Painting The Darkness (10 page)

Richard Davenall was perhaps best placed to assimilate what had occurred. He had long known of Sir Gervase’s friendship with Prince Napoleon and had never thought it better than unfortunate. The Prince had always combined bad luck with bad manners in a way calculated to alienate those whom it did not amuse: into the amused category he had mentally pigeon-holed his cousin. Yet their friendship had survived longer than mere entertainment could possibly have justified; Sir Gervase had even written to
The Times
in 1854 defending the Prince against imputations of cowardice for leaving the Crimea at an early stage of the campaign (on grounds of a dubious illness), which had been as generously unlike him then as it was incipiently suggestive now. They had first met in 1846, true enough,
but
under what circumstances had their lifelong affinity been forged? How could Norton know of such things when Richard did not? Unless … His mind drifted to the late autumn of that year of 1854, when he, aged twenty-two and still not out of articles, had been entrusted with the stewardship of the Cleave Court estate in Sir Gervase’s absence on Her Majesty’s service. Catherine, having loyally accompanied her husband to the Crimea, had returned home, unannounced and in unexplained distress, in mid-December. Only later had she hinted at the reason: an encounter with Prince Napoleon in Constantinople, the Prince enraged at suggestions in the press that he was cutting and running, enraged enough to let slip something of which, until then, Catherine had had no inkling. To that, and all that followed, he reached now in his thoughts …

The door shut with the force and sound of a gunshot from a distant battle, and Richard Davenall was not the only one to start. Cleveland, who had walked across and pushed the door to with the toe of his shoe, apologized with a shamefaced smile. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean it to slam.’ He returned to his seat.

The noise seemed to have woken Sir Hugo from a trance. ‘Who
are
you?’ he said suddenly, still staring at Norton. ‘That’s what he asked. That’s what I want to know.’

‘You know who I am,’ was the calm reply.

‘You’re not my brother.’

‘Then answer your own question. I imagine you’ve had an army of private investigators trying to pin another identity on me. What have they found?’

‘As yet,’ said Richard Davenall, ‘we have reached no conclusion concerning your activities prior to visiting Cleave Court on the twenty-sixth of September.’

‘Permit me to lighten your darkness. From the summer of 1871 until earlier this year I lived in North America. I only left in order to confirm a suspicion which had recently been growing in my mind. This I was able to do in France. Once that was done, the whole purpose
of
my disappearance eleven years ago stood vitiated. It required some months to adjust to my suddenly altered circumstances. Now that I have done so, I come before you as the man I am, whether you like it or no: James Davenall.’

‘Gentlemen,’ Warburton interposed, ‘might I cut to the root of this matter? Does any of you dispute the facts which my client adduced in confutation of Prince Napoleon? I shall not comment on the ethics of introducing him here under an alias, Davenall’ – he nodded to his fellow-lawyer – ‘in view of the poverty of his showing. Plainly, however angry it made him, he was convinced.’

‘I should have to reserve our position on that.’

‘But are the facts disputed?’

‘Not … as they stand.’

‘Then, come, how could my client, if he were an impostor, know such things?’

‘It is … hard to say.’

‘It is, in fact, impossible, is it not? Will you not now give way?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Then I must warn you that the further proofs my client may be compelled to put before you – perhaps to put before a court – will not redound to your family’s credit.’

Davenall found himself clutching at straws. ‘We should wish to examine photographs, to consult James’s tailor, his shoemaker, anybody who could—’

‘We’ve consulted his damned doctor!’ cried Sir Hugo with sudden unhealthy energy. ‘A sight more intimate than fuzzy photographs or a cobbler’s last, I’d have said. Let’s hear your verdict, Doctor.’

Fiveash pursed his lips in irritation at the young man’s manner, but obliged in restrained tones. ‘Mr Norton came to my surgery on the evening of the twenty-sixth of September. I conducted a rigorous examination—’

‘At whose request?’ put in Warburton.

‘Since I could only express total disbelief of his claim to be my former patient, it seemed the best way to settle—’

‘But at whose request?’

‘It was agreed between us.’

‘My client did not resist, then?’

‘No.’

‘Hardly the act of a guilty man. He could easily have refused.’

‘Be that as it may, I examined him – by mutual consent.’

‘What did you find?’

‘A man in his mid-thirties who enjoys good health. More to the point, not James Davenall.’

‘What makes you say so? Is he too tall, too thin, too muscular? Is there some conspicuous mole or birthmark in which he is lacking?’

‘I keep no precise record of my patients’ physical dimensions. He is about the same height, though somewhat more strongly built.’

‘Could a change in his way of life account for that?’

‘It could. As for distinguishing marks, I have no record or recollection of ones which might be significant for these purposes.’

‘So on what do you base your conclusion?’

‘I base it on the methods which I apply when recognizing myself in the mirror of a morning. I do not recognize this man.’

‘These methods scarcely seem medical.’

‘There were also medical considerations which confirmed my opinion.’

‘What were they?’

‘Considerations which are confidential between a doctor and his patient.’

‘You allege your patient to be dead, Doctor. Does not confidentiality end there? Surely the Hippocratic Oath does not extend beyond the grave.’

‘It may, in certain circumstances.’

Warburton turned to Richard Davenall. ‘This is special pleading on an outrageous scale. Do you really think it will suffice?’

‘I believe it will serve.’

‘I fear not.’ Norton had signalled once more to his solicitor that he would speak. ‘I am grateful to Dr Fiveash for his misplaced loyalty, but his misapprehension cannot be allowed to continue. I must put before you squarely what may be as painful to him as it is to me. When he examined me last month, he looked for signs of an illness which he had originally diagnosed in 1871. He based his conclusion on the absence of any such signs.’

Fiveash was plainly astounded; Trenchard could read in his face less anger but more bafflement than he had in Prince Napoleon’s. ‘How did you—?’ the doctor began.

‘I fled eleven years ago because of that diagnosis. I have returned because I have learned that it was false. You were mistaken, Doctor, simply mistaken.’

Now Fiveash’s professional pride had been hurt: anger welled in him. ‘How dare you? This is … this is insult piled upon guesswork.’

‘No, Doctor. It is the simple truth. I came to you in April 1871 suffering from what I believed to be an optical disorder. You eventually diagnosed … syphilis.’

The attention he commanded was absolute. Lechlade had stopped writing. Even Cleveland sat hunched forward in his chair, cigarette abandoned, eyes fixed upon him. Trenchard was motionless, beating back from his ears the ghastly ring of truth. If James Davenall had been told he had syphilis, if James Davenall were an honourable man, what could he do a few weeks short of his wedding to an innocent woman? What could he do but … ?

‘I do not blame or condemn you: I believe the symptoms of syphilis are notoriously fickle, in my case demonstrably so. I even sought a second opinion from a Harley Street specialist. The verdict was the same, mistaken but the same. Clearly, I could not proceed with my marriage to Miss Sumner, but how could I explain why? I confess that I fled rather than admit to her the truth, rather than live some other fatuous lie. When I left the note at Cleave Court, suicide was in my mind, as it was when I reached
London
that night. But I had not the courage for it. The seventeenth of June 1871 was not, as you see, the day of my death, though sometimes I might almost agree that it should have been. I left the country in a steamer bound for Halifax, Nova Scotia, travelling under an assumed name. Not Norton, not then, for I have known several names. I wished only to erase myself from the world I had known. It was the one way to tolerate the shame I felt. And I succeeded – as you see.’

It fluttered then, in more heads than one, the thought that was either honour or folly: This man is in earnest – he is James Davenall. Trenchard struggled to face the realization of his worst fears and saw only something worse still: if he was to fight this man beyond this point, as he must if he was to keep Constance, he would be alone and, in all probability, in the wrong. It was not his wish, it was not his duty, yet he would do it. To prove his love was stronger than he sometimes sensed, he would fight this man to the end. He looked at Norton and steeled himself to the thought: This man I could have known as a friend is henceforth my enemy. He shuddered.

Fiveash’s reaction had evidently been running along different lines. Old, set and complacently avuncular, he stood now condemned and confounded. He was not ready, it was not time, this was not the place. All the diligent, decent, seemly bedside manner of an entire career curdled in mockery of his fallibility. He cursed silently. There had been so much to mislead him. All that had gone before had unconsciously prepared him for James Davenall’s illness. It had seemed almost just, almost appropriate. Could he have been so catastrophically wrong? He raged against the thought.

‘No! It isn’t possible. There was no room for doubt. James Davenall was incurably ill. I sent you to Emery, and he confirmed it.’

‘You sent me. Yes, that’s right. You did and now you’ve said it. You know it was me.’

‘A slip. A slip of the tongue. I didn’t mean … didn’t mean … you.’

‘You told me I was incurable, and I believed you. I crept away to die. But I didn’t die. The symptoms slowly vanished. I thought they would return. But they didn’t. I consulted an American doctor. He told me I was fully fit. There was no sign of syphilis. I consulted the eminent French venereologist, Fabius, in Paris. He said the same. You were mistaken, Doctor. You were all mistaken.’

Again, a hush fell. Then Trenchard spoke at last. ‘One moment. Am I to take it that you are willing to admit in court that you believed you were suffering from syphilis?’

Norton’s gaze was unflinching. ‘If necessary, yes.’

‘Then, you would also admit that, whether the diagnosis was correct or not, you had good reason at the time to believe that it might be correct.’

Norton’s only reply was a smile.

Sir Hugo turned on Trenchard. ‘What the devil are you doing, man? You’re playing his game, assuming this isn’t all a pack of lies.’

‘Trenchard is looking to his own,’ said Norton. ‘He cannot be blamed for that. A man does not believe he has syphilis unless he knows he has been exposed to infection. Trenchard’s point is that I must have been unfaithful to Constance during our engagement if that is the case.’

‘What’s that to me?’ snapped Sir Hugo.

‘Nothing, dear brother. It is nothing to you, but everything to Trenchard. Alas for him, it is also based upon a misconception. I had good cause to fear I had been infected with syphilis, but it involved no infidelity to Constance.’

‘Then, how do you account for it?’ said Trenchard.

‘Dr Fiveash satisfied me on the point eleven years ago, and I will leave him to satisfy you in the same way now.’

‘Good God,’ said Fiveash slowly.

‘Yes, Doctor?’

‘It is not possible. Say what you like, practise what tricks
you
may, you cannot know what passed between us unless you are James Davenall. And I will never believe – never admit – that you are.’

‘Because it would compromise your professional reputation?’

‘Damnation, no. I will not admit it because it is not true.’

‘You do not want to admit it because you do not want it to be true.’

‘No.’

‘Will you tell them what you told me then – or must I?’

‘I will say nothing.’

Another pause, another wordless gulf. Then, suddenly and noiselessly, Norton rose from the table: ‘Then I will say nothing, either.’

A desperate whoop from Sir Hugo. ‘Because you don’t know! Fiveash has called your bluff.’

If the man Norton looked down at was his brother, it was clear from his expression that there was precious little fraternal pity to lessen his contempt. ‘No, Hugo, I refrain for the moment, but that is all. I will speak if I must, but, if I do, you will regret it. That is all I will say for the present.’ A courteous bow to the gathering. ‘Mr Warburton will explain my position. I hope to hear from you soon – for all our sakes. Now I will bid you good morning.’ He walked slowly past them to the door and went out quietly. There was dignity and reserve in his retreat, just enough said and enough withheld to suggest the decency of one who would insist on his rights but never grasp at another’s. The door clicked shut behind him and, as it did so, the Staple Inn clock began to strike. It was noon, only an hour since they had first assembled, yet far longer to judge by the lines that hour had scratched in their lives. Warburton looked from one to the other of them and waited for the clock to finish striking.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said at last, ‘I trust the strength of our case is now clear to you. My client has instructed me to give
you
one further opportunity to consider your position. If we have not heard from you by this time two days hence – noon on Friday the thirteenth – we shall seek a hearing in Chancery at the earliest possible date of our application for the removal of the impediments being placed before Sir James Davenall in the assumption of his property and title. I doubt there is any more to be said at this stage.’

‘There’s everything to be said,’ cried Sir Hugo. ‘I’ve questions he won’t be able to—’