Painting The Darkness (39 page)

‘Who do you say he is, then?’

‘Sorry, old man?’

‘Norton. You told Trenchard you knew his true identity. There’s the money.’ He laid three five-pound notes on the table and weighed them down with a sovereign. ‘So let’s have it. Who do you think he is?’

‘Let’s not rush it, old man.’

‘Why not? What are you waiting for?’

‘Nothin’. It’s just that …’ He looked at the stranger’s grim unyielding face and did not like what he saw. ‘What did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t. Does it matter?’

‘Suppose not.’

‘Well then?’

Thompson’s instincts told him to refuse the money, but his creditors were pressing. He could not afford to obey his instincts. He reached towards the piled notes. ‘You can tell Trenchard me hunch: Norton’s Gerry Davenall’s son, all right, but not—’

Suddenly, his questing hand was seized in a vice-like grip. The sovereign gouged painfully into his fingers
as
they were squeezed in the stranger’s ferocious hold. ‘Selling information is always a risky business, Thompson. Selling it twice is foolish. Miss Whitaker paid you well to hold your tongue. Didn’t she?’

‘Yes, dammit, but—’

‘I’d like you to come outside with me now. Then we can settle this once and for all.’

‘I’d rather not, old man.’

‘You’ll do as I say.’

But Thompson did not have to. The stranger relaxed his grip just enough to allow him an advantage. Denied a right arm to share the load, his left had grown, over the years, abnormally strong. Now, in one wrenching, twisting movement, he had freed himself and pinioned the other man’s forearm to the table. ‘I’m known here, old man. You aren’t. If I say the word, you’ll be leavin’ on a pole. Take me meanin’?’

The stranger slowly slid his arm clear of the table, then wiped the palm against his coat. He stared at Thompson, but said nothing, just gathered his money, turned on his heel and walked from the pub.

Pocketing the sovereign still held between his fingers, Thompson picked up his drink and returned to the bar, where he ordered a refill and adjusted his whiskers in the mirror behind the spirit-bottles. ‘Nasty piece o’ work, ’e looked,’ Maisie remarked.

Thompson grinned and suppressed the elation he felt at worsting his opponent. The encounter had raised in his mind complexities too great for him to comprehend. It was six months or more since that enigmatical slip of a girl had approached him. True, he had let her think she had bought his silence, but it was unreasonable for her to think it could be bought permanently and distinctly unpleasant then to set some gimlet-eyed bruiser on him. Besides, how the deuce had they come to know of his negotiations with Trenchard? It made no sense. He had hoped to make capital out of this lawsuit. Now he thought he had better abandon it. Perhaps six pounds was enough.
At
least it would keep his landlady at bay. If, that is, she ever saw it. He lit a cigar and plucked the sovereign from his pocket, debating how best to use it. Then he caught Maisie’s eye and ordered another drink. When she handed him the change, he separated a florin from the other coins, signalled her to lean forward and slipped it into her generous cleavage, laughing as he did so. ‘The Davenalls can go hang, Maisie, that’s what I say. What the devil do I care, eh? What the devil?’ But his words were wasted. Above the screeching from Maisie that accompanied her retrieval of the florin, nobody heard him.

VIII

I was still on my knees at the foot of the door when I remembered Thompson. How much had been dream and how much reality I could not tell, but his part of it could not be erased. She had bewitched me, by means unknown, not simply to disgrace me in Constance’s eyes, but for some reason involving Thompson. Her repeated question, ‘Where is he?’ held a force and a purpose reaching beyond the confines of my entrapment. I remembered the bitter scarifying sense of betrayal with which my answer had left me and then I knew, with a certainty seared into my mind, that he was in danger, in danger because he knew the truth
.

I scrambled into my clothes with desperate haste. Suddenly, there was no time to be lost. I pulled out my watch: it was nearly eleven o’clock. How long since I had fallen asleep on the
chaise-longue
? How long since I had slipped unawares into the distorted realm she had shaped for me? Two hours? Or more? I could not be sure. I crossed to the escritoire, opened the right-hand drawer and stared down at the contents: a single-barrelled pistol and a box of ammunition. I kept the gun in the house at my father’s insistence, for protection against burglars. Now, in a sense, the burglars had arrived. I thrust the pistol into one of my pockets, the box of ammunition into another. Then I hurried to the door, opened it and stepped out on to the landing
.

As I padded down the stairs, I could hear voices in the
drawing
-room, the hushed intense voices of Constance and her sister. There was nothing to be gained, I knew, by telling them I was leaving. They would know soon enough. In the circumstances, the hideous unspeakable circumstances, they might even expect it. I opened the hall cupboard and took out my hat and overcoat, then crept stealthily to the door
.

Outside, the fog had lifted. I stood on the threshold, letting the cold night air goad my senses to life. It was vital I should not think about what had happened, vital I should retain some measure of self-control for a little longer yet. Wait: what was this? Drops of rain against my face. I stretched out my arm and watched as the beads of water gathered in my gloved palm to confirm the fact. It was raining, as it had rained in my dream, as if …

I turned to close the door behind me and saw, at the end of the hall, the drawing-room door open and Constance look out. She was, I think, too dismayed by what met her eyes to let me see what she felt. I, for my part, was too distracted to express any of the remorse even then ravening within me. I slammed the door and ran headlong down the drive
.

IX

Emily watched anxiously as Constance returned to the room, her mouth sagging open, her red-rimmed eyes staring, her throat straining to swallow whatever words she might have said.

‘What is it, my dear?’

‘He’s gone. He just … walked out. Without so much as …’ Then the tears she had so far resisted overwhelmed her and strength deserted her limbs, so that Emily had to help her to a chair and press a handkerchief into her grasp.

‘You must tell me what’s happened, Constance. That woman, was she really—?’

‘A whore? I think so. I truly think so. Her eyes were so … so hard and bitter. It was almost as if … as if it amused her to be caught out.’

‘I … I don’t understand.’

‘Nor I. There was no need to do such a thing. I asked him why he had and he simply slammed the door in my face.’

‘But … he asked you to come.’

‘Yes. He asked me. He wanted me, it seems, to witness this. I thought I knew him, Emily, his vices and his virtues. But this! Never in my wildest imaginings would I have thought … Never.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘I’m sorry you should have had to suffer it with me.’

‘I’m only glad to be able to offer what comfort I can.’

Constance kissed her sister on the forehead. ‘Thank you, Emily, thank you. Such a day – such a night – as this I never thought to see.’ Her voice thickened. ‘When James returned, I believed I was acting for the best. Was it so wrong of me to leave William? Did I drive him to this?’

‘No. A thousand times no.’

‘Then, what did?’

‘Only he can answer that.’

‘But he won’t. He won’t so much as speak to me.’ She buried her head in her hands and sobbed convulsively. Emily put her arm round her shoulders and rocked her in a way she had not done since, as a girl of twelve, she had been charged by their mother to do what she could to console her seven-year-old sister for the pain of an emergent tooth.

They sat thus, with Constance no longer weeping but still cradled in Emily’s arms, for fully five minutes, until there was a tap at the door and Cook bustled in with the coffee she had been bidden to prepare.

‘Glad to see that baggage ’as been sent packin’,’ she volunteered as she set down the tray. ‘Reckon she was no better ’n—’

‘Thank you, that will be all,’ Constance said with sudden firmness.

Emitting only a token grunt of resentment, Cook took her leave. But, as Emily could see, her sister’s self-control had not been assumed for the servant’s benefit. When
they
were once more alone, she wiped away the last of her tears and spoke in determined tones.

‘There is nothing I can do for William after this. His behaviour places him beyond my reach and me beyond his.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, Emily, that my husband has betrayed me and can no longer expect me to obey him. He has forfeited my allegiance and surrendered it to another, to a man worthier of it than he can ever be.’

‘To James?’

‘Yes. James is prepared to forgo what is rightfully his, to forgo his very identity, because he feels unable to come between me and my husband. But that objection ceases to exist as of this night. Henceforth, I will do everything in my power to assist him.’

Emily stared at Constance in silent admiration. The details of William’s offence had been withheld from her, though they could not have exceeded those which she had imagined on seeing the woman in question. The incident, in fact, and William’s earlier behaviour in court, were all of a piece in her picture of him as a weak and wilful man quite unworthy to be the husband of her sister. Now Constance, too, appeared to see him in that light and to have decided at last where her loyalty – and her love – truly lay. Naturally, Emily was shocked by the turn of events: naturally, she was dismayed. But, naturally also, she thought of James, noble, handsome, misjudged, maltreated James, left till now to stand alone against the world. And when she did so the new conviction, the rediscovered strength, in her sister’s eyes gave her cause for joyous hope.

X

The cab dropped me in Long Acre, and I followed the driver’s directions to the Lamb and Flag. It was the worst of times to arrive: all the taverns and drinking-dens of Covent Garden
were
discharging their fuddled patrons on to the streets. Beneath lamp-posts, men pursued bar-rail differences in loud slurred voices. In gutters, drunks who had tripped on the pavement’s edge hauled themselves upright, cursing mankind. In dark alleyways, prostitutes struck terms with addled clients
.

In the Lamb and Flag, the landlord and two broken-nosed assistants were persuading their last customers that it was time to leave. Of Thompson there was no sign. Behind the bar, a girl was washing her way through stacks of empty tankards. When I approached, she said, without looking up: ‘We’re closed
.’

‘
I was due to meet somebody here earlier. Perhaps you know him
.’

‘
Doubt it
.’

‘
His name’s Thompson. He’s lost an arm, so—
’

A
smile suddenly crossed her face, ‘Oh, Cap’n ’Arvey! ‘Course I knows ’im. ’E
is
popler t’night
.’

‘
What do you mean?
’

‘
You’re the second bloke bin lookin’ for ’im. ’E sent the other one packin
’.’

‘
Thompson has been here, then?
’

‘
Only jus’ left. You must’a precious near passed ’im on the doorstep
.’

‘
Which way did he go?
’

‘
Lives Lambeth way, far as I know. Reckon ’e’ll be makin’ for Waterloo Bridge
.’

I hurried into the street. If the barmaid was right, I might yet overhaul him. But, as soon as I struck out, I realized my difficulty. He might have taken any one of a dozen routes to the bridge. At the very first junction, I came to a halt, undecided which way to turn
.

Then, as I peered down the narrow street to my left, I thought I saw him. A drunkard and his whore were approaching me, clutching each other as they staggered and swayed along the pavement. But surely … yes: beyond them, a one-armed man was flitting silently between the gas-lamps. I was about to shout after him when, suddenly, he vanished. He passed into the shadow between two lamps and did not emerge. Then another figure, whom I had noticed before, did the same. With a jolt of
fear
, I remembered that I might not be the only one looking for Thompson. I ran towards the space which had consumed them, my footfalls bouncing back at me from the shuttered buildings to right and left
.

It was the entrance to a narrow alley. At its far end, I could see the glass roofs of Covent Garden Market. In the alley itself, empty crates and baskets stood in disordered stacks. And there was Thompson, threading his way along the straggling path between them
.

‘
Thompson!
’

He stopped and turned round. ‘Who’s there?’ he demanded
.

‘
It’s me: Trenchard.’ I began to walk towards him
.

He raised his arm in recognition. ‘Thought you weren’t goin’ to show up, old man
.’

I was running headlong then, frantic to prove I had not foreseen what was about to occur. His hand was still raised, his face creased by a frown of puzzlement. He had started to walk back along the alley, he had passed a doorway to his left, he was no more than twenty yards from me
.

It happened so fast I could not even shout a warning. Yet it seemed to happen also with a dreadful dream-like slowness. A man stepped from the shelter of the doorway, little more than a solid shadow in the darkness. In one swooping movement, he swept his left arm across Thompson’s throat and, with his right, struck a blow into his back. I heard a gurgling strangled cry. Thompson’s eyes widened in a sudden awareness of pain. His hand reached up, too late and too feebly, to pull his assailant off. Then his knees buckled and he pitched to the ground
.

I had stopped in my tracks and stood now, looking at Thompson’s attacker, a squat, crouching, muscular figure, his breath clouding in the cold moist air, a knife held before him, glinting in a shaft of lamplight. I had seen his grey pitiless face before and recognized him now beyond question, as he must have recognized me
.