Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  Affidavits are to be examined on Monday before Mr Justice Wimberley of the Chancery Division to determine whether the suit filed by Mr James Norton against Sir Hugo Davenall, Bt, of Bladeney House, Chester Square, London, makes out a bona fide case for ejectment to be referred to the Queen’s Bench Division. It is Mr Norton’s contention that he is none other than Sir Hugo’s elder brother James, who disappeared eleven years ago and was pronounced legally dead in 1880. He is petitioning for the removal of the impediments to his assumption of the property and title of Sir James Davenall. His claim is resisted. Mr Charles Russell, QC, will appear for the plaintiff, whilst the defence will be led by the former Solicitor-General, Sir Hardinge Giffard, QC. A further clash between these famous court-room rivals, together with the sensational features of this case, can hardly fail to render the outcome a source of intense interest and speculation.

  II

  Richard betrayed not the slightest reaction as he read the article. He had no wish to draw it to the attention of Sir Hugo, who sat beside him in the jolting cab, in view of the black mood in which the young man was already sunk. There were, he knew, extenuating circumstances, not the least being the early hour at which they were due at Giffard’s chambers. The fact remained, however, that he had acquired one of the finest advocates money could buy and briefed him as thoroughly as he was able. A little gratitude on Hugo’s part would not have gone amiss.

  ‘Giffard has a splendid record,’ he remarked conversationally.

  ‘Then I hope to God it hasn’t made him over-confident.’ Hugo flicked ash from his cigarette through the window. ‘He’s your choice.’

  Richard ground his teeth and said nothing. He rather suspected that any other solicitor faced with Hugo’s petulant demands over the past three weeks would have withdrawn from the case. For that very reason, he had delayed their meeting with Giffard until the last possible moment.

  ‘Still nothing on Norton?’ Hugo’s question had become, by force of constant repetition, more of an accusation.

  ‘Still nothing. Nor on Quinn.’

  Hugo snorted derisively. ‘He’s no loss.’

  ‘As James’s valet—’

  ‘As the thief my mother turned out, he’d miss no opportunity to do us down.’

  ‘Perhaps. But Trenchard thinks—’

  ‘To hell with Trenchard! What about his wife?’

  ‘As far as I know, not testifying.’

  ‘Then, why didn’t you subpoena her for our side?’

  ‘I’ve explained that before, Hugo. If you force her into the witness-box, there’s no telling what she might say.’

  A grudging silence fell. Outside the cab, London was girding itself noisily for the day. Richard closed his eyes for a moment and let the comforting sounds wash over his senses. He had felt so tired these past weeks, chivvying the clerks and Roffey in the search for evidence he did not believe existed, deflecting Hugo’s rancorous interventions whilst praying that he had guessed no more of the truth than Catherine supposed, hoping against hope to avert the confrontation awaiting them. But there was no hope. He knew that now. The man beside him must have his support in any folly, his allegiance beyond any other.

  For Roffey had found nothing. He was the pick of his dubious profession, yet a month of his tireless enquiries had revealed of James Norton no possibility save one: that he was who he said. The thought beat at Richard’s brain whenever he gave it the chance. At such times, as now, it was Gervase he remembered, Gervase insisting against what seemed the overwhelming weight of reason that James was not dead.

  Summoned to Bladeney House for dinner one evening in the summer of 1878, Richard was surprised to find himself the solitary guest. Gervase, normally a gregarious host, clearly had something of moment to discuss with him. He was unnaturally subdued, and looked, Richard thought, none too well. His memory betrayed him over a disputed lease, he complained at the closeness of the evening, he had no taste for his food: he was not, in short, at his best. At the conclusion of the meal, he revealed what Richard took to be the cause.

  ‘Catherine wants to have James pronounced legally dead. I said I’d speak to you about it.’

  Richard, who had been awaiting this proposal for some time, nevertheless felt surprised that it should be broached whilst Quinn was still in the room. He marshalled his thoughts. ‘Seven years having elapsed, such a step is both possible and prudent.’

  ‘Why prudent?’

  ‘Well, your will still nominates James as your heir. I have mentioned—’

  ‘I’ll not change it!’

  Richard persevered. ‘It isn’t strictly necessary for you to do so, since Hugo has always been heir in default of James. When the time comes, however, probate will not be granted until and unless James’s death has been sworn. To institute presumption-of-death proceedings now would be to avoid complication and delay later.’

  Gervase grunted. ‘I thought you’d side with her.’

  ‘It’s not a question of taking sides.’

  ‘Oh, but it is.’ Gervase stared across the table at him. His face was flushed, and a tic was working in his left cheek. ‘It’s a question of taking sides against my son.’

  ‘I don’t understand. James is dead. This is merely a legal—’

  The glass Gervase held in his right hand fractured as if pierced by a bullet. Fragments of it scattered across the table, and the port it contained rushed out over the damask cloth in a vivid stain. Richard looked at his cousin in amazement, but Gervase merely dabbed his gashed thumb with a napkin and gazed calmly back. The glass had not fallen or been struck. He had crushed it in his hand.

  Before anything could be said, yet with no sign of haste, Quinn had brushed the broken glass away and covered the stain with a mat. For a moment, Richard even questioned whether the incident had really occurred. Then he looked at Gervase again and knew, from the twist of his smile, that it had.

  ‘My son lives,’ said Gervase. ‘And I will stand by him.’

  ‘Paper Buildings, gentlemen.’

  The cabby’s cry wrenched Richard’s mind back to the present. They had reached their destination.

  III

  When I reached Orchard Street that morning, Parfitt informed me, with what seemed a disrespectfully knowing smile, that my brother Ernest was waiting for me in my office.

  I found him leafing through the wholesalers’ catalogues which had accumulated on my desk. ‘What brings you here?’ I said, hoping to have surprised him by a stealthy entrance.

  ‘You, William,’ he replied, with no sign of discomposure.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘This can’t go on, you know.’

  ‘What can’t?’

  ‘The hours you keep, the way you’ve spoken to some of our suppliers recently, the disarray’ – he flapped a hand at the chaos of my desk – ‘in which I find your office.’

  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 predicame
nt, 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 NORTON VERSUS DAVENALL.

  ‘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.’