‘Come to the point.’
He grimaced. ‘Bear with me, old man. We’re comin’ to it. Champagne, fine cigars, the ladies waltzin’ in their provokin’ disguises. I don’t mind tellin’ you … Well, point is this. I had me eye on one fetchin’ creature who seemed to want more than just a waltz. She told me which room she was sleepin’ in, but sleepin’ weren’t exactly her intention. When I cut along there, in the small hours, I found I’d been … forestalled. Gerry had got there before me. There they were, in flagrante delicto. So preoccupied, they didn’t even know I was there. Gerry didn’t realize, until I told him, three years later. That’s why he fought me. That’s why he set out to kill me – and damn near did.’
‘I don’t understand. The way you talk, such liaisons were commonplace.’
He smiled at an agreeable memory. ‘Matter of fact they were, old man. We weren’t so po-faced in my day.’
‘Then, why fight a duel about it?’
He leaned forward and plucked the five-pound note from my hand. ‘You hear the rest when you pay the balance.’
He must have been able to detect the straining eagerness in my voice. ‘Where and when?’
‘The Lamb and Flag, Rose Street, nine o’clock tonight.’ He leaned out of the cab and ordered the driver to stop. We were halfway up Albany Street. ‘Don’t be late,’ he concluded, winking. Then he hopped out and crossed the road before I could say another word.
I was still debating whether he was merely leading me by the nose, to pay off some bad debts, when the cab dropped me outside The Limes and I made my way up the drive. Suddenly, without Thompson to distract me, I began to regret my outburst in the court. What, after all, had it gained me but a brief venting of my anger?
Then I pulled up sharply. There was a woman standing by the front door of the house. She turned to look at me as I approached, and I recognized her at once. Her hair was drawn up beneath a narrow-brimmed hat, her dress partially concealed by a short coat, but there was no mistaking the regal tilt of her jaw. Nor the calm dark-eyed severity with which she greeted me. This time, there was no fog to pluck her away. This time, she spoke.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Trenchard. I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.’
III
The luncheon adjournment in the Norton versus Davenall hearing found Sir Hugo Davenall, his cousin Richard and Sir Hardinge Giffard patrolling Lincoln’s Inn Fields in search of fresh air and inspiration. Neither commodity was, however, in abundant supply.
‘He’s taken an enormous risk,’ Sir Hardinge was saying, ‘by changing his story at this stage.’
‘Perhaps we should be grateful,’ said Richard uncertainly. ‘At least your father’s name hasn’t been dragged into it, Hugo.’
But Hugo looked far from grateful. ‘Why’s he done it?’ he said, drawing heavily on a cigarette. ‘What’s the bloody man up to?’
‘Had you considered,’ said Sir Hardinge, ‘that he might wish to spare your family’s feelings?’
‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
Giffard smiled grimly. ‘Never mind. Look at it another way. He takes all the blame on himself. He makes a clean breast of past sins. That stands him in good stead with the judge. You follow?’
‘Too damn well. You must tear him apart, Sir Hardinge.’
‘I’ll do my best. There are a good many weaknesses to work on. None of it’s central, of course, but it may suffice.’
‘I hope to God it does.’ Hugo pulled up in his tracks, tossed down the cigarette and ground it beneath his foot. ‘You must excuse me now. I said I would speak to Mother before the resumption.’
He walked back towards Lincoln’s Inn, and the two men turned to watch him go. As soon as he was out of earshot, Sir Hardinge rounded on Richard with much of his professional reserve abandoned.
‘This morning went about as badly as it possibly could, Davenall.’
‘I realize that,’ Richard said dolefully.
‘We must have no more interventions from Trenchard.’
‘There’s really nothing I can do to influence him.’
‘Such incidents only strengthen Norton’s hand. They make him seem the injured party.’
‘I know, but—’
‘The judge is already leaning in his direction. I’ve never seen Wimberley so partial. And this change of story – it’s damnably cunning. If we confronted him with it, it would only reflect well on him. I’d intended to challenge him over the wording of the note, but that hints at his father’s responsibility for his illness.’
‘You can’t use the note now.’ Richard’s voice was a dull monotone, as if he were orating on a lost cause.
‘But the rest won’t stretch. Don’t you see? To prevent this going to trial, we must break him now.’
‘We rely on you for that, Sir Hardinge.’
Giffard looked quizzically at him. ‘Sometimes, Davenall, I wonder whether your heart is in this case, I really do. You don’t, by any chance, suspect that Norton really is your missing cousin, do you?’
Richard returned his gaze blankly. ‘Do you really want me to answer that question?’
‘No,’ said Sir Hardinge. ‘Upon reflection, I don’t believe I do.’
IV
I showed her into the house and took her coat. As I eased its fur nap from about her slender shoulders, I saw that she was wearing the same intensely black dress, ruffed at the neck with white lace, gashed at the breast with a corsage of fresh red roses.
‘I’m sorry there was nobody to admit you,’ I said lamely. Hillier, it seemed, had taken me at my word and gone. ‘The household is somewhat reduced at present.’
‘No matter. It’s you I came to see.’ Her voice was strangely low-pitched, almost masculine in tone. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes. Dr Fiveash employed you as his secretary earlier this year.’
‘I was sorry to deceive the Doctor. He was always very kind to me.’
‘I take it Whitaker is not your real name?’
‘No. My name is Rossiter, Melanie Rossiter.’
‘Miss Rossiter?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do I know that isn’t another pseudonym?’
‘You have my word.’
‘But what is that worth, Miss Rossiter?’
Suddenly, she looked up at me with such an anguished expression that I wished I could bite back my words. Her large, deep brown eyes were full of tears. ‘I have come to you,’ she said falteringly, ‘because I have no-one else to turn to.’
Whatever I felt, I would not yet admit it. ‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘I cling to the hope that you will.’
‘You admit spying on Fiveash’s records concerning James Davenall?’
‘Yes.’
‘At the instigation of Alfred Quinn?’
‘Yes.’
‘And James Norton?’
She looked at me with a puzzlement I could not question. ‘No. Quinn put me up to it. Until I read of the hearing, I had no idea what he wanted the information for. I’ve never met Mr Norton.’
‘Why have you come to me?’
‘Because I want no part of a criminal conspiracy. Because I need your help – to protect me from Quinn.’ She looked down and stifled a sob. ‘He would kill me if he knew I’d told you even this much.’
‘Come, come, Miss Rossiter. I saw you with Quinn yesterday afternoon in Regent’s Park. You’re his willing accomplice.’
She raised her head and confronted all the accusations I could muster with a courageous sincerity of her own. ‘You think that of me? It isn’t so, Mr Trenchard. You must believe me.’
‘Why did you follow me, then?’
‘Because Quinn wanted me to be able to describe you. He wished me to visit your wife in Salisbury and protest …’ She looked away and blushed. ‘He wished me to tell her that you had enjoyed my favours but refused to pay for them. He wished me to ask her to pay instead.’
I grasped her arm and pulled
her round to face me. The vileness of such a plan had inspired in me shame as well as anger. ‘What stopped you?’
‘There are limits to what I will do to prevent Quinn ruining me. What he required of me went beyond those limits.’ She had spoken slowly and deliberately, as if to emphasize that, this time, there was no pretence.
‘Why should I believe any of this?’ I said at last.
‘Because we need each other, Mr Trenchard. Quinn is an enemy to us both. Together, we may yet escape him.’
That, I suppose, was the moment when I began to trust her. I had no reason to, beyond her youth, her beauty and her apparent honesty, but my need to find some proof that Norton and Quinn were conspiring against me overrode my doubts. I showed her into the drawing-room and sat opposite her, wondering how Constance would react when she heard from such a source that she had been misled and I misjudged. Miss Rossiter gazed about at the furnishings of the room, as if over-awed by the setting, though it was humble enough, in all conscience.
‘What hold does Quinn have over you?’ I said at length.
She flashed a look of startling intensity at me, then dropped her chin and blushed. ‘I hardly know how to explain,’ she said, nervously fingering her corsage. ‘It’s too … awful to speak of.’ Her eyes closed for a moment, then opened.
‘You must tell me, if I’m to believe you.’
‘I realize that.’ She sighed. ‘So be it. I’m engaged to be married. Have been for over a year. My fiancé comes of an excellent family. His father’s a wine merchant in Bristol. A man of means and considerable repute. He has allowed our engagement to go forward, despite my modest standing in the world, because he realizes that his son and I are very much in love. If our engagement were to be ended, I would be heartbroken.’
‘Why should it be?’
‘Because Quinn has some photographs of me which he’s threatened to show my fiancé. The photographs are …’ She broke off and sobbed, then gave way to tears. Before I had time to question the wisdom of my response, I was beside her on the sofa, one arm round her shoulders, offering what comfort I could. ‘The photographs show me,’ she continued, ‘as only a husband would be entitled to see me.’
‘How did Quinn obtain them?’
‘He and I were in domestic service together in Bristol two years ago. I was a housemaid, Quinn was a footman, though he claimed to have been a butler in his previous post. That was before I met Clive, you understand. Quinn persuaded me that there was good money to be had modelling for an artist he knew. And there was. It was even better for life modelling, as it was called. Better still if you allowed yourself to be photographed. I was so stupid. I really believed that the photographs were only taken so he could have a likeness to paint by when I wasn’t there. Later, Quinn told me what they were really used for.’ She shuddered. ‘It seems he kept some copies for himself. We were no longer working together when he came to me, last December, and said that he would show the pictures to Clive … unless I did as he asked.’
‘And what he asked was that you find James Davenall’s medical records amongst Dr Fiveash’s papers?’
‘Yes. It didn’t prove difficult. The Doctor was a trusting employer.’
‘Quinn arranged Miss Arrow’s accident?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you lodged with the widow Oram in Norfolk Buildings until you’d accomplished the task?’
She looked at me in surprise. ‘You know that?’
‘What did you obtain in return? The photographs?’
‘Yes. But they were worthless. As I might have guessed, he has the negatives as well. They’re what he promised me if I would do this further service …’ She looked away. ‘By disgracing you.’
I patted her hand. ‘You have my gratitude, Miss Rossiter.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. Then, in a stronger voice: ‘Would your wife have believed such a tale?’
‘Possibly. We’ve been estranged … for some weeks. She might have thought … At all events, the object of the exercise is plainly to win her over to Norton. No doubt he’d have been on hand to console her once you’d persuaded her that I wasn’t to be trusted.’
‘What do you want me to do … now I’ve told you everything?’
She had placed herself in my power, and when I looked into her frank imploring eyes I wondered at the bewildering speed with which she had been transformed from an awesome foe into a winsome ally. ‘I want you to write down what you’ve told me. We’ll have the Davenalls’ solicitor swear it as a legal statement. Then I want you to tell my wife the truth.’
Her jaw set in a determined line. ‘Very well. I’ll do as you ask.’
‘Unfortunately, I see no way of dispossessing Quinn of the negatives.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He would never have given them up anyway. I must face Clive with the truth and trust in his love for me.’
‘Where is your fiancé now? In Bristol?’
‘No. He’s gone to Portugal with his father on business. He knows nothing of my presence in London.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’
‘I need your protection above all, Mr Trenchard. I was to have gone to Salisbury today to see your wife. Quinn was to have met me at Waterloo off the four o’clock train. What am I to do when he realizes I’ve disobeyed him? He knows where I’m staying. I would fear for my life if I thought he knew I’d betrayed him.’
‘You must stay here. I will meet Quinn at Waterloo in your place.’
‘No!’ There was a note of desperation on her voice. ‘If he saw you, he would guess what I’ve done. Better that he should be left in doubt. He’s a dangerous man, Mr Trenchard. A very dangerous man.’
Reluctantly, I conceded the point. ‘Very well. I will telegram my wife to return here immediately. Meanwhile, I’d like you to write out your statement, ready for her to see.’
I opened the bureau, found her pen and paper and left her writing while I hurried out of the house and round to the post office in St John’s Wood High Street. There I telegrammed Constance in the most emphatic terms I could devise: VITAL YOU RETURN HOME AT ONCE. HAVE PROOF NORTON NOT JAMES. Miss Rossiter’s account did not quite amount to the proof I proclaimed, but I knew it would suffice to shatter Constance’s confidence in Norton’s honesty. Walking back to The Limes, I felt at last a lifting of the bleak despair which had gripped me for weeks. The coils of Norton’s conspiracy with Quinn were not as binding as I had feared. With Miss Rossiter’s help, I was about to cut free.
V
At Lincoln’s Inn the hearing had resumed. Mr Russell’s concluding questions to the plaintiff had elicited nothing to compare with the sensations of the morning, but, as he sat down, interest heightened. Journalists licked their pencils. Even the least attentive occupants of the public gallery ceased examining their fingernails. For Sir Hardinge Giffard, clearing his throat and hoisting his gown about his shoulders, had risen to confront his prey.
‘Mr Norton …’ He had pronounced the name with deliberate emphasis and now paused to judge its effect. ‘You are, I take it, serious in your claim to be the late James Davenall?’
Norton’s reply was a model of coolness. ‘I am more serious in asserting my true identity than in anything I have done in my whole life.’
‘It would be as well if you were. Do you realize how severely the Law looks upon perjury?’
‘My Lord, I protest!’ Mr Russell was on his feet. ‘My client is under oath.’
‘Indeed he is,’ Mr Justice Wimberley replied. ‘Sir Hardinge may be seeking to remind the plaintiff, however, that, were he to lose this action, a charge of perjury would almost certainly be brought against him.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Yet perhaps the plaintiff needs no reminding.’
‘I do not, my Lord,’ Norton said calmly.
‘Very well. Proceed, Sir Hardinge.’
‘I questioned your seriousness because, were it not for the distress your claim has already caused the Davenall fam
ily, it might seem merely laughable. Has any member of that family even fleetingly acknowledged you?’
Norton replied without hesitation. ‘No.’
‘What explanation do you offer for their unanimous rejection of you?’
‘I cannot speak for them. Their refusal has greatly pained me.’
‘Would you agree then, that the most likely explanation is that they simply do not believe you are their late relative?’
‘My Lord, I object!’ Mr Russell had once more intervened. ‘It is absurd for my learned friend to refer to my client as if he were dead.’
Mr Justice Wimberley compressed his lips. ‘I gather that Mr James Davenall was pronounced legally dead two years ago. Thus Sir Hardinge’s appellation of the word “late” to his name is strictly correct.’
Giffard smiled. ‘Thank you, my Lord. Well, Mr Norton?’
‘I have been forced to conclude that they would rather deny me than face the consequences of my return.’
‘You lay that accusation against Sir Hugo Davenall?’
‘I do.’
‘And his mother, Lady Davenall?’
‘Reluctantly, yes.’
‘You seriously expect this court to entertain the notion that a mother would refuse to acknowledge her son, a son whom she believed dead, a son whom you claim to be, miraculously restored to her, on grounds of … what? Inconvenience?’
‘Not inconvenience, no. My mother is a person of fixed and puritanical opinions. To accept me, she would also have to accept the reasons for my original disappearance. They are what she finds so appalling. As for my brother, it is surely obvious what he stands to lose by acknowledging me.’
‘Oh, yes. “The reasons for your original disappearance.” You claim to have left a note I believe, at the family home in Somerset, hinting at suicide. Remind me of the date.’
‘The seventeenth of June 1871.’
‘Where did you leave it?’
‘In my father’s dressing-room.’
‘Word-perfect, Mr Norton. I congratulate you. Of course, that much could have been gleaned by studying newspaper reports of the late Mr Davenall’s disappearance. What did the note say?’
Painting The Darkness - Retail Page 26
