mashed by now, so here’s your cup. Who did you say you wanted to know about? Miss Strang? Fancy you plucking that name from all
the others I might have mentioned. Vivien Strang. Ah me. You wouldn’t have called her pretty, Mr Baverstock. No, not pretty exactly. Magnificent was the word. A proud cold face and a bearing to match. Would you care for some shortbread? I know you’ve a sweet tooth.

  ‘I’ve told you about Miss Strang before. September 1846. Yes, that would be right. An exact date? You lawyers expect an awful lot, I must say. It was a fine late summer, that I do remember. A happy summer, too. Sir Gervase and Lady Davenall were engaged, so we saw a good deal at Cleave Court of Miss Webster, as she was then, and Miss Strang. Sir Lemuel was delighted. All Gervase’s past scrapes were forgotten and forgiven, it seemed. Maybe that spell in Ireland did him some good, after all.

  ‘Then that appalling Frenchman turned up. Plon-Plon, they called him. Prince Napoleon, that’s right. You’ve met him? Well, I don’t suppose the years have mellowed him. A more disagreeable, overbearing, foul-mouthed … I can’t abide profanity, Mr Baverstock, you know that, and, come to think, I can’t abide the French – those I’ve met anyway.

  ‘The Prince took up with Gervase. Or perhaps it was the other way round. They were of an age and, if I had to swear to it, they were of a character, too. They led each other into bad habits. It caused some disagreements with Miss Webster, I won’t deny. She was only seventeen then, but as wilful and strong-minded as I see you’ve found her to this day. She didn’t take to the Prince, which was only sensible of her, so she must have been relieved when he took himself off so suddenly.

  ‘It was towards the end of September, I think. The weather was still warm, I remember, so much warmer than these weak-as-water summers the good Lord sends us now. And that Plon-Plon was staying the weekend. Sir Lemuel gave a ball on the Saturday night. Miss Webster came, and Miss Strang, too, of course. And the Prince’s cousin, as I think he was, who later became the French emperor. He was living in Bath then. It was a grand event and no mistake. Cleave Court was a far different place then, I can tell you. Sir Lemuel had lanterns hung in the trees in the park, with oranges and lemons fixed to the branches. Oh, they were such a picture.

  ‘That’s the last time I ever saw Vivien Strang, standing in a corner and looking down her nose at all the revelry, oh so disapproving, like only a sober Scot can be. Three days later, we heard that Colonel Webster had turned her out. Dismissed, without notice. Make of that what you will. Pilfering, it was suggested.

  ‘Crowcroft had a different story, mind. He claimed he found her in the maze – the maze, mark you – on the Monday morning after the ball. He was no gossip, was Crowcroft. He’d not have made it up. He went up to the maze at dawn, seemingly, and there she was, coming out, coming out where she had no business going in, at dawn. Crowcroft said her hair was all awry, and her dress was torn. Well, it seems odd, doesn’t it?

  ‘What’s odder still, the Prince left Cleave Court that same Monday. Went back to Bath to stay with his cousin. It wasn’t expected, that I know. Still, you can never rely on a Frenchman to do what’s expected, that’s what I say.

  ‘You keep asking about the date, and I keep telling you; I don’t know. I’ve told you what happened – as much of it as I knew. Isn’t that enough? Now, do you want another cup of tea or must Lupin and I finish the pot between us?’

  VIII

  Dr Fiveash returned home that afternoon. He dropped his bag in the hall and went straight into the surgery office, where Miss Arrow was in conference with his junior partner, the dishevelled and disorganized Dr Perry.

  ‘Ah, Dr Fiveash,’ said Perry. ‘Good to see you back.’

  Fiveash nodded and pulled out his watch. ‘How are the rounds going?’

  ‘Oh, just off. Right away.’ Perry grasped his bulging bag and made for the door.

  ‘London disagree with you, Doctor?’ said Miss Arrow, after Perry had gone.

  ‘More than usual.’ He slumped heavily into a chair. ‘Don’t worry about young Perry. He’s thick-skinned.’

  ‘We do cope in your absence, you know.’ Miss Arrow was stolid and unflappable, matronly by nature and former occupation, given to pawky remarks at her doctors’ expense – above all, wholly indispensable.

  ‘I’ve something on my mind, Miss Arrow. It concerns Miss Whitaker. You do remember her?’

  Miss Arrow frowned. ‘How could I forget the minx? You’d have thought she was Miss Nightingale herself the way she came to the rescue after my accident.’

  ‘Brake failure, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. A cable snapped. I’ve never forgiven Mr Westaway – he’d only just serviced it. As for Miss Whitaker, I’ll never forgive her – or myself – for the way she deserted you. But there’s no use—’

  ‘What did you know of her background?’

  She frowned again. ‘Only what I told you, which was next to nothing. Why?’

  ‘She said nothing to you during her visits to you in hospital? About friends, or relatives, or where—’

  ‘Dr Fiveash, what is the point—?’

  ‘Did she leave anything behind here? When you returned—’

  ‘She left nothing at all, to speak of. She was very particular, I’ll say that for her. Everything here was in perfect order. She’d reorganized the files really rather well, I have to admit. I dare say she was allowed more time for that side of her work than I am. It’s only a pity she didn’t finish.’

  ‘And she left no possessions of any kind?’

  Miss Arrow’s brow furrowed in thought. ‘One or two bits and pieces in her – my – desk drawer. That’s all.’

  ‘What did you do with them?’

  ‘Dr Fiveash, it was months ago.’

  He smiled. ‘I know you.’

  She smiled, too. ‘I didn’t throw them away, just in case … I’d have given her such a piece of my mind if she had returned for them. But they weren’t worth returning for, in all conscience. I put them in an old shoe-box.’ She rose and crossed to a tall cupboard in the corner; there was still a slight limp as she walked. The doors of the cupboard stood open on crooked stacks of jumbled papers, files and medical texts. From a lower shelf, Miss Arrow pulled out a battered cardboard box and stood it on the desk. Fiveash rose and peered in at the contents: a pen and some pencils, a bottle of ink, a needle and thread, a faded scrap of ribbon, a matchbox full of pins, a Bath omnibus timetable, a spiral-bound diary of the 1881–2 academic year. He leafed through its pages: they were blank. Beneath it, lining the base of the box, was a folded, yellowed old newspaper. He took it out and laid it flat on the desk. It was The Times for 12th July 1841.

  ‘A forty-year-old newspaper, Miss Arrow. What do you make of this?’

  ‘It’s from your own archive, Doctor.’

  ‘Really?’ He had kept all copies of The Times over the years that contained medical reports and this, presumably, was one. ‘What would she have wanted with this?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  He turned the first page, then the next. And there, in the top corner of the facing page, was the jagged rim of a torn edge, a rough rectangle ripped from the sheet. Miss Whitaker had, he recalled, sorted all the medical reports into date order. Something had attracted her notice in this one, something she had decided to remove. He folded the newspaper and replaced it in the box. ‘I’m just going out, Miss Arrow.’

  ‘You’ve only just come in.’

  ‘I shan’t be gone long. I’ll be back in plenty of time for evening surgery.’

  IX

  Even as Dr Fiveash was hastening down Bathwick Hill into the city, Arthur Baverstock was brooding at his desk in his first-floor office above the bustle of Cheap Street. Open before him on the blotter was a battered almanac. His interview of the morning with Lady Davenall had told him nothing. She had affected indifference to most of the proceedings he had described and had claimed total ignorance of the significance of any date in 1846. How she would have reacted to the suggestion that she might be a carrier of syphilis he had not been so unfortunate as to discover; that was something he would happily leave to Richard Davenal
l.

  Tea with Esme Pursglove, however, had been a vastly different affair. She had been as cheerfully informative as Lady Davenall had been haughtily unenlightening. The almanac’s perpetual calendar, indeed, had provided Baverstock with the one item of intelligence Miss Pursglove did not possess. Sir Lemuel Davenall had hosted a ball in honour of the Princes Bonaparte on a Saturday in September 1846. Crowcroft had encountered Miss Strang in the maze the following Monday at dawn, in a distressed condition. And 20th September 1846 had been a Sunday.

  X

  The librarian on duty was an occasional patient of Dr Fiveash and displayed unwonted celerity in fetching for him bound back copies of The Times for the third quarter of 1841. Ignoring a jocular enquiry as to the object of his researches, Fiveash retreated with the volume to an alcove table, perched his pince-nez on his nose and turned up the issue for Monday, 12th July.

  The portion removed from his copy by Miss Whitaker was, he now saw, one of the editorial columns. Dotted through the piece, in distinctive capitals, was the name DAVENALL. Fiveash pressed the bulky tome flat with his elbows, bent low over the page, extended his tongue in a sign of concentration that Miss Arrow would at once have recognized, and began to read.

  As if the indignities inflicted upon the reputation of British justice as a result of the trial, if it may be honoured with that description, of the EARL OF CARDIGAN earlier this year were not a sufficient insult to public opinion, we now learn that the duelling, not to say murderous, inclinations of another Hussar officer have been the beneficiaries of selective blindness on the part of our magistracy.

  It is difficult to know how else to characterize the entire want of legal proceedings against Lieutenant Gervase DAVENALL of the 27th Hussars, who, it is clearly established, fought with, and severely injured by pistol shot, Lieutenant Harvey THOMPSON of the same Hussar regiment, at Wimbledon Common on 22nd May this year.

  As to the cause of the duel, cherchez la femme? As to the outcome, Lieut. THOMPSON is, we understand, still resident in the regimental infirmary at Colchester. As to the consequences, we must seek in vain. Generous spirits may argue that Lieut. THOMPSON has suffered sufficiently for his intemperate conduct, since it appears certain he will be unable to resume his commission by reason of his injuries; we do not concur but we shall not demur. What of Lieut. DAVENALL? Has he been cashiered and placed in police custody awaiting trial for attempted murder? He has not. Has he been arraigned before a court martial for assaulting a fellow-officer? He has not. And why not? We venture to suggest that the leniency of the authorities is not unconnected with the friendship known to exist between Lieut. DAVENALL’S father, Sir Lemuel DAVENALL, and the Commander-in-Chief, LORD HILL.