‘It’s kind of you to come with me, Richard,’ James said. ‘I do appreciate it.’
‘It’s the least I can do.’
‘I worry that you feel excluded from the family because of this wretched business.’
‘I fear that’s inevitable.’
‘When it’s over, I hope you’ll agree to handle all my affairs.’
‘If you wish it.’
‘I do, I do.’ Ambiguity and suspicion had infected all their exchanges. Richard was not sure now what his own words meant, let alone James’s.
The light was fading and the neighbourhood coarsening as they pressed on eastwards. Shambling beggars and gaping barefoot children were beginning to outnumber tradesmen. The Thames glinted at them and tracked their steps from the far ends of sloping bale-hung alleyways. For Richard this was a disconcerting alien world, where trust and treachery threatened to become indistinguishable, where he had fewer ways than ever of knowing how much his companion remembered – or how much he had merely imagined.
‘There’ll be so much I don’t know,’ James went on, ‘so much that’s changed in twelve years. I intend to be a model landlord, but I’ll need your help and advice.’
‘Then, you shall have it.’ For an instant, the prospect was one to savour. This man would be so much worthier a client than Hugo, so much more deserving of Richard’s advice. Then they passed over the swingbridge across Wapping Basin and entered, or re-entered, the miniature world James had recalled at the hearing: Wapping High Street, with a neglected graveyard on one side and the Town of Ramsgate public house on the other. ‘This is the place, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ James replied. ‘This is it.’ He led the way up the next street on the left, to where rusty creaking gates gave on to the burial-ground. He pushed them open and Richard followed him in.
‘This is where you waited? This is where you chose the stone to weigh you down?’
‘Yes.’
Richard looked around at the cluster of crooked gravestones and mould-draped mausoleums, his breath clouding in the frosting air. It was possible, yes, all too possible. On this frozen patch of funeral-planted land, between the drab crammed vastness of the slums and the grinding ceaseless commerce of the river, a man might truly have sought an end to misery. In that moment, though only for that moment, Richard was convinced. ‘I’m glad your nerve failed you,’ he said, resting his hand on James’s shoulder. ‘You deserved better than to be brought to this.’
‘Did I?’ James glanced round at him, his expression indecipherable in the gathering gloom. Then, abruptly, he stepped away towards the gates. ‘Shall we take a look at the stairs I followed down to the river?’
‘By all means.’ But James’s movement had been too quick for Richard’s liking. It was as if he had recoiled from sympathy, as if he had found either the memory or the deception too painful to bear. As they walked back in the direction of Wapping High Street, Richard sensed that his companion was at his most vulnerable in this place and at this time. If he were ever to drop his guard, this would be the moment. ‘You meant what you said about being a model landlord?’
‘Certainly.’
‘You’ll have much to consider. The Irish property, for instance. It’s been entirely in the agent’s hands since your grandmother’s death. You went there once, I think.’
‘To Carntrassna? Yes, when I was a boy.’
‘With your father?’
‘Yes.’
‘What year? Do you remember?’
‘1859. Soon after Grandpapa’s death.’ And shortly before, Richard calculated, Gervase paid the Carntrassna agent ten thousand pounds for no known reason. ‘Papa felt that, as his heir, I ought to meet his mother.’
‘Did you enjoy the visit?’
‘Hardly. I found County Mayo raw and forbidding.’
‘And your grandmother?’
‘Not one to suffer fools – or children – gladly. She was rather … intimidating.’
‘Do you remember the agent there? A man named Lennox?’
‘No. I can’t say I do.’
They entered the alley that cut down between the Town of Ramsgate and the walls of neighbouring buildings towards the river. Light and warmth were fleeing from the day, with mist rising ahead of them from the brown and turbid mass of the Thames. At the end of the alley, a flight of steps ran down and vanished into the water. They halted at the top of them and looked around at the soaring weed-fringed faces of brick that the warehouses showed to the river, at the distant slime-hazed wharfs of the Surrey shore, at the lapping murky infinity where the Thames passed on towards the sea.
‘A dismal spot,’ said Richard, after a lengthy silence.
‘A dismal spot for a dismal deed. It is strange to return here – after all these years.’
‘Does it feel as you expected?’
‘I don’t know. I’m glad to have come, though – as I’ll be glad to leave.’
The tone of James’s voice swayed Richard more than the words he spoke. Such a tone could not, he sensed, have been assumed for his benefit. It conveyed the memories this spot held for him more poignantly than any word-perfect courtroom testimony. It carried the unmistakable ring of truth.
‘Shall we go now?’ said James, after another wordless interval.
‘If you’ve seen enough.’
‘I believe I have.’ A violent shudder ran through him then, more violent than the encroaching chill could explain. ‘Quite enough.’
Richard nodded and set off back along the alley. Before he had covered ten yards, he realized that James was not following. Pulling up in puzzlement, he turned and saw his companion still standing at the top of the steps – rooted to the spot, it seemed – staring down into the river. He called his name, but there was no response, no sound or movement to indicate that he had heard. Richard walked back to him and reached out to touch his shoulder. Then, at sight of the expression on James’s face, he stopped.
Previously, it had been too dark in the alley to make out a man’s features, but now a lamp had been lit in one of the lofty warehouses to their left, casting a sallow distorted rectangle of light down on to the steps and a portion of the river beyond. Pallid and flickering though it was, it sufficed to show Richard that James was in the grip of a disabling terror.
‘What’s wrong?’
Still there was no answer. Following the direction of James’s gaze, Richard looked down at the base of the steps, where the lamplight showed grey opaque water and a floating litter of matchwood slapping idly at the lower treads.
‘For God’s sake, man, what’s the matter?’
At last, James spoke, in a husky quavering travesty of his former confident tone. ‘Don’t you see it?’
‘See what?’
‘In the water.’
‘I see nothing.’
‘Nothing?’ James stared at him incredulously.
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Then … Then it must be …’ he looked back down the steps, and his voice trailed into silence.
‘Must be what?’
At first, James did not reply. He took several deep breaths and squared his shoulders, as if preparing to exert some enormous effort. Then he turned towards Richard, his expression clear and self-controlled. ‘Nothing,’ he said, in a voice to which calm and rigour had been restored. ‘It’s as you say, Richard. Nothing at all.’ And with that, quickly yet without the least sign of haste, he strode away along the alley.
He had turned into Wapping High Street and vanished from sight before Richard began to follow, bemused by what had happened, cheated of the crisis he had anticipated yet sensing that a different kind of crisis might nevertheless have occurred. But what kind he did not know, for he had seen nothing, on the steps or in the river. And whatever James had thought he had seen was invisible now beneath the fog that rose from the water like the final exhalation of countless drowning men.
Chapter Fourteen
I
DURING THE LENGTHY interl
ude between hearing and trial, the outside world had succeeded in entirely forgetting the case of Norton versus Davenall. A five-month truce had sufficed to blank out all awareness of even its most sensational aspects. To the public mind, it seemed as if it had never happened.
The law, by contrast, had not forgotten. It had merely bided its limitless time until, with neither haste nor hesitation, the appointed day drew near. The truce was about to end.
On the very last afternoon before its expiry, James Norton and Constance Trenchard were walking arm in arm across the grassy slopes of Parliament Hill, breathing the clear air with the desperate pleasure of two who knew such idle freedom would soon no longer be theirs to enjoy.
‘Russell thinks it may last two months or more,’ said James, with a heavy sigh. ‘I wish it could be over quicker. I wish I could just snap my fingers and have done with it.’
‘But you can’t,’ said Constance.
‘No,’ James replied, shaking his head. ‘It seems it must be endured – if I’m to be accepted for who I am. A heavy penance for such a modest privilege: to use my real name. Sometimes I wonder why we shouldn’t simply run away together and forget the whole thing. If Hugo wants the baronetcy that badly, why not let him keep it? I’ve done without it so long I’m not sure I care one way or the other.’
Constance looked at him uncertainly. ‘You don’t really mean that?’
‘Part of me does, yes. The part that made me stay away all those years.’
‘And the other part?’
‘It tells me not to run away a second time. Besides …’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t have the right to ask you to do such a thing. For your sake, if for nobody else’s, I’m determined to see this through.’
She leaned up to kiss him. ‘We’ll see it through together.’
He smiled. ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’
‘Oh, but it is. This very day, Richard has instituted divorce proceedings on my behalf.’ She stepped back. ‘You look surprised.’
‘I didn’t think you’d feel able to consider such a move until the case was over.’
‘The case doesn’t make any difference, James. That’s what I want you to understand. It doesn’t matter to me who the world says you are. I already know. You’re the man I’d gladly marry tomorrow if I were free …’ She blushed. ‘And if I were asked.’ Then she shrieked, for he suddenly clasped her about the waist and whirled her in a circle.
‘As soon as you’re free,’ he cried, ‘you will be asked.’ He kissed her, and they laughed breathlessly, turning to look down in smiling private triumph at the grey and smoking city. ‘James Davenall and Constance Sumner will marry – after a twelve-year engagement. You have my word on it.’
Just as Constance was about to reply, there came a shout from behind them. ‘Davenall! Is that you, Davenall?’ They turned to see two smartly dressed men of about James’s own age walking towards them. One was thin, sallow-faced and lugubriously moustached, the other portly, ruddy-complexioned and smiling broadly: it was evidently he who had called out. About ten yards to the rear, a third man stood watching them with little apparent interest, although the two had seemingly just left his company. ‘It’s Jimmy Davenall, isn’t it?’ said the red-faced man as they drew nearer.
‘Yes,’ said James cautiously. ‘I don’t believe—’
‘Don’t you remember me? Mulholland. Reggie Mulholland.’ He pointed to his companion. ‘And Charlie Borthwick.’
James stroked his chin and looked from one to the other of them. ‘Mulholland and Borthwick,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, of course. You were in the same year as me at Christ Church.’
‘Spot on, old man. You’ve placed us. I’ve put on a bit of weight since then, admittedly, but I’d have known you anywhere. Good to see you again, ain’t it, Charlie?’
‘Certainly is. How are you, Davenall?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ He smiled at each of them in turn.
‘Won’t you introduce me to your friends, James?’ Constance put in.
‘Why, yes, of course,’ said James. ‘But perhaps I should first explain what notorious pranksters these two fellows were at Oxford. It will help you appreciate their little practical joke on this occasion.’
‘Joke?’ said Mulholland, frowning. ‘I don’t quite take your meaning, old man.’
‘You see, Constance, this is Reggie Mulholland’ – he pointed to the one introduced as Borthwick – ‘and this is Charlie Borthwick.’ He pointed to the other. ‘Not, as they would have you believe, the opposite way about.’ The two men stared at him dumbfounded. ‘And the fellow loitering down the slope behind them is, I strongly suspect, a clerk in the employment of Lewis and Lewis, come to witness our reunion. Isn’t that so, Charlie – old man?’
‘This is preposterous,’ Borthwick spluttered. ‘I—’
‘Have they paid you to enact this charade? Or are you doing it for old times’ sake?’
Mulholland plucked at Borthwick’s sleeve. ‘Best give it up, Charlie. He’s seen through us.’
‘He’s just guessing, dammit!’
‘No. Reggie’s quite right. I have seen through you. You’re as transparent as you always were.’
‘Let’s cut along,’ Mulholland muttered. ‘This game’s not worth the candle.’
Borthwick seemed about to contest the point, then all his bluster suddenly deserted him. With a puff of the chest, he turned and retreated, Mulholland following. The third man fell in between them and they marched away down the slope amid sufficient head-tossing and arm-waving to suggest a lively exchange of recriminations.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Constance as they faded from view. ‘What were they trying to do?’
‘They were trying to trick me into providing them with evidence to use in court. It’s clearly been made worth their while to testify against me. Think how much more damaging their testimony would be if I’d been taken in by their exchange of identities.’
‘But how could they think you would be?’
‘I knew them only slightly at Oxford. And it’s thirteen years since I last saw either of them. They must have thought there was a good chance of bringing it off.’
‘Who could have put them up to it?’
‘Who do you think?’
Constance frowned. ‘You mean Hugo?’
‘Or my mother. It hardly matters which. I dare say one of their lawyers actually suggested it – but evidently they didn’t object.’
‘But … to try to trick you like that: it’s shameful.’
James put his arm round her shoulders and held her tightly. ‘It’s only the start, Connie, only the first shot in the campaign. From now on, it’ll be open conflict – with no holds barred.’
II
Proceedings in the case of Norton versus Davenall commenced nisi prius at the Royal Courts of Justice on 3rd April 1883, with the Lord Chief Justice, Lord Coleridge, presiding. Under his direction, a retinue of QCs and juniors took issue, backed by pensive solicitors and anxious clerks, attended by officious registrars and obsequious ushers, observed by twelve solemn-faced jurors, a scribbling pack of journalists and a varying, ever mobile mass of spectators.
To those closely involved in the case it seemed strange, later, how little they could remember of the days and weeks they were destined to spend in that lofty fan-lit courtroom, as the argument ebbed and flowed about them. At the time, their attention was undivided, their concentration ferocious; but, in retrospect, the phases of its long convoluted drama fused into one indistinct parade of question and answer, accusation and denial, claim and counter-claim.
What can be said with certainty is that it was on the tenth day of the trial that James Norton entered the witness-box. Russell, in his lengthy preamble, had prepared the ground well; but this, everyone knew, was the ultimate test. At the hearing, a single day had seen Norton’s testimony completed, but points which had then been established within minutes were now pored over and ana
lysed for hours at a stretch. It took a week for him to reach the events of 17th June 1871 and another week to bring his story to the present day.
Then came his cross-examination by the defence. Sir Hugo Davenall’s new senior counsel, Mr Aubrey Gilchrist, proved only a marginally less acute inquisitor than his predecessor, Sir Hardinge Giffard. For days on end, he and Norton fenced and parried over the same ground. Sometimes Gilchrist gave place to one of his juniors, but only, it seemed, in the hope of lulling Norton into unwise relaxation. The plaintiff was given no quarter, allowed no rest. The search for an opening was tireless, his exertions to prevent one ceaseless.
In the event, Gilchrist was as unsuccessful in challenging Norton’s account of himself as he was incapable of discrediting his recollection of distant events. The colour of the nursery wallpaper at Cleave Court, the name of the dog one of the gamekeepers had accidentally shot in 1857, his academic and sporting career at Eton and Oxford, his friendship with Roland Sumner, his courtship of Constance Sumner, his consultations with Dr Fiveash, his flight from the country in 1871, his subsequent movements and occupations through a dozen cities of Canada and the United States: all this and more was sifted through, and never once did he falter.
Late in the seventh week of the trial, Norton’s cross-examination ended. There was neither fanfare of triumph nor admission of defeat, but it was clear none the less that, thus far even if no further, he had had the better of it.
III
The Times, London, 21st May 1883: ‘Prince Napoleon has been in England during the last few days on private business; it has been surmised that he would like to obtain from the Empress Eugenie a more explicit recognition of his position as political chief of the Bonapartists than has been vouchsafed to him as yet.’
Plon-Plon flung down the newspaper in disgust and began an ill-tempered patrol of the Chinese rug by the window. It was a mistake to have come to Farnborough Hill, he concluded. The fourth anniversary of the Prince Imperial’s death did not fall until 1st June, but Eugenie was already in a preparatory trance of black-crêped debility: a useful discussion of politics was entirely out of the question.
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