Painting The Darkness - Retail

by Robert Goddard

  With that, Plon-Plon thrust the newspaper back into the bin and walked quickly away, reassembling as he went the fragments of his dignity. Norton le menteur, Norton l’imposteur: what did it matter to him? Forget the man, he told himself, forget the Davenalls and all you know of them. It should not be difficult: a Mediterranean cruise might do the trick. He hurried on, his determination growing with every tread to leave England and, this time, never to return.

  Norton finished his cigarette and watched Plon-Plon’s bulky shape vanish into the crowd beyond St Paul’s. He was alone now, with nobody to see him pluck the newspaper from the bin, glance at the article headed trenchard divorce, then toss it back amongst the rubbish. Nor was there anybody to hear what he murmured to himself as he crushed out the cigarette beneath his foot. ‘Just one mistake, eh, Prince? Just one. Perhaps you’re right.’ He exhaled the last of the smoke. ‘Perhaps I’ve already made it.’

  V

  The later defence witnesses were pure anticlimax. Fiveash was recalled, in order to emphasize that he did not recognize Norton as his former patient. Once again, however, an equivocal vein in all that he said told against him. Emery, his Harley Street friend, completed the medical evidence. Under cross-examination, he was obliged to admit the truth of what Fabius had said: that nobody could tell for certain whether the plaintiff had suffered from syphilis or not.

  Whether Freddy Cleveland intended to introduce a comic note into the proceedings was not clear, but, by seeming to change his mind from minute to minute as to whether Norton was James Davenall or an impostor, he weakened the defence case still further. Borthwick and Mulholland appeared on cue: both insisted the plaintiff could not be James Davenall, both denied trying to trick him when they had met on Parliament Hill.

  Assorted artists, photographers and physiognomists expressed the considered opinion that the plaintiff was not the James Davenall who had posed for the camera in Christ Church cricket teams and graduation robes, but Russell forced all of them to concede that they could equally well be wrong. A graphologist argued that the plaintiff’s handwriting, though similar to examples of James Davenall’s that he had studied, was not identical. Russell extracted from him an admission that handwriting could feasibly change in the course of time and altered employment.

  After the scientists came the tradesmen: hatters, shirt-makers, tailors, glovers and bootmakers. Few had kept written records. Thus their fallible memories of collar sizes and leg measurements, in so far as they were at issue with the plaintiff’s, scarcely comprised an effective challenge.

  At last, in the fourteenth week of the trial, the defence concluded its case. Russell’s closing speech followed – a brilliantly effective appeal to the jury to disregard the trifling points made against his client and to concentrate on one issue and one issue only: did they believe the plaintiff was James Davenall or not?

  VI

  A Sunday evening in Chester Square, the mellow rays of the setting sun contriving, as they glinted through the drawing-room windows of Bladeney House, to deepen Catherine Davenall’s trance of melancholy. She had stayed with Hugo since Easter, forgoing all the pleasures of spring and summer at Cleave Court so that he might have her presence to fall back upon whenever his courage failed. She had attended the court every day, had scarcely missed an hour of its proceedings, had sat passively but a few yards from her son’s tormentor, had bided her time and held her peace. Now, with the moment of decision finally at hand, she felt weary of the whole dispute, drained by the exertions her determination had driven her to. Tomorrow, the judge would commence his summing-up. Tomorrow, or the next day, he would send the jury out to consider whether James Norton could henceforth call himself her son, evict her from her home, seize her property, appropriate all the wealth and status that she and Hugo had hitherto enjoyed. It was too much – for a jury to decide or for a mother to face.

  There was a tap at the door, and Greenwood came in. Normally the calmest and most self-effacing of men, he appeared now red about the cheeks and flustered in his bearing.

  ‘A gentleman, ma’am … desires to see you.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  Greenwood seemed to have difficulty in answering. ‘Mr … Norton, ma’am.’

  For a moment, Catherine said nothing. It was nearly ten months since Norton had called on her at Cleave Court. What could he want now? Hugo was at his club, bolstering his spirits in Freddy Cleveland’s fatuous company. Did Norton know that she was alone, on this last evening before whatever end lay in store for both of them? Is that why he had come? She looked up at Greenwood, taking care he should catch no glimpse of her secret turmoil. ‘Show Mr Norton in.’

  As soon as the door had closed, she rose and moved to the window. She must appear perfectly composed, grave to the point of severity. Standing just so, with the light behind her, regally self-possessed, was how she would receive him. She forced herself to stop winding her finger in the locket chain about her neck, breathed deeply and imposed the authority to which her emotions had always given best.

  Greenwood reappeared, announced Norton and was gone again, leaving them to face one another in absolute silence. He would be unable to see her expression clearly, Catherine reminded herself, yet one might be forgiven for inferring, from that clear-eyed confident stare of his, that he saw her more clearly than she would ever have wished. She broke the silence.

  ‘Why have you come here?’

  He smiled faintly. ‘No fonder words than those, Mother, for your long-lost son?’

  She spread her hand across the antimacassared back of a chair and paused long enough to quench any anger his words had inspired. ‘We are quite alone, Mr Norton. There are no witnesses, no spies, no eavesdroppers. There is no need to continue the pretence for my benefit.’

  ‘Then, why continue your own pretence? You know who I am. You knew from the moment you set eyes on me.’

  ‘You are not James.’

  ‘The court will say differently.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  He took a few steps into the room, glancing about at the pictures and furnishings. ‘Fewer alterations here than you’ve made at Cleave Court,’ he said musingly. ‘I remember it all so well.’

  ‘Spare me your well-rehearsed performance, Mr Norton. Why have you come?’

  He stopped and looked directly at her. ‘Because it’s not too late, Mother, to—’

  ‘Don’t call me that.’

  He dipped his head in a gesture of obedience. ‘Very well, though the world will soon call you so on my behalf. I came here this evening to appeal to you. Why not give it up? Why not concede my claim before the court forces you to do so? There’s still time. Tomorrow, at a word from you, our lawyers could meet to agree terms.’

  ‘Terms?’ She looked at him disbelievingly. ‘What terms could there possibly be, short of abject surrender by one side or the other?’

  ‘There could be … an accommodation. I demand my rights, naturally, but I’ve no wish to be vindictive. I don’t want to put Hugo in the poorhouse or you out of Cleave Court. After what’s happened, it’s hard to imagine we could live together as one happy family, but there are ways and means …’

  ‘Those are the terms of which you speak?’

  ‘Yes. You may find the alternatives … less pleasant.’

  ‘What alternatives?’

  ‘You have the money Papa settled on you, of course, but it’ll not keep you and Hugo in the manner to which you’re both accustomed. I mention Hugo because he’ll be wholly dependent on you. All that he has will be mine before the week is out. All of mine that he has already spent he will be required to repay. He will have nothing left. And I don’t see my brother as the self-sufficient type. Do you?’

  ‘It isn’t any of that you wish to avert, Mr Norton. You simply want to be let off the hook. When this case ends in your defeat, you will face a charge of perjury. All you will have gained, before the week is out, is a cell in Newgate Prison.’

  He smiled. ‘I rath
er think I might be granted bail.’ Then he grew serious again. ‘As you say, the stakes are high for all concerned. I knew that, of course, when I decided not to blacken Papa’s name in court. Believe it or not, I did so for the sake of our family. It’s in the same spirit that I’m appealing to you not to fight me, all the way, to what can only be a bitter end.’

  ‘Then, you are appealing in vain, Mr Norton. There will be no surrender, no compromise of any kind. Even if the court is mad enough to uphold your claim, I will still find some way to defeat you.’

  ‘There is no way, Mother.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I’m sorry to have offended you by using that name again, but there it is: in a few days, you will have to accept me as your son, Sir James Davenall.’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Is that your final word?’

  ‘No. My final word is for your mother, Mr Norton. Your real mother, that is: Vivien Strang.’

  Norton frowned. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Tell her this. I admit I wronged her. But she’ll find revenge brings a poor reward. The price of forcing you on me is that she can never claim you. She’ll have to stay forever hidden, forever apart. If she should once try to see you, be assured I will know of it. Then I will find her. And, when I do, I will show her no mercy.’

  ‘You speak in riddles, Mother. Vivien Strang is nothing to me, nothing but a distant figure from a discreditable past. She has no bearing on the present. She has no part in what you have forced me to do.’

  ‘You have your answer, Mr Norton. Is that all you came for?’

  ‘If you change your mind—’

  ‘I won’t.’

  He bowed his head in courteous acknowledgement of her decision. ‘Very well. I will bid you good night. We will meet again soon – on my terms.’

  She watched him leave the room and listened to the front door close behind him. So he was gone, not with what he had come for but with more than she should have let him have. She had said too much, revealed too great a hatred. Yet why not? What difference, now, could it possibly make? Norton was right in one thing if in nothing else. Before the week was out, the struggle would be over and with it, perhaps, the life she had lived till now. It could not be altered. It could not be prevented. It must run its course and find her ready, dignified and waiting. Norton might win his case, but never her admission of defeat. He might be called her son, but never by her.

  VII

  Before his elevation to the Bench, Lord Coleridge had served his turn at the Bar with great distinction. One of his many triumphs was to have defended a celebrated action superficially similar to the one he was currently presiding over: that of the so-called Tichborne Claimant. Perhaps aware that this had given him something of a reputation as an exposer of imposture, he went to considerable lengths to ensure that his summing-up in this case should be a model of impartiality. If Lord Coleridge had made up his mind for or against the plaintiff, nobody could have gleaned as much from the day and a half during which he analysed and summarized the evidence for the benefit of the jury. At length, he sent them out to consider their verdict with less in the way of specific direction than those familiar with his career could ever recollect him conferring.

  In the late afternoon, the court was recalled, but only to hear that the jury wished to continue their deliberations overnight. They were dispatched to a hotel, whilst those anxiously awaiting their verdict were left to pass the night with what patience they could muster.

  VIII

  The night was of that clammy oppressiveness only an English midsummer can conjure up. In the garden of Richard Davenall’s Highgate home, there was neither breath of wind nor shaft of light to break the dark and humid spell. Nor, now midnight had passed, was there any sound to distract James Norton from thoughts of the morrow as he sat in the rose-clad arbour, smoking cigarette after cigarette as the hours of his vigil drew slowly on. No sound, that is, till a footfall on the gravel path alerted him to the presence of another member of the household for whom sleep had proved elusive.

  ‘Good evening, Richard,’ James said quietly, as the familiar figure of his host came into shadowy view. ‘Or should I say good morning?’

  ‘I couldn’t seem to rest,’ Richard replied. ‘The heat, you know.’

  ‘Cigarette?’

  ‘I believe I will. Thank you.’ Richard normally smoked nothing beyond an after-dinner cigar. He stood by the arbour for several minutes, smoking in silence, then said: ‘We have come a long way, have we not, James, since you presented yourself at my offices last Michaelmas?’

  ‘I could not have come so far without your help.’ In the shadow of the arbour there was no way of telling what expression accompanied James’s words.

  ‘Be that as it may, you have been proved right and I wrong.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘I thought Hugo would see reason, but he has not.’

  ‘Ah, I see. In that way.’

  ‘Tomorrow, I think he will have to.’

  James drew on his cigarette, the tip brightening in the darkness as he did so, then said: ‘You ought to know that, on Sunday, I visited Mother and appealed to her to call the case off.’ He paused, as if waiting for Richard to react. Then, when Richard said nothing, he added: ‘I didn’t expect her to agree there and then, but I felt I had to make the effort. In the event, I’m not sure it didn’t do more harm than good.’

  ‘She refused outright?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was Hugo present?’

  ‘No. I called at a time when I thought he would be at the club. I felt what chance there was lay in seeing Mother alone.’

  ‘Did she speak about Hugo at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I ask because I bumped into Freddy Cleveland in Piccadilly one day last week. He did speak about Hugo. And what he said I found rather disturbing.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Cleveland’s not one to take anything too seriously, as you know. But he seemed genuinely worried by Hugo’s state of mind, concerned at the effect the trial’s had on him. He commented on how depressed Hugo’s been since his spell in the witness-box.’

  ‘It’s scarcely to be wondered at, Richard. The trial’s been an enormous strain for all of us.’

  ‘But you are strong and resilient. Hugo isn’t. You know how weak he really is. How do you think he will react to losing the case? Everything – his money, his title, his property – will be gone. How will he cope?’

  James said nothing. There was indeed every reason to doubt Hugo’s capacity to bear the loss he might be about to suffer, and Richard, more than anyone, was bound to worry about the consequences, but both men knew the only way James could spare Hugo was to sacrifice himself. And that he was not about to do.

  ‘What I’m saying, I suppose, is that I’d like to think you won’t be hard on him because of his foolish conduct towards you. You have it in your power to destroy him. What I’d like to think is that you’ll be generous in victory.’

  ‘You have my word on it. Whatever his faults, Hugo remains my brother. If I win, he will be provided for.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear you say so.’

  ‘But you’re assuming the jury will find in my favour. What if they find for Hugo? Would he be … generous in victory?’

  There was a lengthy silence, during which both men contemplated the question in the blankness of the night. Then, when the need to give an answer had almost passed, Richard said solemnly: ‘No. He would not.’

  IX

  The Royal Courts of Justice: Wednesday, 18th July 1883. The seventy-seventh and final day of the trial of Norton versus Davenall. Nothing in the courtroom or its occupants signalled that the day was different from all the tortuous others through which the case had wound its length. Nothing in the wigged and stooping practitioners of the Law or their crammed and craning audience denoted that this was the end. Yet so it was. Norton versus Davenall had run its course.

  The jury entered and took their seats. Beyond
the normal level of fidgeting and shuffling, they and all their observers detected a shocked and faintly ill-prepared dimension to the proceedings. Even though the issue had been carefully debated for more than three months, its enormity seemed only now to have been borne in upon them. One man, the plaintiff, would, in a matter of minutes, be transformed from the calmly polite figure to be seen whispering to his counsel into one of two things: a wealthy and vindicated aristocrat or a vile and contemptible impostor. In the same space, another man, the defendant, presently darting back to his seat with a tousled look of nervous anticipation, would either be restored to a life of untroubled ease or prised loose from his very name.

  The jury settled. None of them had the look of a wild romantic or crazed anarchist. On the contrary, all were made of dull and stolid stuff. Yet what they were about to do was inescapably dramatic. The foreman, a tubby, bespectacled, tweed-suited fellow, adjusted his glasses and consulted some notes with which he must already have been well familiar.

  Lord Coleridge entered. The court rose and then subsided, with his Lordship, into its place. The judge, at least, seemed unmoved by the occasion. He nodded to the clerk to proceed. As if on wires, the foreman of the jury bobbed up from his seat.

  ‘Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘And is it the verdict of you all?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘How say you, then, in this case? Do you find for the plaintiff or the defendant?’

  ‘We find for the plaintiff.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  I

  SHORTLY BEFORE ELEVEN o’clock on the morning of Wednesday, 18th July 1883, James Norton ceased to exist and James Davenall resumed a life suspended. The cheer that went up in the court when the jury found in his favour was almost as much one of astonishment as of acclamation. His victory had been predicted by many, but, now the moment of its announcement had arrived, the meaning of what he had achieved burst on their minds with the force of a revelation. The so-called Davenall Claimant had become Sir James Davenall in truth and in law. Against all odds, despite all doubts, in the face of all opposition, he had won. Everything he had ventured he had gained. Everything he had claimed he had been granted.