Painting The Darkness (28 page)

For Canon Sumner was a popular member of the cathedral chapter. His age and geniality, combined with a singular lack of both guile and of ambition, endeared him to all. They would have been saddened to see the stricken expression which, now he was alone, his face had assumed. Gazing into the candlelight and finding there no lessening of the darkness into which Constance’s troubles had cast his thoughts, he looked and felt older than his robust spirit had ever admitted. He who had accepted the death of his son as a cruel but pure accident and that of his wife as an inevitable function of nature found it less easy to come to terms with his daughter’s plight. For her affliction he could find no healing precept, no consoling text – above all, no right and godly answer.

At length, the echo of the last heavily closing door having long since faded into silence, Sumner rose from the stall, leaning on the prayer-desk to assist him, and turned to take his leave.

A man was standing at the end of the stall. His patient expectant posture suggested to Sumner that he had been there for some time. He was tall, darkly clad and bearded. He held a top-hat in his left hand, whilst his right rested, the fingers extended, across his chest. He was not a priest. That, given his poor eyesight and the gloom gathering within the cathedral as dusk advanced, was all Sumner could make out with certainty. He smiled and peered towards the stranger as he made his way along the stall.

‘Good evening, my son. May I assist you in any way?’

‘Do you not know me?’

‘I … don’t think I do.’

‘It is I. James.’

Sumner pulled up. ‘James … Norton?’

‘Davenall.’

The canon seemed to lose his footing. He swayed sideways, reaching out for support. The rim of the prayer-desk eluded his fingers, and he pitched forward. Then Norton grasped him by either arm and lowered him gently into the stall.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shock you.’

‘No, no,’ Sumner murmured. ‘It is for me to apologize. I must … must have tripped. The flagstones are rather … uneven.’ He adjusted his round gold-rimmed glasses, which had slipped to the end of his nose, and squinted at the other man, who was now seated beside him.

‘I felt I had to speak to you. Constance does not wish me to visit the house. That is why I came to you here.’

‘Are you … James?’ The question was put so hesitantly that it almost seemed rhetorical.

‘Can you not see that I am?’

‘I see that you may be and I know that Constance believes you are. Emily also.’

‘Is that not enough?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘How can I convince you?’

Sumner smiled weakly. ‘A priest’s conviction, my son, is born of faith. And faith is a gift of God. It cannot be instilled by man.’

‘Then, I must hope that God will give you faith in me.’

‘I share that hope. Presently, however, I am troubled.’

‘By what?’

‘The thought that no man who truly loves my daughter would force her to choose between her promises to him, from which she believed his death released her, and her vows to her husband, made in this very cathedral, from which God will not release her.’

Norton gazed sorrowfully into the canon’s eyes. ‘Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’

‘So the Church decrees.’

‘And so I believe.’

‘You do?’

‘Oh, yes. It is what I came to tell you. I will leave Constance to find her own salvation. I love her and will always love her. But love is not enough. You are right. I will not force her to choose. I will not attempt to see her again. I will leave here tonight and will not return.’

For the first time since Constance’s arrival in Salisbury,
Canon
Sumner’s face recovered a measure of its former contentment. Some cast of anxiety in his features, which had been growing tauter by the hour, relaxed in that instant. He reached out and laid his hand on Norton’s shoulder. ‘Bless you, my son. What you are doing is for the best.’

‘I wish I could believe that.’

‘You will, in time.’

‘I doubt it but, if it relieves your mind to think so, I am glad to do the same.’

‘Where will you go?’

‘Back to London. I intend to continue to fight for what is rightfully mine. But I shall do so without my staunchest ally.’

‘Without Constance?’

‘You have my word. In return, will you pray for me?’

Sumner suddenly reproached himself for the relief he had displayed. He felt shamed by Norton’s self-sacrifice. As a priest, prayer was the very least he owed him. ‘Let us do so now, my son. You will need whatever strength my prayers can confer in the trials ahead of you.’

Sumner turned and lowered himself to his knees. He heard Norton drop down beside him. Casting about in his thoughts for a suitable prayer, he alighted upon that laid down for persons troubled in mind or conscience. It seemed, indeed, all too apt. He embarked on it with his own mind freed of its recent burden and included in his words one specific tribute to his companion’s sincerity.

‘O blessed Lord, the Father of Mercies, and the God of all comforts; we beseech thee, look down in pity and compassion upon this thy afflicted servant, James Davenall. Thou writest bitter things against—’

‘Who are you?’ Norton uttered the question in a full-throated roar. It filled the choir with sound and reverberated, for moments after, in the vaulting of the roof.

Sumner twisted round in amazement. Norton had fallen back on his haunches. He was clutching the edge of
the
prayer-desk at arm’s length, staring wildly across the aisle at the empty stalls opposite. ‘What is it?’ the canon said. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Didn’t you see him?’

‘Who?’

‘The man … sitting over there.’

‘There’s nobody there. We’re quite alone.’

‘I looked up, while you were praying – I don’t know why. But when I did there was somebody there in the stalls, exactly opposite me.’

‘You must have imagined it. Candlelight, and the shadows beneath those canopies, can play strange tricks.’

Norton seemed to recover himself. He sat back on the bench and passed a hand over his face. ‘Yes, of course. As you say. I must have imagined it.’

‘Shall we finish the prayer?’

‘No!’ Norton stood up. ‘I must go now. Thank you … for all your kind words.’ He hurried from the stall and, before Sumner could intervene, was marching smartly towards the nave, his footfalls echoing on the flagstones.

By the time the canon had himself emerged from the choir, Norton was no more than a vanishing shape in the encroaching shadows of the cathedral’s western end. He peered vainly into the gloom, till the slamming of the north door told him that Norton had gone. Then, with a puzzled frown and a doleful shake of the head, he returned to his stall. For him at least, there was a prayer to finish.

‘Thou writest bitter things against him, and makest him to possess his former iniquities; thy wrath lieth hard upon him, and his soul is full of trouble …’

Chapter Eight

I

THE TIMES
FOR
Saturday, 4th November 1882 carried on its legal pages a short but pregnant article which may be taken to mark the moment when the case of
Norton versus Davenall
became public property.

Affidavits are to be examined on Monday before Mr Justice Wimberley of the Chancery Division to determine whether the suit filed by Mr James Norton against Sir Hugo Davenall, Bt, of Bladeney House, Chester Square, London, makes out a
bona fide
case for ejectment to be referred to the Queen’s Bench Division. It is Mr Norton’s contention that he is none other than Sir Hugo’s elder brother James, who disappeared eleven years ago and was pronounced legally dead in 1880. He is petitioning for the removal of the impediments to his assumption of the property and title of Sir James Davenall. His claim is resisted. Mr Charles Russell, QC, will appear for the plaintiff, whilst the defence will be led by the former Solicitor-General, Sir Hardinge Giffard, QC. A further clash between these famous court-room rivals, together with the sensational features of this case, can hardly fail to render the outcome a source of intense interest and speculation.

II

Richard betrayed not the slightest reaction as he read the article. He had no wish to draw it to the attention of Sir Hugo, who sat beside him in the jolting cab, in view of the black mood in which the young man was already sunk. There were, he knew, extenuating circumstances, not the least being the early hour at which they were due at Giffard’s chambers. The fact remained, however, that he had acquired one of the finest advocates money could buy and briefed him as thoroughly as he was able. A little gratitude on Hugo’s part would not have gone amiss.

‘Giffard has a splendid record,’ he remarked conversationally.

‘Then I hope to God it hasn’t made him over-confident.’ Hugo flicked ash from his cigarette through the window. ‘He’s
your
choice.’

Richard ground his teeth and said nothing. He rather suspected that any other solicitor faced with Hugo’s petulant demands over the past three weeks would have withdrawn from the case. For that very reason, he had delayed their meeting with Giffard until the last possible moment.

‘Still nothing on Norton?’ Hugo’s question had become, by force of constant repetition, more of an accusation.

‘Still nothing. Nor on Quinn.’

Hugo snorted derisively. ‘He’s no loss.’

‘As James’s valet—’

‘As the thief my mother turned out, he’d miss no opportunity to do us down.’

‘Perhaps. But Trenchard thinks—’

‘To hell with Trenchard! What about his wife?’

‘As far as I know, not testifying.’

‘Then, why didn’t you subpoena her for our side?’

‘I’ve explained that before, Hugo. If you force her into the witness-box, there’s no telling what she might say.’

A grudging silence fell. Outside the cab, London was girding itself noisily for the day. Richard closed his eyes
for
a moment and let the comforting sounds wash over his senses. He had felt so tired these past weeks, chivvying the clerks and Roffey in the search for evidence he did not believe existed, deflecting Hugo’s rancorous interventions whilst praying that he had guessed no more of the truth than Catherine supposed, hoping against hope to avert the confrontation awaiting them. But there was no hope. He knew that now. The man beside him must have his support in any folly, his allegiance beyond any other.

For Roffey had found nothing. He was the pick of his dubious profession, yet a month of his tireless enquiries had revealed of James Norton no possibility save one: that he was who he said. The thought beat at Richard’s brain whenever he gave it the chance. At such times, as now, it was Gervase he remembered, Gervase insisting against what seemed the overwhelming weight of reason that James was not dead.

Summoned to Bladeney House for dinner one evening in the summer of 1878, Richard was surprised to find himself the solitary guest. Gervase, normally a gregarious host, clearly had something of moment to discuss with him. He was unnaturally subdued, and looked, Richard thought, none too well. His memory betrayed him over a disputed lease, he complained at the closeness of the evening, he had no taste for his food: he was not, in short, at his best. At the conclusion of the meal, he revealed what Richard took to be the cause.

‘Catherine wants to have James pronounced legally dead. I said I’d speak to you about it.’

Richard, who had been awaiting this proposal for some time, nevertheless felt surprised that it should be broached whilst Quinn was still in the room. He marshalled his thoughts. ‘Seven years having elapsed, such a step is both possible and prudent.’

‘Why prudent?’

‘Well, your will still nominates James as your heir. I have mentioned—’

‘I’ll not change it!’

Richard persevered. ‘It isn’t strictly necessary for you to do so, since Hugo has always been heir in default of James. When the time comes, however, probate will not be granted until and unless James’s death has been sworn. To institute presumption-of-death proceedings now would be to avoid complication and delay later.’

Gervase grunted. ‘I thought you’d side with her.’

‘It’s not a question of taking sides.’

‘Oh, but it is.’ Gervase stared across the table at him. His face was flushed, and a tic was working in his left cheek. ‘It’s a question of taking sides against my son.’

‘I don’t understand. James is dead. This is merely a legal—’

The glass Gervase held in his right hand fractured as if pierced by a bullet. Fragments of it scattered across the table, and the port it contained rushed out over the damask cloth in a vivid stain. Richard looked at his cousin in amazement, but Gervase merely dabbed his gashed thumb with a napkin and gazed calmly back. The glass had not fallen or been struck. He had crushed it in his hand.

Before anything could be said, yet with no sign of haste, Quinn had brushed the broken glass away and covered the stain with a mat. For a moment, Richard even questioned whether the incident had really occurred. Then he looked at Gervase again and knew, from the twist of his smile, that it had.

‘My son lives,’ said Gervase. ‘And I will stand by him.’

‘Paper Buildings, gentlemen.’

The cabby’s cry wrenched Richard’s mind back to the present. They had reached their destination.

III

When I reached Orchard Street that morning, Parfitt informed me, with what seemed a disrespectfully knowing smile, that my brother Ernest was waiting for me in my office
.

I found him leafing through the wholesalers’ catalogues which had accumulated on my desk. ‘What brings you here?’ I said, hoping to have surprised him by a stealthy entrance
.

‘
You, William,’ he replied, with no sign of discomposure
.

‘
Well?
’

‘
This can’t go on, you know
.’

‘
What can’t?
’

‘
The hours you keep, the way you’ve spoken to some of our suppliers recently, the disarray’ – he flapped a hand at the chaos of my desk – ‘in which I find your office
.’