Norton hesitated. A frown crossed his face. ‘I cannot recall the exact words.’
Giffard smiled. ‘Because they were not reported. Deprived of a script, we flounder, Mr Norton.’
‘It was eleven years ago. You would not expect—’
‘Any snatched phrase would suffice!’ Giffard’s smile broadened.
Norton looked at him with piercing intensity. ‘“Dear Mother and Father, This is the last you will ever hear from me. I am determined to end my life this day.” Do you wish me to continue?’
The smile drained from Giffard’s face. ‘That will not be necessary,’ he said, after a momentary pause. ‘The contents of the note may have been disclosed before now, so we will not pursue the point.’
‘My Lord!’ exclaimed Mr Russell. ‘We dispute that contention. To sustain it, the defence will need to show evidence of the note’s publication.’
‘As to that,’ Giffard replied, ‘it would be necessary to study a transcript of the presumption-of-death proceedings, where the note was certainly referred to.’
‘Is such a transcript available?’ said Russell.
Giffard smiled. ‘I fear not.’
‘Then the point cannot, as you say, be pursued,’ Mr Justice Wimberley put in acidly. ‘Proceed with your questions, Sir Hardinge.’
Giffard puffed out his chest, as if to confirm that he had recovered the situation. None the less, a wary tone had entered his voice. ‘The touching account of your attempted suicide was lacking in details, Mr Norton. Perhaps you could now supply some. Where in Wapping do you claim to have been dropped on the evening of the seventeenth of June 1871?’
‘The swing bridge across the entrance to Wapping Basin.’
‘That much was certainly reported. What is the name of the public house where you claim to have spent some hours?’
‘Not above two hours, I would think. I don’t remember the name. I was in no state to study inn signs.’
‘Where, in relation to this nameless public house, was the churchyard from which you claim to have removed a coping-stone?’
‘Exactly opposite, on the other side of the street.’
‘Doubtless you have reconnoitred the ground. Is that how you come to know of the alley beside the public house and the stairs it leads to? Is that how you settled on the site for your supposed attempt at suicide?’
‘No. I’ve never been there since, though I could take you there easily enough. If, as you suggest, I’d “reconnoitred the ground”, wouldn’t I have memorized the name of the pub?’
‘No, Mr Norton, because you are clever enough to add a little uncertainty here and there for the sake of verisimilitude. Let us turn to your next foray into the events of June 1871. Where did you pick up this putative steamer to Canada?’
‘West India Docks.’
‘The name of the vessel?’
‘Ptarmigan.’
‘A regular passenger-carrier?’
‘No. It was principally a cargo vessel.’
‘What cargo?’
‘I’ve really no idea. I never inspected the hold.’
‘The name of the captain with whom you negotiated this special berth?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘What name did you travel under?’
‘Smith.’
‘Not very original.’
‘I didn’t feel I needed to be.’
‘When did … Ptarmigan … reach Nova Scotia?’
‘The voyage lasted about a month.’
‘You arrived in mid-July, then?’
‘I suppose so. I’m afraid I didn’t make a note of the date. No doubt you could unearth a record of it somewhere.’
‘No doubt you already have. How long did you remain in Halifax?’
‘Less than a week.’
‘Then you travelled across the border to New York. Why?’
‘It seemed natural to head for a big city. Besides, I was anxious to quit British territory. In the United States, I could hope to lose myself.’
‘Have you remained in New York ever since?’
‘No. I’ve moved around the country extensively.’
‘Always using the name Norton?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Smith?’
‘As you said, it wasn’t very original.’
‘Why a pseudonym at all?’
‘Because I wanted my family to go on believing me dead.’
‘Weren’t you far enough away to escape detection anyway?’
‘Possibly, but it wasn’t a risk I was prepared to take.’
‘In that case, why come forward now?’
‘The discovery that I wasn’t dying of syphilis altered my view of the world.’
‘Tell us where you were, Mr Norton, and what you were doing, when this discovery dawned upon you.’
‘It was a suspicion that grew over the years.’
‘You spoke earlier of the symptoms of your illness. When did you last experience these symptoms?’
‘Some years ago.’
‘How many years?’
‘Six or seven.’
‘Since then, you’ve been completely fit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you claim, then, to have made a spontaneous recovery from syphilis, or never, in fact, to have suffered from the disease?’
‘I suspect the latter, but I’m not qualified to say.’
‘What about those who are? This “most eminent of specialists”. Who is he?’
‘Dr Fabius, the foremost European venereologist.’
‘Where and when did you consult him?’
‘In Paris, in February of this year.’
‘On whose recommendation?’
‘That of my American doctor.’
‘Yet you said you had felt completely fit for six or seven years. Why wait so long to confirm it?’
‘There was the prospect of a relapse. Besides …’
Norton’s momentary hesitation seemed to galvanize Sir Hardinge. He turned on him with a swooping gesture, his voice raised accusingly, ‘I put it to you, Mr Norton, that the death of Sir Gervase Davenall last year prompted you to manufacture this preposterous claim to be his heir. Until then, there was nothing to be gained by it. Of course Fabius gave you a clean bill of health, because you are not syphilitic. In point of fact, you are not James Davenall. Are you?’
Norton was unmoved, ‘I am.’
‘Then, why did you not come forward whilst your father was still alive?’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sir Hardinge, but the reason is a prosaic one. Partly, I waited to be certain. Principally, however, I waited because I was short of money. My upbringing didn’t equip me for lucrative employment. I’ve had to subsist on modest means for many years. Dr Fabius’s opinion does not come cheap. Travelling to France to gain his opinion does not come cheap. Engaging lawyers to prosecute my claim—’
‘You anticipated the Davenalls would resist you, then?’
‘Sadly, yes.’
‘So you’ve been putting by your cab-driver’s tips all these years to fund this enterprise?’
‘In a sense. Actually, I haven’t always been a cab-driver. I’ve worked in many trades and occupations.’
‘Most recently as what?’
‘Copy-writer for an advertising agency in Philadelphia.’
Giffard pulled a face. ‘A sad fate for an English baronet.’
‘As you say.’
‘Perhaps you dreamed up this story in a slack hour between carbolic soap slogans.’
‘Not so.’
‘Do your former colleagues know what you’re about?’
‘No.’
‘Perhaps that’s just as well for their peace of mind.’ He paused rhetorically, then returned to the attack. ‘One last question, Mr Norton. The late James Davenall’s fiancée, now married, whom you were too delicate to name: have you met her since announcing your claim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she acknowledge you as her form
er fiancé?’
‘Not publicly.’
‘Privately, then?’
‘I’d rather not disclose the contents of a private conversation with a lady.’
‘How touchingly chivalrous. But it will not do, Mr Norton. I put it to you that this pose of gentlemanly reticence is merely a stratagem by which you hope to imply her support for your claim, without that support being put to the proof.’
‘That I absolutely deny.’
‘Then, will you admit she has rejected your claim?’
‘No.’
‘Did she acknowledge you: yes or no?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘You must.’
Norton looked up at the judge. ‘My Lord, I appeal to you. Surely I may decline to answer if I wish?’
Russell was on his feet, suddenly fearful, it seemed, for his client. ‘My Lord, I think what the plaintiff means—’
‘Thank you, Mr Russell, his meaning is clear.’ Mr Justice Wimberley peered down at Norton with an expression of apparently genuine concern. ‘Of course you may decline to answer, young man. This is not a criminal action. However, I must warn you that, by not answering, you will leave the court with little alternative but to accept Sir Hardinge’s interpretation of your motives. Do you understand the consequences of that?’
‘I do.’
‘Very well. Will you answer?’
Norton paused. There stood suspended, in the interval of his silence, all the doubts and possibilities raised by his testimony. Many in the court did not understand how this one question had become the ultimate test of his veracity, but they sensed that it had. They knew, intuitively, that his answer would form, for good or ill, the crisis of the case. When he replied, he spoke in an undertone, but his words eluded nobody. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will not answer.’
Towards the back of the public gallery, Emily Sumner was sobbing gently. It was the only sound in the court.
VI
When I returned to The Limes, it was to find Cook in the hallway.
‘Bless me!’ she exclaimed. ‘There you are, sir.’
I had no time for her chatter. ‘Where’s Hillier?’
‘Took ’er leave, sir, early this mornin’. Said you knew all about it.’
‘So I did. Well, what about some tea? I’ve a guest to entertain.’
‘Guest, sir?’
‘Yes. She’s in the drawing-room. As you’d know, if you’d been here to let her in when she arrived.’
‘No one’s called, sir. I’d ’ave ’eard the bell from the kitchen. That’s where I’ve been since breakfast.’
Evidently, her hearing was failing. ‘Never mind. Tea for two, quick as you like. And some sandwiches. I’ve an appetite on me.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘And make up the guest room. The lady will be staying overnight.’ Noting her expression, I added: ‘I know it wouldn’t normally fall to you, Cook, but, without Hillier. well … you do understand, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said grudgingly. ‘Reckon I do.’ With that, she took herself off.
In the drawing-room, Miss Rossiter had evidently completed her statement. She was still sitting at the bureau, but had discarded the pen and was gazing vacantly into space. Her attention must have been elsewhere, for she seemed not to hear me come in.
‘Miss Rossiter!’
She looked up with a start. ‘Mr Trenchard! I’m sorry.’
‘There’s no need to be. Have you finished?’
‘Yes.’ She rose from the bureau and handed me three neatly written pages.
I sat down in an armchair and began to read. Whilst I did so, I was aware of two competing sensations. One was the confidence which grew within me as I studied the document: it said all I needed to prove beyond doubt that Quinn was conspiring against the Davenalls and against me. The other sensation, less intense but no less insidious, was of Melanie Rossiter watching me as she patrolled the carpet by the window. I felt increasingly responsible for her, increasingly moved by all that she was putting at risk to help me. Was she hoping I would protect her from Quinn? Was she praying I would intercede with her fiancé? She must not be disappointed, I knew, on either count.
‘I’m most grateful for this,’ I said on finishing. ‘It’s everything you spoke of. It’s more than I had a right to ask.’ When I saw the pinched line of her mouth and the tight fists into which her hands were screwed, I realized how true my words were. ‘You don’t have to put your name to it, you know.’
‘I do. It’s the only way to be free of him.’
‘In that, I think you may be right.’
I carried the statement back to the bureau and held out the pen. Without hesitating, she took it from me and signed the last page, then initialled each of the others. ‘There,’ she said. ‘It’s done.’
The hand with which she held the pen was shaking. Instinctively, I reached out and clasped it in mine. I had meant it to be the merest reassuring squeeze, but found instead my fingers intertwined with hers. ‘You can rely on me,’ I said thickly.
‘Thank you,’ she said softly. Then she turned her large dark eyes upon me, searching, as it were, for proof that she could trust me. ‘I do so fear for what may happen to me.’
‘There’s no need to. I’ll make sure you come to no harm. I intend to see Quinn behind bars for what he’s done.’
‘And my fiancé?’
‘If he’s worthy of you, he’ll understand. I’ll do all I can to make him understand.’
She turned and looked directly at me, our hands still joined. ‘Bless you,’ she said, ‘for being my friend.’ Then she abruptly let go of my hand and jumped back, blushing, for she had seen, as I had not, Cook coming in with the tea.
Chapter Ten
I
RICHARD DAVENALL LEFT Lincoln’s Inn alone that afternoon and in sombre spirits. Russell had been unable to repair the damage done by Norton’s refusal to answer Giffard’s question, and Hugo had reacted as if the case was already won, clapping Sir Hardinge on the shoulder, insisting he should meet his mother, even suggesting he might care to dine at Bladeney House. For all this, however, Richard had no taste. It was not that he believed Hugo’s confidence to be misplaced; rather that he feared it was all too well founded. There was the rub. Norton had not merely impressed him more than on any previous occasion; he had moved him in the most disturbing way. He had woken in Richard that dormant suspicion that the noble racked creature he had watched all day in court was none other than James Davenall himself.
Chill dusk and attendant fog were settling on London as Richard emerged from Lincoln’s Inn. Turning up his collar and buttoning his gloves, he headed southwards, eager to find solitude in the homeward rush of the city. He glanced at the new and nearly complete Royal Courts of Justice, looming to his right behind tarpaulins and temporary fencing, and reflected for a moment on the sad waste his profession sowed in the lives of that misguided throng they called their clients.
He sighed and stepped up his pace, glad, at all events, to have some task to fulfil which might distract his thoughts from such morbid paths. Benson had passed him a note during the afternoon saying that Roffey wanted to see him urgently, so he had decided to pay the man a rare visit at his place of business. This was a shabby one-room office above a tobacconist’s shop off Ludgate Hill, and when Richard reached it, through the crowded tangled streets, he was forcibly reminded of the imperishable necessities which linked such dilapidated premises with the fashionable likes of Chester Square. Only to Richard, who moved in both worlds, was the irony of their connection inescapable.
He found Roffey awaiting him with all the self-effacing patience which was his trademark, and to which he characteristically added an apology. ‘Sorry to get you over here, Mr Davenall.’
‘Benson said it was urgent.’
‘Seeing as the hearing’s commenced, I thought you should know straight away. How’s it going?’
‘So-so. What have you found?’
‘S
omething on Quinn. Not much. Nothing definite. But something.’
‘Well?’
‘Keep his description, change his name to Flynn and ask a sergeant I know at Scotland Yard: then you get a man the police would very much like to find.’
‘Why?’
‘They think he’s behind a series of burglaries. House break-ins, that is. Houses of the rich and influential, town and country. Safes opened, cash, jewellery and art objects stolen. All done very efficiently, I gather, and not thought possible without inside information. A man who knows servants or ex-servants, or who knows some of the houses and owners himself, is the obvious candidate. They don’t know about Quinn, of course. That’s my theory, based on rumours circulating in the stolen-goods trade, but it fits the facts. By dismissing him, Lady Davenall may have set him on the road to a more … lucrative occupation.’
Richard smiled ruefully. ‘This would explain why he’s in no hurry to be found by us.’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. I should add that a footman was killed in one of these break-ins, so, strictly speaking, there’s murder to be considered on top of burglary. If Flynn is Quinn, he wouldn’t want anything to do with our enquiries. Unless …’
‘Unless what?’
‘Unless he’s already involved. It occurred to me that Mr Trenchard might have a point. Norton needs money as well as information to mount a case. Quinn could be supplying both. There’s not a shred of evidence for that, of course, but Norton has gone missing when he’s wanted to, perhaps in order to meet his principal. We’ve no idea where, but—’
‘It could be wherever Quinn, or Flynn, feels safe?’
‘That was my thought, sir. Does it help?’
‘I’m not sure, Roffey. I’m not sure at all.’
II
Cook’s hearing must have failed again, for when the doorbell rang late that afternoon there was no sign of her stirring to answer it. At length, I went myself and found a post-boy on the doorstep, stamping his feet to keep warm in the raw fog-wreathed dusk. He had a telegram for me from Constance. It was a reply to mine of earlier in the day and said simply that she was leaving Salisbury straight away. Before the night was out, she would be back with me, back to hear me vindicated. I tipped the boy and went to rejoin Miss Rossiter in the drawing-room.
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