Painting The Darkness (11 page)

‘Hugo!’ Richard Davenall interrupted, more sharply than before. ‘Mr Warburton is right.’ He glanced at the other man. ‘I will see that word reaches you by the due time.’

‘I’m obliged.’

‘Now I think we should withdraw. Baverstock?’

The rural lawyer started in his chair. Dumbstruck throughout, he now found his voice with difficulty. ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Absolutely.’

‘One last point,’ said Warburton. ‘Lest you should pin any hopes on Sir Hugo’s belief that my client is ignorant of what he currently declines to state openly, I should tell you that we have obtained a copy of Sir Gervase Davenall’s death certificate. The implications of its contents will be used in court if there appears to be no alternative.’

Richard Davenall looked towards Fiveash. ‘Is the import of this clear to you, Doctor?’

The reply was a husky whisper. ‘Yes.’

VI

Sir Hugo Davenall sat like a man stunned in the corner of his cousin’s office off High Holborn. His earlier anxiety had departed and had been replaced by a sullen lethargy: he had not even removed the sodden overcoat in which he had walked from Staple Inn. He stared straight ahead, breathing heavily, lower lip protruding, his chin cradled in his left hand whilst, with his right, he traced
and
retraced the embroidered relief of the pattern on the arm of his chair.

Cleveland stood by the window, clutching a glass of Scotch to his chest and smoking languidly, staring vacantly out at the street. Beside him, Trenchard was propped against the sill, back turned to the passing trams, apparently lost in thought. To one side of the window, behind a broad and disordered desk, Richard Davenall was immersed in whispered conference with Baverstock; both wore worried frowns. By the door, Dr Fiveash was pacing to and fro, sometimes pausing by the ceiling-high bookcase to squint at the spine of a legal tome – though never taking it down to read; sometimes pulling out his pocket-watch to check the time – though never commenting on its significance beyond a heavy sigh as he returned the watch to his waistcoat.

Only Trenchard looked up when the door opened and a clerk entered. He walked straight over to Richard Davenall’s desk and craned across it.

‘Yes, Benson?’

‘A messenger from Claridge’s Hotel delivered this note for you a few moments ago, sir. The sender’s name is Moncalieri.’

Davenall had opened and read the note before the door had even closed behind its bearer, but a click of the tongue was his only immediate reaction.

‘What does Bonny Prince Napoleon have to say for himself?’ asked Cleveland.

Davenall smiled grimly. ‘He is more than somewhat displeased. It seems he is to return to France … immediately.’

‘Deserting the sinking ship?’

‘He may see it that way. Certainly he has no taste for further encounters with Mr Norton. He found their discussion … disagreeable. Perhaps it is just as well. I fear Warburton would make considerable capital out of remarks like this: “Monsieur Norton’s reference to a specific date in 1846 is pure moonshine. It has no significance.
Moreover,
it is inconceivable that Sir Gervase should have told him of such things.”’

‘What things?’

‘Precisely. If the date is insignificant, there is nothing to tell. Yet he implies there is. No wonder the Bonapartist cause has not prospered under his leadership.’ Davenall slowly tore the note in four and dropped the pieces into a wastepaper-basket. ‘So much for our noble ally.’

‘I’ve thought very carefully about everything that Norton said,’ Trenchard interjected.

‘I’m sure we all have,’ Davenall snapped. Then: ‘I do beg your pardon, Trenchard. Nerves a touch frayed. What do you conclude from his remarks?’

‘That he spoke the truth. Something happened, involving Prince Napoleon and Sir Gervase, at Cleave Court in September 1846. Something discreditable, perhaps even disgraceful. And Norton knows about it. Who else would know?’

‘Only Catherine. I have agreed with Baverstock’ – a nod to his colleague – ‘that he should broach the subject with her. But she may be unable to help us.’

‘Surely she can – if Norton is right about her reasons for abandoning the maze.’

‘I agree. Yet she may still deny all knowledge. Having met her, Trenchard, I’m sure you can imagine that.’ A meaningful glance.

‘Yes. I can.’

‘Besides, what could it be? And does it really matter now that Prince Napoleon has withdrawn from the case? It cannot prove or disprove Norton’s claim. James wasn’t even born in 1846.’

‘When was he born?’

‘February 1848. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know, really. It’s just …’

‘You said you felt that everything Norton said was true. Does that extend to his claim to be James? We may as well know where we all stand.’

‘It could be, you know,’ Cleveland put in. ‘I know it’s
tough
on you fellows, but I find the chap awfully convincin’.’

‘But you, Trenchard,’ said Davenall. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know your family well enough to say. I never met James. Was he … close to his father?’

‘No. That’s the strangest part of all this. Sir Gervase was the coolest, least forthcoming, least fatherly of men. I always felt he wouldn’t have given James the time of day. But, then, how well can I claim to have known him? I was his solicitor first, his cousin … hardly ever. Dr Fiveash’ – he turned towards the pacing figure by the door – ‘have you yet resolved your crisis of medical conscience?’

Fiveash glared across at them. ‘It is not to be taken lightly.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that it was. At least you can clear up this business of the death certificate. I understood Sir Gervase to have died of the continuing effects of a stroke.’ He looked back at Trenchard. ‘Sir Gervase suffered a stroke … oh, three years ago. He spent the last eighteen months of his life in a nursing home in a perfectly helpless condition. Ironically, the stroke seemed to be brought on by a series of disagreements – and open arguments – stemming from his refusal to have James pronounced dead.’ His gaze returned to Fiveash. ‘Would you care to comment, Doctor?’

Fiveash pulled himself up with a great sigh. ‘The certificate will show the cause of death as general paralysis of the insane.’

‘Insane?’

‘A mere form of words. The symptoms are not inconsistent with a stroke and, indeed, he did suffer a mild stroke.’

‘Mild? I was told at the time that it was severe.’

‘The illness was severe, the deterioration rapid, but the symptoms were of long standing. The point Norton was making is, however, a simple one. General paralysis of the insane is a common manifestation of tertiary syphilis. Put
plainly
, Sir Gervase died of syphilis.’ He slumped down in a chair.

Richard Davenall glanced across at his cousin. ‘Did you know of this, Hugo?’

‘Mmm?’ Sir Hugo stirred from his lethargy. ‘Yes. The old boy had the pox. Did you expect me to announce it in
The Times
?’

‘You might have told me.’

‘I didn’t consider it any of your business.’

‘It is now. Does your mother know?’

‘Not from me. And I don’t think she guessed. She never visited him, not once. I trooped out there often enough, God knows, and he’d look at me, disappointment written on his face. It wasn’t me he wanted to see. Sometimes, I didn’t even think it was Mother.’

‘But James?’

‘Yes. My precious vanished brother James.’ He suddenly grasped the tasselled fringe on the arm of his chair, twisting and grinding it in his hand. ‘That man isn’t James. He can’t be. He’s too … too damned impressive.’

‘And he is not syphilitic,’ Fiveash added mournfully.

Richard Davenall leaned across his desk, staring at the doctor intently. ‘Will you now state plainly what you declined to disclose earlier?’

‘Very well. James consulted me in April 1871 – just as Norton said. He complained of deteriorating vision, combined with watering of the eyes, spasm of the lids and sensitivity to the light. These symptoms were not then well developed, but they were clearly indicative of interstitial keratitis, the commonest cause of which is congenital syphilis.’

‘Congenital?’

‘He means, cousin,’ said Sir Hugo, ‘that James inherited the disease.’

‘Good God. You knew this?’

It was Fiveash who replied. ‘When I disclosed the true nature of his father’s illness to Sir Hugo, I felt obliged to inform him of the slight risk to which he had been
exposed
. It was something which had always concerned me. Sir Gervase contracted syphilis more than thirty years ago. I hoped at the time that he had not infected Lady Davenall and hence James, but there was no guarantee of it. Lady Davenall has never displayed any signs of the disease. Unfortunately, it is possible for some carriers of syphilis to exhibit no symptoms but still pass it on to their offspring. When James asked me to examine him, my worst fears were confirmed. In Sir Hugo’s case, the risk was substantially reduced. By the time he was born, the progress of the disease would, in all likelihood, have gone beyond the infectious stage.’

Nobody spoke for several minutes after Fiveash had finished. He himself sat hunched in his chair, lips pursed, plainly distressed at having had to reveal so many secrets of the consulting-room. Trenchard found himself struggling to suppress sympathy for the man who might have borne the yoke of his father’s sins and realized then what Norton had meant: for one member at least of the Davenall family there was, in this disease, no dishonour.

‘How much did you tell James?’ said Richard Davenall at length.

Fiveash sighed. ‘All that I could. The young man was in acute distress: he was entitled to know why. God knows there was little enough else I could do for him. Some palliative eye-drops … and some grim advice.’

‘What advice?’

‘That the disease was incurable, that the symptoms would worsen and multiply, that its end was a painful and lingering death compounded by mental disintegration. To tell a patient such things is the doctor’s most unpleasant duty, gentlemen, the more so when that patient is a sweet-natured and otherwise healthy young man standing on the brink of matrimony. The last was the hardest part of all. I had to tell him that it was imperative he should not marry; that he should, in short, avoid all risk of infecting his fiancée.’

‘Did you need to be … so explicit?’

‘Surely you can see I had no choice.’

‘Did it not occur to you subsequently that this might have driven him to suicide?’

‘Of course it did. But would you – would any of your family – have thanked me for volunteering such information? Lady Davenall was and is ignorant of her husband’s infidelity. Would you have wanted her disillusioned? I think not, sir.’

‘Is it possible you were mistaken, Doctor?’ said Trenchard. ‘Is it possible that Norton is telling the truth?’

‘I made exhaustive tests. I sent James to a specialist who confirmed my diagnosis. There was no possibility of error. The idea is preposterous.’

‘Is, then, a spontaneous recovery conceivable?’

‘Nothing is absolutely certain in medicine, but the irreversible nature of syphilis is as near it as makes no odds. Sir Gervase possessed an extremely robust constitution, but it availed him nought in the end. If James Davenall were alive today, he would not be the picture of health that James Norton is. I would expect him, for instance, to be blind.’

‘So we have him,’ said Sir Hugo, almost to himself. ‘Hoist with his own petard.’

Fiveash looked at him in amazement. ‘You cannot be thinking of making any of this public?’

‘Why not?’

Richard Davenall stared across at his cousin. ‘The Doctor is quite right, Hugo. None of this must go beyond these four walls. Your father exposed as syphilitic, your mother dishonoured, our family disgraced: such would be the consequences of using this information to defend any action Norton brings. He knows that as well as we do.’

‘Then, let’s call his bluff.’

‘You cannot be serious. You have not thought this out.’ The older man stared at the younger in vain search of understanding. ‘Our family would be ruined.’

‘You would prefer it if the ruin were reserved for me?
You’re
the lawyer, Richard. What will happen if Norton wins?’

‘I hardly think—’

‘What will happen?’

‘In that unlikely event, the baronetcy would revert to him and …’

‘Yes?’

‘And the whole of the estate,’ he replied haltingly. ‘Your father bequeathed all his property to James in the will set aside as a result of the presumption-of-death proceedings. Cleave Court, Bladeney House, all rental income: your entire legacy would revert to him.’

‘Is that all?’

‘There might even be a requirement for you to compensate him for any assets or proceeds of the estate you have disposed of since obtaining title, but this is all—’

‘This is all I have gleaned from other sources less reticent than you. I could wish you remembered more often, cousin, that it is
my
interests you should be protecting, not our family’s. If the choice is between my being pauperized and the Davenall name taking a dent, then you should know that in my mind there is really no choice at all.’

‘But your mother—’

‘Would have her eyes opened concerning the man she married. I cannot help that. If you wish to avoid it, find a way for me to stop Norton. You have two full days, I believe. I suggest you put them to good use. Meanwhile, I’ve had my fill of the subject.’ He rose from the chair. ‘Coming, Freddy? I think a drink is in order.’

The two men departed with every outward show of unconcern, leaving the others to contemplate the stark course Sir Hugo had made it clear he was prepared to follow. For him, simplicity had concentrated the mind. He enjoyed wealth and the profligacy that went with it far above the esteem of respectable society. Now that wealth was threatened, all secondary considerations – including his mother’s peace of mind – were to be set aside in its defence.

Chapter Four

I

THE RAIN WAS
still falling when I left Richard Davenall’s offices that afternoon. If anything, it seemed more intense than before, moving in sheets across the prematurely dark skyline of drenched brick and dripping stone. Abandoning hope of a cab in such conditions, I turned west and trudged wearily in the direction of Orchard Street, feeling, in some respects, restored by the rain beating in my face; I was in need of it to wash away the memory of what the day had held. Unlike those who had known James Davenall, I had not even a conflicting recollection to cling to, nothing to reassure me in moments of solitary fear that Norton was not what he claimed. How could he know so much unless he spoke the truth? There was no answer save another taunting question: What would I tell Constance – what could I tell her?