‘Twice in as many days you have dallied here when your time was better spent in London establishing Norton’s true identity. The reason my father dispensed with Miss Strang’s services was not disclosed to me at the time, but I can assure you that Nanny Pursglove’s lurid imaginings – and Crowcroft’s alleged sightings – are as wide of the mark as it is possible to be. I have neither knowledge nor curiosity where Miss Strang’s subsequent career is concerned. I would surmise she went back to Scotland. And there, I must insist, you will leave the matter.
‘Convey this message to my son. Norton is to be offered no money, shown no favour, allowed no advantage. Should he have either the temerity or the means – both of which I doubt – to pursue his preposterous claim in the courts, we will face him with contempt – and dignity. As to the means of defeating him, it is for you – and my cousin – to find them. Is that explicit enough?’
III
Richard Davenall was not at his offices, though he was expected back shortly. I did not wait. Indeed, I was glad, in a sense, to miss him. It enabled me to leave a hastily written note with Benson relating Norton’s rejection of the offer and start back to St John’s Wood straight away; I wanted to be there before Constance returned.
At The Limes, I found Hillier gossiping with the bread-boy in the drive; she looked surprised to see me.
‘Where is your mistress?’ I barked. The tone of my voice at once communicated itself to the bread-boy, who cycled off with shamefaced speed.
‘Not in, sir.’
‘Then where?’
Hillier was not easily cowed. Her reply was coolly factual. ‘She didn’t say where she was going, sir.’
‘When are you expecting her back?’
‘Cook’s expecting ’er for luncheon, sir. Will you also be lunching at ’ome?’
She received no reply. I was already on my way into the house, hurrying lest any pause should allow my resolution to fail. I went straight to the drawing-room, opened the bureau and tried the locked drawer again: it was still locked. There was no point searching once more for the key; I knew it was not there. I picked up the letter-knife, slid its thin blade into the narrow gap between drawer-top and frame, and exerted more and more leverage until, with a sudden splintering wrench, the lock gave way.
There was a bundle of letters within, fastened with tape. I pulled them loose and sifted through them. Several were in my own hand, addressed to Constance in Salisbury and postmarked Blackheath: written, then, from my father’s house in the days of our courtship. I felt suddenly sickened by the stark contrast between the tentative declarations of love such letters contained and the violence I had already done to their memory. There were other letters, some in what I was sure was James Davenall’s hand, pre-dating his disappearance; one from Constance’s brother, Roland, dated a few months before his death; several from a doting aunt in Broadstairs, since deceased; and, innocuously interleaved with the rest, two much more recent communications. Their handwriting was similar to Davenall’s: they could only be from Norton. I sat down and read them.
He had written the first on the day of his visit to The Limes. I read it without surprise, either at the contents or at Constance’s secretion of it. It was only what I had expected, after all, only what I had half-hoped to find. Then, towards its end, one sentence seized my attention. ‘Neither of us can forget, can we, what happened in that meadow?’ It had to be the same meadow he had been speaking of when I interrupted them on the aqueduct. ‘We went as far as the bluebell meadow, didn’t we?’ What could it mean? I scrabbled up the second letter in search of an answer.
Great Western Royal Hotel
Praed Street
LONDON W.
11th October 1882
Dear Constance,
I have as little doubt as, I suspect, you have that what William tells you of today’s meeting at my solicitor’s office – if he tells you anything – is not to be relied upon. I cannot entirely blame him for that, but nor can I accept that you should be kept in ignorance.
If you can face the truth, which is that my love for you is as strong as the day I left eleven years ago, meet me at the Achilles statue in Hyde Park at eleven o’clock on Friday morning. Then we will have done with pretence – for good and all.
Ever yours,
James
I left the letters, discarded and open on the blotter, and retreated from the room. If only I had answered her questions, as she had implored me to, his letter would have struck a false note. As it was, my secrecy had paved the way for him. I was determined to condemn Constance for agreeing to meet him but, in my heart, I no longer blamed her.
My aimless anxious steps took me to the front drive. I believe I had some notion to see if a cab might be setting down its passenger at our door: Constance, perhaps, back from a rendezvous about which I now knew too much. All I found, though, was Burrows weeding sciatically amongst the shrubbery. Seeing me approach, he broke off and lurched out into my path.
‘A word, sir, begging your pardon.’
Reluctantly, I halted. ‘Yes?’
‘The mistress likes a splash of colour in these borders, and I do my best to oblige.’
‘I’m sure—’
‘So I ’ope you’ll not mind my saying: it don’t ’elp if you go trampling and emptying your pipe ’mongst my lobelias.’ He propped his elbow on the handle of his hoe and regarded me with defiant certainty.
‘I’m not in the habit—’
‘The marks are there to be seen.’ He gestured with his thumb towards a clump of flowers beneath a silver birch tree set back from the drive. ‘Clear as the nose on your face. I’d ’ave said it might be little Patience but for the ash.’
Irritated, I crossed the grass and looked down at the crushed lobelias. Somebody certainly seemed to have stood on them. And there was the scatter of ash Burrows had complained about. I stooped to examine it, my irritation turning to curiosity.
‘This isn’t pipe dottle,’ I said, half to myself. ‘It’s cigarette ash. And I don’t smoke cigarettes.’
‘If you say so, sir.’
It was clear Burrows did not believe me, but his opinion was not what concerned me. We were at a point quite close to the front gates and, in my mind, I was imagining a man standing beneath the silver birch where I now stood, but at night, so that he did not notice the lobelias beneath his feet. He could have slipped through the gates, which were never locked, and stood there in the darkness, watching the house, smoking a cigarette as he calmly observed the lighted windows, the movement of figures behind the shades, the agreed signals from the one occupant who knew he was there. I shuddered.
IV
Hector Warburton permitted himself a smug glance at the clock, which showed ten minutes past noon, when Lechlade showed Richard Davenall into his office at Staple Inn. Davenall looked, as well he might, sad and lined and weary. Warburton, however, who did not envy him the task of constructing a defence against his client, felt no grain of sympathy for his fellow-lawyer. He would not have attained his current eminence by admitting such unprofessional thoughts to his soul. This, after all, was a matter of business. If Davenall had lapsed so far from his own professional standards as to entangle family sentiment in the business of the law, so much the worse for him. Warburton, for his part, would show him no mercy.
‘You are somewhat overdue, Davenall,’ he said, neutrally enough. ‘Take a seat.’
‘Thank you, but I’ll stand.’ Richard was well enough aware of his own difficulty to sense that posture was one dignity he could retain – and needed to.
‘Has Sir Hugo changed his mind?’
‘He has not.’
‘I see. Then, I have no choice but to proceed.’
‘If those are your instructions.’
‘They are. As a matter of fact, the Chancery Office has offered me a place on their list for the sixth of November. I shall now confirm the date.’
Richard Davenall stroked his beard, then looked directly at Warburton. �
�That is significantly earlier than I had anticipated. In the interests of all concerned—’
‘No further delay can be countenanced. Sir James wishes to establish his title as soon as possible.’
Warburton had styled his client ‘Sir James’ deliberately; it would do no harm to goad Davenall, given his inclination to procrastinate. But Richard was not to be goaded. He was, in truth, more professionally motivated than Warburton knew. He was determined to do all he could to help Hugo and, to that end, was prepared to tolerate any humiliation – if it would do any good. ‘Mr Norton,’ he said deliberately, ‘did not seem to relish the prospect of a full-blown court action. I am simply—’
‘It is being forced upon him – by your client.’
Richard lowered himself into the chair beside him in a gesture as significant as his earlier determination to stand. ‘Warburton’ – he leaned intently across the desk – ‘I need time … to prepare Hugo’s mind …’
Warburton maintained his distance; he wanted no hint of complicity. ‘It is only a hearing. I doubt an early date will be set for the full suit.’
Nervously, Richard licked his lips. Ordinarily, he would never have demeaned himself by asking favours of Warburton; he had rebuked the dead Gervase often since Wednesday for leaving him no choice but to do so. With Warburton senior it might have been different: a nod, a wink and a helping hand. But what was there in this man’s lean, hollow-cheeked, watery-eyed face to inspire hope? Nothing. Yet hope he did. ‘As you say, it is only a hearing. May I take it therefore that no mention will be made at that stage of the … medical evidence?’
‘You may not.’
‘Surely you wouldn’t—’
‘I will do whatever is necessary to prosecute my client’s claim. Henceforth there will be no … accommodations. Is that clear? If so, I believe there is no more to be said. We will serve the necessary papers as soon as possible.’
Richard sighed and rose to his feet. Warburton was right: there was no more to be said. With the barest nod, he turned and left the room. As he descended the stairs, he reached into his coat pocket and screwed into a ball the note he had carried with him from his office, the note Trenchard had left for him, with its three-word message imprinted on his mind: ‘Norton says no.’
V
Constance came to me in the study, where I had half-drawn the shades and felt the desolation of my anger drain into a morbid contemplation of my own folly. I had seen her walk up the drive and, a few minutes later, she stood in the doorway of the room.
‘Hillier said you wanted to see me as soon as I returned.’ She spoke breathlessly, as if she had raced up the stairs.
I did not move from my chair, steeled myself to be the unyielding master, paused deliberately to steady my voice. ‘I know where you’ve been.’
Quietly, she closed the door, then took a few steps towards me. I could see her face more clearly now, flushed, I fancied, from something more than running upstairs. She was wearing a dark-blue floral-patterned dress, high-necked, with a lace ruff, and lace also at the cuffs and hem – soft flattering fabric that moulded itself to her hips as she moved and showed the rapid rise and fall of her bosom. I was aware now, in the moment of our intimacy’s imminent loss, of the mature beauty of this woman I called my wife, aware – with heightened sense – of the elements that fed my love for her and fed also her detachment from me. She did not speak, but, in her gaze, the message was clear enough: she was not ashamed.
‘You met Norton in Hyde Park – by prior arrangement.’ Still she did not speak. ‘You have received letters from him – and kept them from me.’ Her eyes said all she needed to say: my breach of trust preceded and exceeded hers. ‘You have allowed him – or encouraged him – to persuade you that he is James Davenall.’ And what, she silently replied, if he really is? ‘You have disobeyed me at every turn.’
At last, she spoke. ‘You should have told me the truth.’
‘The truth?’ I tried a weary gibe. ‘What did he say the truth was?’
‘I know why he went away and why he has returned.’ Suddenly, her expression softened. ‘Surely you can see that I cannot but be moved by his plight?’
Was it my hand that thumped the table before me? It seemed, rather, as if another man, whom I was watching, performed the gesture and fashioned my harsh reply. ‘I see that you are prepared to imperil our marriage for the sake of a dalliance with a worthless impostor.’
‘If that is what you really see, William, then you are blind. I had to meet him to learn the truth. I am not about to forget it.’
‘You will do as I say.’
She walked past me to the window, raised the shade a touch and turned to look at me. ‘You cannot command me in this. You know I would have married James had he lived. Now I can no longer doubt that he does live. Such a thing cannot be forgotten.’
The question that Norton had planted within me forced its way to the surface. ‘Is that because of what happened when you last saw him?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were speaking of it when I found you on the aqueduct. All you’ve ever told me is that he left you there, eleven years ago. But that isn’t true, is it? You went somewhere else, didn’t you? A meadow nearby. What happened there?’
‘Whatever happened can’t alter—’
‘You said I was blind. So enlighten me. What happened?’
Her gaze faltered, but not through weakness. She seemed drawn by my words towards the scene I had asked her to describe. ‘Across that field,’ she murmured. ‘So far and fast. Running … and never stopping.’
‘What?’
She drew herself up, looked at me once more, returned her mind to the present. ‘This morning, James told me everything. Now I understand. He acted out of love for me.’
‘Constance—’
‘This morning, he offered to withdraw his claim.’
‘He did what?’
‘He said that, for my sake, he would halt all legal proceedings and give the world to understand that he was an impostor. He would resume his identity as James Norton. He would leave our lives for good. He would cease to come between us. He said that he would do all this – if I asked him to.’
This, then, was the final test he had constructed. Absorbed in self-pity, I did not pause to consider the torment such an offer must have caused Constance; I only demanded its result. ‘Did you ask him?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he has suffered enough. Because I had no right to ask him to return to exile.’
‘Or because you love him?’
‘He told me you had offered him money – on Hugo’s behalf. Is that true?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he refused it?’
‘Yes. Because you had given him cause to hope he could gain still more … from …’ My voice trailed into a silence that was truly mine. In Constance’s eyes, there was an expression I had never seen before. Norton and I, between us, had finally succeeded. We had crushed her love for me.
She walked past me and moved decisively to the door. There she turned back. ‘In fairness to us both, William, I must go away. I will take Patience and stay with my father. James said there was to be a hearing next month. After that, I will decide what to do.’
‘You will decide?’
‘Yes; I will decide. Until then, I will see neither of you. That is a promise.’
‘Constance—’
‘No. Say nothing. It is for the best. I will leave in the morning. Please, for both our sakes, do not try to prevent me.’
VI
Richard Davenall found Sir Hugo at his club in Pall Mall. A fruitless visit to Bladeney House had only exacerbated the symptoms of pent-up emotion with which he had left Staple Inn. Now this least clubbable of fellows was obliged to seek out his cousin in the mid-afternoon fug of a tastelessly decorated bar, where, in his view, there were too many mirrors and velvet-upholstered chairs and where, above all, a gentleman had no busine
ss idling away the daylight hours. Thus there was little of the legal manner about him as he ignored a waiter and dismissed, with eloquent glare, Hugo’s corner-table drinking companion.
‘Cleveland not with you?’ he opened tartly.
‘No.’ Hugo gazed wistfully after his departing acquaintance. ‘But Leighton’s a good fellow. Get you a drink?’
Richard sat down, pointedly ignoring the question. Hugo was clearly drunk – more so than usual. Well, Richard could not entirely blame him for that. Without his years of training in the ways of sober respectability, he might have joined him. ‘Norton’s turned us down.’
‘Has he, by Jove?’ Hugo began tapping a cigarette on the low table before him. A waiter appeared silently at his elbow and lit a match for him. ‘Another large one, Emmett, if you please,’ drawled Hugo as he accepted the light.
‘Don’t you think you’ve had enough?’ said Richard.
‘The only thing I’ve had enough of, dear cousin, is friend Norton. Do you think we pitched the offer too low?’
‘No. I think he believes he has us on the run.’
Hugo snorted. ‘Maybe he has.’
‘Warburton anticipates arranging a hearing for the sixth of November.’
‘Can we stop him?’
‘No. Nor do I think we can stop the case going to full trial. You should prepare yourself for the worst.’
Emmett returned with a recharged glass. Hugo took a large gulp from it. ‘Prepare? When did my family ever prepare me for anything?’
‘There’s no question your father behaved badly, but—’
Hugo brought his glass down on the table with a crash. ‘My father! What I wouldn’t give to have him here now – to shake the truth from him. Tell me, Richard, why do you think my father never accepted that James was dead?’
‘Fatherly weakness, I suppose.’
‘Fatherly weakness be damned! He never showed me any … fatherly weakness. And you know why, don’t you?’
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