Sir Hugo seemed to think he had seen a way out. ‘I was advised my father would not live long. The question of his succession had to be sorted out.’
‘But why did your father not take the necessary steps as soon as James had been missing for the statutory seven years – in June 1878? He did not fall ill until November 1879.’
‘I … I don’t know. He hadn’t been himself for some years.’
‘Can you suggest any reason for his inaction other than a belief that James was not dead?’
Sir Hugo thought for a moment. ‘We didn’t get on,’ he said, tossing back his head. ‘I took it the old boy wanted to spite me.’
If obliged to, then, Sir Hugo would portray his father as petty and vindictive, whereas Norton had never spoken of him – nor, indeed, of any of the family – less than respectfully. The contrast was not lost on the jury: Russell made sure of that.
Later, another element emerged in Sir Hugo’s determination to resist the plaintiff’s claim. Russell had asked him when he had become convinced that Norton was an impostor; his answer made it clear that he had never considered any other possibility.
‘My mother forewarned me.’
‘She told you that a man claiming to be James had called on her?’
‘Yes, and—’
‘And you accepted at once her claim that he was not James?’
‘Of course.’
‘The plaintiff called on you at your London home on the thirtieth of September last. Did this give you an opportunity to verify your mother’s conclusion?’
‘Well … yes. Yes, it did.’
‘But, Sir Hugo, do you dispute the plaintiff’s account of that visit? He testified that he was removed from the premises by your servants before he could so much as engage you in conversation.’
‘I saw him.’
‘For a few moments – before the door was slammed in his face.’
‘I saw enough.’
‘Have you spoken to him since?’
‘Of course. There was a meeting – at his solicitor’s.’
‘Ah, yes. The examination of the eleventh of October. Since then?’
‘I’ve been forced to sit in the same courtroom as him for ten damnable weeks. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Not for my purpose, Sir Hugo. Have you met him other than at the bidding of the law since he was refused admittance to your home on the thirtieth of September?’
‘No. Of course I haven’t.’
‘Then, when have you had an opportunity to satisfy yourself that he cannot be your brother?’
Sir Hugo’s lip trembled, his face coloured. His answer was to fall back on the stubborn denials which had already betrayed him. ‘The man is an impostor. He is not my brother.’ Then his eyes moved towards the plaintiff and, for what must have been the first time in all the weeks that they had sat together in the court, they looked at each other. In Sir Hugo’s face, in that instant of confrontation, many saw what he truly feared: not that his opponent would win the case, but that he deserved to; not that Norton would defeat him, but that Norton was his brother.
II
Plon-Plon was overdressed for the warmth of the day in top-hat and frock-coat and had been reduced to using one of his gloves as a fan. A figure less likely to be taking his ease in a deck-chair in Green Park in the middle of an airless June morning would have been hard to imagine, but the strangeness of the phenomenon was shortly to be explained: he was not there for the good of his health.
A lady in grey was approaching from the direction of Constitution Hill. She moved slowly but with perfect elegance and, as she drew closer, the pin-stripes of pink in her dress and the gossamer white of the scarf about her hat suggested an immunity to the heat in stark contrast to Plon-Plon’s discomfort. She was by no means young, but there was about her bearing that rare facility to combine dignity and insouciance which can render age irrelevant.
Plon-Plon did not rise to greet Catherine Davenall: he was too depressed to make the effort. The two, indeed, exchanged no word or smile of recognition. Catherine merely sat in the adjacent deck-chair, waited for the attendant to come, be paid and go, waited a moment longer in measured silence, and then said: ‘You have not found her, have you?’
‘No, madame,’ Plon-Plon replied.
‘I am to testify next week. Hugo has already done so. Time is fast running out.’
‘I fear no amount of time would make any difference.’
‘Have you learned nothing?’
‘I have learned much, madame. Perhaps too much.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘You were correct. She returned to Dumfries after your father dismissed her. But, as soon as her own father discovered she was pregnant, he threw her out. The family disowned her. She came to London and bore Gervase’s child. At some point, she became a nurse. She was one of the party Florence Nightingale took to Constantinople in 1854. Following my encounter with her at Scutari, she was dismissed for indiscipline and sent back to England. Then – rien.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I sent Brunet on a tour of all the hospitals, nursing homes and governesses’ agencies in London. None of them has any record of her.’
‘She might no longer be a nurse – or a governess.’
‘She might indeed. But to find her? One may as well look for a needle in a haystack. It is impossible.’
Catherine cast him a withering look. ‘You mean you find it impossible.’
‘Have it how you will, madame. I have done what I can. I can do no more.’
‘You’re abandoning the search?’
‘I have no alternative.’
‘I looked to you to help me, Prince. As ever, you disappoint me.’
Plon-Plon bowed his head. ‘It was bound to be so. Quelque part, nulle part. She cannot be found, she does not wish to be found: in the end, it makes no difference. I cannot help you, madame. If Vivien Strang is your enemy, she does not mean you to know it.’
For a moment longer, Catherine sat gazing into the heat-shimmered distance. Then, with an air of decisiveness, she rose to her feet. ‘You were my last hope,’ she said, with the merest hint of irony.
He looked up at her. ‘I am sorry. Truly sorry.’
In Catherine’s cold responding stare there was no gratitude for the sorrow he had expressed or the efforts he had made, merely a disdainful recognition of predicted failure. Without another word, she turned and walked away across the park.
III
Sir Hugo Davenall had been his own worst enemy: his fear of Norton had revealed to the court an unreasoning avarice that tainted all he said. Catherine, Lady Davenall, was plainly, however, somebody who knew no fear. There was, therefore, never any likelihood that she would betray herself.
And so it proved. With no need of Gilchrist’s prompting, she laid before the court a simple inflexible belief: the plaintiff was not her son. To bear a child, to feed, nurse, clothe, cherish and protect him through all the years of his youth, was to know that child better, to know him more certainly, than anyone else could ever do. She defied the jury to doubt a mother’s word. She pitted against them the forces of nature and tradition. She did not plead, she did not cajole. She merely insisted that, whatever had been said, whatever might be said, her rejection of Norton’s claim was absolute.
It was clear, therefore, that Russell’s cross-examination of Lady Davenall would be the most delicate passage of the case. If he tried to browbeat her, he might make the same mistake Gilchrist had made in questioning Mrs Trenchard. Yet, if he were too gentle, it would smack of capitulation. Small wonder, then, that he approached his task cautiously. A full day passed in which he pressed for little more than reiteration and emphasis. Then, on the second day of cross-examination, he showed his hand.
‘Lady Davenall, do you take issue with anything the plaintiff has told the court about his childhood?’
‘I take issue with his claim to be my son.’
‘Of course. But do you dispute hi
s version of events? Do you dispute that any of the events he described actually took place?’
‘No.’
‘You would agree, then, that the plaintiff’s knowledge is very close to what you would expect of your son James?’
‘He has been coached well, certainly.’
‘Coached, Lady Davenall? You are suggesting the plaintiff has been provided with this information by somebody else?’
‘I am.’
‘By whom, pray?’
‘I do not know. Somebody with a grudge. A former servant, perhaps.’
‘Do you have one in mind?’
‘There was … Quinn.’
Russell looked up at the judge. ‘Mentioned earlier, my Lord. James Davenall’s valet. Efforts have been made to trace him, without success.’ He returned to the witness. ‘Is there some reason why this man should bear a grudge, Lady Davenall?’
‘He was dismissed … for stealing.’
‘I see. How long was he with you?’
‘Twenty-three years.’
‘Let us agree that he would know a good deal about your family. Enough, do you think, to coach the plaintiff?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what of events before he joined you? What of James’s schooldays, his time at university? What would such a man know of all that?’
‘James may have told him.’
‘And Quinn remembered? Why should he have paid so much attention, unless you are suggesting he foresaw his master’s disappearance?’
‘I am not suggesting that.’
‘Do you have any evidence, in fact, that the plaintiff has been in recent communication with Quinn?’
‘No.’
‘Or that Quinn even knows these proceedings are taking place?’
‘No.’
‘So Quinn’s part in this is merely a flight of fancy.’ Russell smiled. ‘Let us turn to other fancies, Lady Davenall. I refer to your late husband’s reluctance to have James pronounced legally dead. Sir Hugo attributed it to spite. Is that how you regarded it?’
‘My husband was certainly a spiteful man, but I believe he would have agreed to take the necessary steps eventually. He was also a vain man. He wanted Hugo to plead with him. But my son pleads with nobody.’
She had said too much. Her dignified assertion of the rights of a mother stood confounded by the revelation of a loveless marriage. Russell pounced. ‘So your husband was vain and spiteful. You would not say the same of yourself?’
‘No. I would not.’ There was no way of telling from her voice that she recognized the mistake she had made, nor the danger to which it exposed her.
‘Then, how would you characterize your decision to evict Miss Pursglove from Weir Cottage?’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Miss Pursglove worked for the Davenall family for more than sixty years. I take it you were offended by her acknowledgement of the plaintiff as your son. Would you not agree that to retaliate by expelling her from her home was just that: vain and spiteful?’
‘I object, my Lord.’ Gilchrist had intervened. ‘The circumstances of Miss Pursglove’s eviction from Weir Cottage have no bearing on this case.’
‘The objection is sustained.’
Russell conceded with good grace, as well he might, for the point he had succeeded in making was worth any number of rebukes from the Bench. ‘How many conversations have you had with the plaintiff since he visited Cleave Court on the twenty-sixth of September last, Lady Davenall?’
‘None.’
‘Once was enough to make up your mind?’
‘Once was more than enough. I looked at him. I listened to him. But hearing him out only confirmed my immediate reaction. He was sufficiently close to James in looks and voice to deceive some, but not to deceive me. I would know my own son at once. I did not know the plaintiff.’
‘You have never had cause to doubt your conclusion?’
‘Never.’
Russell had been rewarded. Lady Davenall’s strength of mind – her composure that bordered on arrogance, her conviction that verged on intransigence – had told against her. The certainty of a mother was one thing, the ruthlessness of a matriarch quite another. Her rejection of Norton was bound to carry weight, but the cruelty of which she had shown herself capable was a telling counter. It made it possible for the jury to believe that she might, just might, deny her son to his face.
IV
Having paid a necessary but far from reassuring visit to his stockbroker in Lombard Street, Plon-Plon had set off back towards the leisured west of the city by cab, only to find that the close of the working day and a brief but violent thunderstorm had combined to snag and clog the streets. He gazed out morosely at the slow-moving knots and straggling threads of homeward-bound humanity, shading his eyes against the dazzling reflections of sunlight and brooding on his many misfortunes.
As the cab entered St Paul’s Churchyard and began to edge through the ruck towards Ludgate Hill, Plon-Plon’s wayward attention was suddenly seized by two people standing near the south door of the cathedral. One of them was James Norton; his humiliation at the fellow’s hands eight months before remained etched in his memory, and he had no difficulty in recognizing him. Norton’s companion was a lady, simply but startingly clad in black. Her dress moulded itself to an enticing figure: Plon-Plon let his eyes follow its curves for a satisfying instant. Her face had a taunting beauty he could believe he had dreamed of, flushed red with anger or anguish (he could not tell which). Norton was talking to her, half-turned away from the road and a little stooped, as if anxious not to be overheard. The lady was breathing hard and looking directly ahead, turning and twisting in her gloved hands a folded newspaper.
The cab jolted forward through an opening in the traffic: the vision was gone. Plon-Plon sat back for a moment, wondering what it could mean. Catherine had linked Norton with Trenchard’s wife, but the lady he had just seen was too young to be her, not to mention too exotically magnificent ever to have married a dullard like Trenchard. Yet, if not her, then who? Suddenly, an impulse seized him. Perhaps he could yet pay back Norton and vindicate himself in Catherine’s eyes. He leaned out and ordered the driver to stop.
As soon as he had climbed out and paid the fare, he began glancing across the crowded thoroughfare to check if the pair were still where he had seen them. They were. Then, as he struggled to find a safe route to the other side, they separated, Norton marching smartly away westwards whilst the lady began walking slowly in the opposite direction.
By the time Plon-Plon had reached the south door of the cathedral, Norton had vanished and the lady was thirty yards or so away. He began to follow her. She cast the newspaper she had been carrying into a wayside bin and quickened her pace, so that Plon-Plon had difficulty keeping up. Then, as she reached the corner of the street ahead, she stepped into a cab that must have been waiting for her. The traffic was lighter here than on the other side of St Paul’s, and the cab made off northwards at a clip. Plon-Plon pulled up and swore under his breath.
Then he noticed the newspaper, protruding from the bin alongside him. He plucked it out and ran his eye over the page at which it had been folded open, finding there the normal diet of accidents, inquests and burglaries. It was an evening paper, dating from several days before. He was about to discard it when he saw the headline over one article: TRENCHARD DIVORCE.
Mr William Trenchard, whose father Lionel is chairman of the Trenchard & Leavis retail stores company, has been divorced. His wife Constance, of The Limes, Avenue Road, St John’s Wood, was today granted a decree nisi in the Admiralty, Probate and Divorce Division by reason of her husband’s insanity; she was also granted custody of their five-year-old daughter. It will be recalled that Mr Trenchard was implicated in a murderous assault on 7th November last on Mr James Norton, the so-called Davenall Claimant. Charges against Mr Trenchard were subsequently waived in exchange for undertakings that he be confined to a lunatic asylum. Dr John Bucknill, the eminent psychiater,
stated at this morning’s hearing that his patient—
‘Good afternoon, Prince.’
Plon-Plon swung round to find Norton standing only a few feet away, smiling gently and drawing on a cigarette. His smile had less the appearance of a greeting than of amusement at a private joke.
‘Rooting in dustbins? Scarcely an imperial trait, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Plon-Plon could feel his face colouring with irritation. ‘Who is she?’ he snapped.
‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘La belle jeune fille. You were talking to her a few moments ago by the door of the cathedral.’
‘Not I.’
‘I saw you.’
‘You were mistaken.’
‘What is she to you? You were discussing the Trenchard divorce, weren’t you?’ He held up the newspaper. ‘Why?’
Norton stepped closer; his eyes narrowed. ‘I thought we agreed when we last met, Prince, that you would do well to steer clear of my affairs.’
Plon-Plon tossed back his head and squared his shoulders. ‘You seek to frighten me with an old scandal? It will not work a second time, monsieur.’
‘It is a sad and sordid tale. You do not emerge from it with credit.’
‘Yours, monsieur, is the greater danger. You are Vivien Strang’s son, are you not?’
Momentarily, Norton seemed taken aback. ‘You think that?’ Then his composure returned and, with it, the goading smile. ‘You may harbour a whole fleet of suspicions if you wish, Prince. But what can you prove? Nothing.’
‘You are not James Davenall.’
‘How is Cora these days? Have you seen her recently? I take it she has not come to share this latest of your many exiles. Do you remember when you both stayed at Bladeney House in November 1870? I do. I remember it very well indeed. One night, when Papa had taken you to the club, Cora offered … Well, perhaps it is best that you should not know what she offered.’
‘You think you are very clever, monsieur. You think you can deceive everyone. Maybe you are right. But be warned: no man is infallible. Sooner or later, you will make a mistake. Just one is all that is necessary. When you make it, the world will know you for who you really are.’
Painting The Darkness - Retail Page 41
